I jacked off at 2:30, not wanting to repeat my little Pancake Circus habitual jackpot when I sidled up to shake his hand. My knees might buckle, and then what? Would I hold onto his hand and pull him down with me? Would I beg him to clean up my shorts with his tongue? Would he do it?
I needed to get hold of myself. I turned the key in the deadbolt as I left the house. I pushed the key in hard, my mouth agape. In and out went the key. I reached for the knob. Good god, I’ve lost it.
I saw him from two blocks away. He sat on the low wall of the planter that had endured, neglected and falling to pieces with its ratty bushes and weeds, between the sidewalk and the parking lot.
He wore black boots, Levis, and a camouflage winter coat. Not a promising fashion statement for what I had in mind.
He nodded when he saw me coming, but ignored my hand when I put it out to shake. He just said, “What’s up?” And then, without waiting for an answer, added, “There’s a playground about five blocks from here.”
“What?”
“Come on, I’ll show you.”
I feigned having a clue, but I really didn’t have one until it occurred to me he might be suggesting a place to have sex—some doorway maybe, or a clump of trees out of view that school-yards were notorious for. But it was three P.M., school would still be in session.
I could see the schoolyard fence from a couple blocks away as we approached. Stepping off a curb, he abruptly grabbed my arm by the bicep, and my cock leapt like a Jack Russell terrier.
“Stop here,” he stated flatly.
I looked at him inquisitively, at a loss. He dropped his gaze and I followed it as, with his left hand firmly in his pocket, he lifted his pant leg slowly to reveal a plastic contraption surrounding his ankle. A small green light pulsed intermittently. He studied it, then, backing up three feet, got it to stop pulsing and simply glow a constant green.
“This is as far as I can go,” he stated, matter-of-factly.
It took me a minute to realize he was under house arrest. What does it mean? I didn’t know anything about law enforcement. Drunk driving? It must be some kind of probation. He’s probably a rapist or a killer, a thief or a drug dealer. Nah, too cute to rape. But if he’s fucked up enough, what would that matter? Too smart to kill. Thieves are a dime a dozen and I’m only carrying twenty bucks. Drug-dealing? Humbug. So what. But none of these possibilities were in any way convincing. He was just too sexy to fit any criminal stereotype, which shows you what a dumbfuck I was.
I may have misread him, but I wasn’t completely foolish. Not completely. I knew he was a criminal, so I figured I’d need to find out about the ankle bracelet before taking him home. Just in case he was going to murder me or steal my stereo. The logic of queers. On top of all that, I assumed he’d tell me the truth, which was preposterous—except that he did. More or less.
He retired to a sloping lawn in front of a house on the corner, offering, “This will be fine.” I was getting more and more confused. Sex right here?
Within minutes, we heard them: the cacophony of tykes, who were now streaming down the street in gaggles. They reached the far corner, stopped, looked both ways, and then proceeded across. Group after group of them: little Koreans and Viets with rolling book bags, Mexican kids burdened by overstuffed back-packs, white kids on skateboards, little black kids strutting.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” he said.
“Sure they are,” I concurred. “Kids are like flowers.”
“Flowers?” He looked at me like I was stupid.
“You know, those colorful things? New life? All that?” He wasn’t buying my poetry.
“I mean beautiful like meat,” and he ran his tongue lasciviously across his full upper lip as it occurred to me, amidst my throbbing erection, that he was a pedophile. My cock was like a poised spear now, but not because of what he’d just confessed about his sexual orientation—it was his tongue and what it had just performed. Take me, you beast. I must confess, the moral repugnance was not the first thought that entered my mind, nor the second. The tongue being the first, what followed was my sudden disappointment that not only was I possibly the wrong gender, but I was most definitely not the right age. I hadn’t a chance. My cock still reached for him, fighting against the binding of my jeans—not to mention the limits of his orientation—like a child having a tantrum, refusing to let go of a cherished teddy bear. But I felt the sweat on my asshole cool.
He lay back, a sprig of grass in his teeth, smiling at the kids—a pedophile cad. They smiled back. Jesus Wayne Gacy, we were cruising!
I tried to get a foothold. “Uh, would you like to go grab a coffee?”
“Nah, I’m happy right here.”
I said nothing more, paralyzed with ineptitude. We sat there for just fifteen minutes, until the herd had passed.
“Damn, I gotta jack off. Come on.”
Speaking of come-ons—was this one? I’m not sure I was interested anymore, but of course my cock still was, throbbing like a felon in chains. I followed.
