October 28th, 2005 was the night of the Halloween party at Club 216; it was also the two-year anniversary of my break-up with David. I was reeling at the remembrance of how I had destroyed that young man's life by allowing my Dissociative Identity Disorder to go unmanaged. I wasn't in my right mind; I was so devoured by guilt that I should never have left my apartment.
Yet,
that's just what I did, ultimately deciding, as self-induced purgatory,
to arrive at Club 216 as a go-go boy. I wore a semi-transparent Speedo and slathered myself in mineral oil and iridescent dust. When
strangers approached me and put their hands down my
shorts to fondle me, I allowed it. I stared blankly
outward as they dragged me around the club, and blithely showed my dick to
their friends. I had become what
everyone at Club 216 had always longed for me, a slab of meat who let others
treat him as though he were just a body part.
I planned to stay the entire night and
be a mindless piece of flesh to all those who had ever wanted me.
As punishment for what had been done to David, I was going to
humiliate myself to such a depth that I would never rise again. It was free pass night for a go with
the young man who, in the past, starved for love, had baptized himself the slut of
Charlottesville and had slept with as many men he could in a desperate search for
self-love.
However, a boy of eighteen years
with curly blonde hair and bright eyes found his way to me and delivered me
from my self-destructive path to whoredom.
Admittedly, he, like all the others, shoved a couple dollars down my shorts,
fondled me, and led me around, showing my dick to his friends. The only difference (being that I was
physically attracted to him) was that I let Charles kiss me. For his part, the affection seemed genuine,
until I realized he was keeping his eyes opened as we kissed and was looking
past me. He had come
to the club with his ex, who was in drag and fuming over Charles’s infatuation
with me. I realized I was nothing more
than a means to an end for Charles; a near-naked man slathered in oil served as
the perfect irritant for the jealousy of a neurotic queen.
I soon grew tired of being used in such a
fashion, and wanted a bit of reciprocation.
I told Charles I wanted to take him back to my apartment. Of course, the first thing he did was to run
and tell his ex. This
confession provoked an expected reaction.
‘She’ came along, threw condoms at me, called me all sorts of names and assured me of her belief that
I had a small dick. I replied, “Small
there, but big here,” with a gesture to my heart. (Sincerity is always the best weapon with which to disarm a drag
queen, because it is a trait in which their ilk, rarely without exception, is
lacking.)
Without further incident, Charles and I
went back to my apartment.
Alone with him, I revealed my true nature and told him I just wanted to
be held. He and I kissed and cuddled
for the better part of an hour. It was
a beautiful experience, free of sexual pressures or expectations. Afterwards, we were both of the opinion that
it was one of the most enjoyable encounters we had ever had. (At the age of
eighteen, he had already had seventeen lovers, so he did have a basis from
which to make such a statement.)
The hour had grown very late, and
Charles needed to be at home the next morning for a family gathering. As we walked back to the club, where his car
was parked, we sang “Coal Miner’s Daughter” while a meteor shower passed
overhead. I had always been told that
the sight of a meteor, or shooting stars as we called them as children, was a
sign of impending death or ill fortune.
Having arrived at the parking lot, I asked Charles which car was his,
and he replied that it was the Blue BMW, the license plates of which read a
truncated form of, “I’m a bitch.”
The myth of the shooting stars was
beginning to pervade our newfound intimacy.
Charles returned home, and I was left
with the memory of a beautiful blonde boy with whom I had sung and bonded. Nearing the age of thirty, I thought this
would surely be my last opportunity at love.
I was reminded of David, and of how he was nineteen when I met him, and
I thought of all the errors I had made in our relationship. As a consequence, I overcompensated with
Charles. The next day, I began a
courtship in earnest, mailing him cards of appreciation coupled with numerous
e-mails. A few days later, I went to an
antique store, purchased a Lladro “Eternal Love” bell, and presented it to him
as a gift of faith. I was determined to
make our courtship the most romantic experience of his life.
He did indeed seem to be swept off his
feet; before long, he was signing his letters ‘love’. The only thing he bemoaned about our ‘relationship’ was the fact
that I didn’t call him. The reason for
this was that I didn’t have a phone; however, I said it would be simple enough
to make use of a payphone. Come the
appointed time of our conversation, the person on the other end of the line was
the antithesis of the sweet boy I had come to know. Charles was getting into drag (which I didn’t know he did), and
he kept putting me on hold. With each
instance he returned to the phone, frustrated by his inability to become a
woman, he was a swearing mass of obscenities.
As though that weren’t enough, his ex (the one who had thrown condoms
at me) was present, and they were holding a conversation at the same time I was trying to talk to Charles. My temper soon got the better of me. I finally told him, “I’m letting you go
now,” to which he replied, “Ok, goodbye,” and then promptly hung up.
