You’re All I’ve Got Tonight
My butt was numb against the bench by the time a punk in blue combat boots took up a position across the street. I crossed to his side, and walked up next to him. There was probably some elaborate ritual we were supposed to go through, like in a bar but more complex. I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted or how much to pay for it. But I had seventy five dollars in cash, I figured that was good for something.
“You’re just a kid,” I said.
He looked at me like he’d just seen me now, like he hadn’t watched me cross the way. His eyes were blue, but I could see the burnt strawberry tinge to his hair — bad bleach job. “Yeah, so are you,” he said back, tapping a cigarette against his leg.
“Don’t light that.” I leaned against the smooth stone of the building. He looked annoyed. “Tell me what you’re worth.”
He folded one leg under him like a flamingo, pressing his back into the wall. His answer was long in coming. “Depends on what you want.”
I took hold of the collar of his leather jacket. “I want to take you into the bushes in the park and fuck you until I can’t stand up.”
He let out a little laugh, tight, nervous, his hands shook as he twiddled the unlit cigarette. “Um.”
I pressed my advantage. “You new at this?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, and I felt relief flood out of him. “Trying to work my way through school,” he added.
I had to smile at that, whether it was true or not, but I kept my hand on his collar. “Alright then, seventy five dollars. Nothing fancy.”
“And I’ll let you smoke the cigarette.”
He pulled a condom out of his pocket and raised an eyebrow.
I let the collar go. “Sure.”
“Then it’s a deal.” He held out his hand. “Give me the money.”
I jerked my head toward the Public Gardens. The voice that came out of my mouth hardly sounded like me. “I’ll give it to you when your pants are down and I know you won’t run away.”
I took him deep into the gardens, to where ten foot tall evergreen hedges stayed thick and full all year round. He turned his back on me and dropped his jeans to his ankles, I stuffed the wad of money into one of his jacket pockets. He seemed to relax a little and, inexplicably, I wanted to smack his face. But I took the condom and a little tube of lube out of his hand, and bent him over.
He gave a little grunt as I entered him. I held tight to his hips and pulled him all the way onto me. And then my arms were working like pistons, pumping him as the sensation burned hotter in my groin. I fucked him so hard my balls began to smart as they slapped against him, but the pain seemed like nothing. I needed to fuck this punk stranger like I was going to die if I didn’t.
It was over pretty quick. We were both panting. I tossed the condom into the bushes and wiped my fingers on my shirt. By the time I finished zipping up my jeans, he was gone.
I sat on a rock in the park, shivering like a junkie, for a long time after that. I didn’t feel angry, I didn’t feel sick, I didn’t feel anything, like my body shut down in protest. I wanted to cut myself, I wanted to play until my fingers bled, I wanted to do anything but sit there and hate myself. I couldn’t stop my brain from going off. I kept thinking about castration, flagellation, being burned alive, as if the Saints had all the fun. Eventually, I made myself feel sick again. I wanted to claw the skin off my body, but instead I walked home. To that nice quiet apartment where that nice Daron boy lives, keeps to himself, and doesn’t bother anyone. I imagined tying my cock up with rope, mummifying it in tight cords, keeping it in check all the time. I threw down my coat. I was getting hard, again. I lay down in my clothes, pushing my underwear down and pulling my erection out over my zipper like I’d done with the hustler boy. My fingers were still a little sticky from the lube. I licked them and stroked myself hard, until my palm had almost gone dry and I was making myself sore. I kept on like that, rubbing and squeezing as hard as I could, feeling my skin burn with friction until precome started leaking out of me. I came onto my stomach, semen making the sorer spots sting. I fell asleep thinking so this is what they call self-abuse.
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Daron's Guitar Chronicles: Vols 1-3General Fiction
Daron’s Guitar Chronicles tells the story of Daron Marks, a young gay guitar player, from about the time he is eighteen onward. He arrives at RIMCon (Rhode Island Musical Conservatory) in the mid-1980s, desperate to leave behind a dysfunctional fami...