A few minutes later, I sent an e-mail, railing at him for asking me to call him, and then treating me with such utter disregard. I told him I never wanted to speak to him again…and that no one would ever wish to speak to him if he treated them in such a manner. The license plates on his BMW, it seemed, had spoken more to his character than a night of cuddling and an impromptu duet.
I went to bed that night, swearing
to think no more of him. I was sleeping
rather well until, at four in the morning, a series of knocks sounded on my
door. I got up, bewildered, thinking
someone had died, only to find Charles standing there, crying his eyes out,
begging me to take him back, saying that he didn’t want to lose the best thing
that had ever happened to him.
The entire encounter made me think that I had been too rash in judging him. I kept thinking back to how I had erred with David, and I said to myself, “Clayton, this is your last chance.” The kid was eighteen; he was beautiful; he seemed to worship the ground I walked on. How could I not re-instill him in my good graces?
This all occurred on a Monday. By Thursday, he had proclaimed he was
coming to spend the weekend with me. He
never asked; he just simply stated the intention.
Charles worked second shift, so he told
me to expect him around one in the morning. I waited and watched. When I saw
his car going up the
street around 2:30, I went out to meet him.
His back was turned when I said, “I’m glad you made it here safely.” He turned, glared at me, and said, “You
scared the fuck out of me! Where I come
from, we shoot people for less than that!”
With those words, every bit of affection I had for the boy drained out of me. It was almost three in the morning: I had waited up for him, only to get sworn at from the outset. However, I didn’t want to cause a scene in the street and risk waking my landlords, so I just let his negativity pass.
Once we were in
my apartment, he initiated conversation. Yet, the more he talked, the more distant I became. He bragged of his Louis Vitton and Prada handbags and
related the thousands of dollars each of them had cost.
Bragging about wastefully spending three
thousand dollars for a glorified purse is not the way to win the favor of someone who
grew up poor in rural Greene county.
Truthfully, I had wanted Charles gone
before he even walked through the door, so I made no effort to accommodate
him. I didn’t turn on the heat; I
didn’t offer him anything to eat or drink.
I set out to make his stay as miserable as possible, even as I told
myself I was going to take as much of him as I could stand. As an exercise in self-flagellation, I swore
to endure this blonde monstrosity, if only to break myself of
desiring human contact ever again.
Finally, we lay down to sleep on
opposite sides of the bed, facing away from one another. Upon awakening the next day (much earlier
than Charles cared for), we headed to the downtown mall, where (before his
arrival) I had such nice thoughts of taking his hand in mine and publicly
celebrating our fondness for one another.
In reality, I didn’t even make the effort, because as we walked, he
repeatedly asked those who passed us what they were looking at, as though he
were set on creating a scene. (I became
certain of this when, under his breath, he told two men of Arabic descent to go
back to their own country.)
I was trying in vain to get him off the
mall before he got us both killed, when he stopped at a hot dog stand to order
two of the signature dish piled high with chili. Even though I’m a sworn vegetarian, I watched gleefully as he ate
the phallic sticks of processed pig innards.
I knew the more I came to loathe him, the longer I would go before ever
seeking human companionship. Charles
became my self-induced purgatory, from which I would emerge a re-devoted
misanthrope. After spending forty-eight
hours with this vain and selfish brat, I imagined I would write a masterwork on
the joys of being a sociopath.
Once he had finished eating, the next
chapter of Hell began when Charles asked if I could show him where the
Mercedes-Benz dealership was located.
His mother has promised to buy him one for Christmas, and it would be
the perfect day for him to choose his preferred model. Cat of nine tails in hand and my back bared,
I agreed. We got into the “I’m a bitch,”
mobile, and he commenced to drive like an insane person, habitually cutting
other cars off and doing u-turns in mid-traffic. He then admitted to having been convicted of four counts of
reckless driving and having no vehicle insurance as a result. (I suspect he had
no license either).
Miraculously, we arrived at the Mercedes-Benz
dealership, where he left me in the car. Spotting an
effeminate male with bleached blonde hair driving a beamer with “bitch” license
plates, wisely not one sales representative approached Charles in his entire
twenty-minute tour of the lot. He
eventually returned to me, and said he couldn’t choose between the $50,000
model and one slightly less expensive.
I commented that it would be one of the most difficult choices of life,
though he wasn’t intelligent enough to grasp the sarcasm.
Seconds later, the universe showed
mercy, and Charles’s cell phone rang.
It was his younger sister, saying she needed him to give her a ride. I have no doubt that
Charles had become as sick of me as I was of him, and that the call had been
pre-arranged while he shopped for his Mercedes. I simply said, “Your family comes first in all things; you have
no choice but to go.” He agreed, and stated that he would leave in a few hours.
We returned to my apartment to watch a
film, appropriately entitled ‘Get Real’.
A scene came along in which one of the characters was crying, and
Charles admitted that he could cry on cue (a statement he then went on to
prove). I looked at him and said, “I
wish I had known that when you came crying on my doorstep at four in the
morning. It’s nothing to be proud of,
being able to manipulate one’s emotions, because it makes you seem insincere
and untrustworthy.”
Soon thereafter, the film ended, and Charles left. The moment he drove off, I felt such a sense of liberation. I went into my apartment, looked at the semi-nude male images on my walls, and I felt joyous that I could spend the rest of my life surrounded by men who couldn’t wreck their beauty with their tongues.
A Letter To Charles
Charles,
I just wanted to write and express my thanks for the time you spent with me last night. I really needed a night like that…just holding someone in my arms without them pawing all over me and making me feel as I though I didn’t have a heart or a soul. It was wonderful just being able to hold and to be near you. If you ever want a similar experience, all you have to do is ask, and I’ll be more than happy to oblige.
You are very beautiful, and the ‘bad’ dye job you hate so much along with your luminous eyes makes you look very unearthly, like you don’t belong to this world. Your lips are a cherub’s, and your kisses (to steal a line from a poet) make my mouth mad like wine. I’d love to look upon you, free of the make-up and the hair gel, especially the latter, for it appears as though your hair might curl a bit…and I’d like nothing more than to run my hands through that blonde thicket of softness…just as Nature intended.
I realize the package I offered wasn’t quite a reflection of what was on the inside. I mean, I was near naked and slathered in oil, walking around like I was some sex god of the universe…and I ended up singing “Coal Miner’s Daughter” with you. Who ever would have thought? Just so you know; I wasn't walking around half-naked because I’m a whore and in search of the next man to (no pun intended) come my way. I was hurting last night and acting out, trying to crucify myself for something that occurred years ago. I thank God that I found you, as opposed to some lust-driven man, with whom I could have had a bad encounter.
All that aside, I hope you enjoyed your sausage this morning; do give your Grandma my regards for keeping your tummy so happy. You’ll have to tell her that you left the bed of a fierce man just to get home to enjoy her fine cooking. :o)
I hope you don’t sleep through this beautiful day, boy.
Get out there and enjoy it…without smoking! Ha ha
Fondly,
Clayton
As
I Would Be
To David, So Is Charles To Me
My
heart caught tonight
As
you stood near,
Staring
at me as I spoke.
I
wanted to look at you
And
say, “I believe
In
your capacity to be good.”
Let’s
begin anew and cast aside
All
the hurt you’ve done unto me.
Let’s
forget all the unkindness
You
showed for every kindness
My
heart poured forth.
Let’s
lie down and hold one another
And
laugh and then walk in the night air,
Holding
hands and singing a song
As
we did that first night,
Our
last night, of peace.
I
wanted to embrace you,
But
the waiting tears stayed the act,
And
said the scene would not be replayed.
It
had been brought to the stage
Too
many times before
With
other men,
Me
crying because they couldn’t
Be
as kind as I envisioned them.
I
wanted to take you away,
Lie
you down, and cut out all the
Darkness from your heart,
But
I remember someone had once
Struggled
to do the same with me,
And
his lost life now weighs
Like
a millstone upon my soul.
So,
I left you last night
To
your fate,
Which
I fear will be a sad one.
Charles
of Eighteen Years
Kindness
is an alien concept to him,
And
if he does not alter his disposition,
He
will surely find the ‘perfect’ man.
And
perfection will walk on two legs
And
see him only as a set of orifices
That
needs to be defiled.
No
one will love him for his heart,
For,
though but young,
He
has cut it out and sworn
To
never make use of it again.
His
beauty, though beyond compare,
Is
marred by smoke and swear words.
With
every breath he takes,
His
soul is debased and his lungs blackened.
Charles
of eighteen years,
If
you do not take stock of your life,
It will be miserable, brief, and full of woe.
Call To A Bra
We get to a milestone,
Our first phone call,
But I’m the only one
On this long distance line.
You’re wrapped up
In an illusion;
You’ve fallen in love
With a woman’s face
And have forgotten that
Beating in your chest
Is a man’s heart.
“Shit, my bra just broke!”
Do stay on the line
And I might make a
Better effort to pretend
You exist when we resume
Our conversation.
Oh,
Hell, what that’s?
Your ex is there, and by God,
He’s always there,
So you really don’t have
Any time to spare.
Well, baby, this call is ended;
My dime has paid its due,
For I’ve seen exactly
What I mean to you.