Back to Broadway, to an ugly stucco motel-looking apartment building streaked with rusty drain runoff, its windows curtained and unwelcoming. Clown Daddy said nothing. He simply keyed the lock, and I followed him into one of the saddest apartments I’d ever seen. A mattress lay in the middle of the living room, with a single twisted blanket on it. There was an alarm clock on the floor, and in the kitchen, fast food trash in the sink.
The toilet was foul and ringed with dark grime. There were no pictures, no kitchen utensils, plates, or cups, no toaster, no coffee maker, no books, no phone. Other than the bed and the roof and plumbing, there was but one thing that made the place habitable at all: a TV with a VCR.
He pulled a videocassette out of the back lining of his camouflage hunting jacket and placed it in the VCR. He sat down on the bed, suddenly eager and animated. “I just got this from a dude I met. It better be good; it cost me thirty bucks.” There were no credits, no title, not even sound. There were a lot of kids though, doing things that got people put away.
“I think I better go,” I muttered, when all at once, with his elbows now supporting him on the bed, he leaned back and yanked his jeans down, revealing an enormous marbled manhood that slapped back across his taut belly like a call to prayer. His eyes fixed on the TV, never even acknowledging his handsome cock as he grabbed it full-fisted. Jesus God, I muttered to myself, staring at one of the most stunning penises I’d ever seen: nine inches, wired like the backside of a computer with mouth-watering veinage, and nested in the blackest of hair, which right now was casting deep forested shadows as it worked its way under his well-stocked jumbo-sized scrotum. I never had a choice. It was in my mouth before I made any decisions or even considered whether he wanted it there. He didn’t protest, bucking his hips and driving into my whimpering mouth as he glared at the TV set. I shot in my pants without so much as touching myself, just moments before my throat filled like a cream pastry, hot gobs of his God-juice leaking from the crust.
I tongued it clean before he quickly grabbed it like a hammer, or anything else I could have been borrowing, to put it away. He didn’t even look at me as he hopped to his feet, yanking up his jeans in one fluid motion. It wasn’t fear of intimacy like I’d seen with other guys. He was simply done, and more or less emotionless—in his own world. God knows what he’d been thinking as he bucked his manly juices into my craving body, which for him had become just one big hole to propel his antisocial lusts into. I can’t call it my mouth; it was just what was available. I’d have torn my skin back like curtains if it were possible and let him drill through whatever part of me got him off.
“That tape sucked,” he casually related. I was still sitting on the bed, stunned, not knowing what to do, licking the remnants of his now-cooling semen off my chapped lips. “I gotta go to work,” he informed me, pulling the videocassette out and handing it to me, without making eye contact.
“Uh, I don’t want this,” I said as my hand opened to accept it.<
br />
“No? Don’t you like kids?”
“Uh, I think you know what I like.”
He said nothing. Then: “Keep it for me ’til next time.” And he grinned.
“Next time?” I was in a daze, but hope springs eternal.
“Yeah, next time I see you.” I lit up even though I was consumed with dread from what, other than the amazing cock action, was a profoundly depressing social interaction.
“I’ll just leave it here,” I said, balking.
“No can do, guy. I’m on probation. Can’t have that here. Keep it for me.”
“Uh, yeah, sure, ’til next time.”
I didn’t think myself an accomplice as I walked home. What did I know about such legal machinations? I only knew I was no longer depressed and had just had one of life’s peak experiences. Had his cock literally trounced thousands of years of science that had eventually developed selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors? Imagine the clinical trials. I’d seen a lot of cocks, a lot of naked men, like any fag. But Jesus H. Priapus Satyriasis, I had never seen such a beautiful manifestation of the male organ anywhere—in print, on film, in my bed, even in my fantasy life, which was no slacker when it came to cock. I imagined what it must have been like for explorers coming upon Yosemite, Victoria Falls, the Grand Canyon. Unimaginable and sublime beauty. I leaned against a wall at one point on the walk home, needing to catch my breath, my cock once again tenting my jeans. The fact of the matter was: I was strung out on his cock. And I didn’t even have a phone number.
No matter. He called, thank god. It was either that or I was in for a lot of pancakes.
“I got some more tapes. Wanna come over and check them out?”
I didn’t hear any of it but the come over part. “When?”
“Now.”
“I’m on my way.”
The door was cracked when I arrived. When I opened it to step in, I lost my breath. Splayed across the bed was Clown Daddy, his substantial manhood like the clock tower at some university—everything converged toward it.
“Oh baby,” was all I could think to say, which was oddly appropriate considering what was happening on the VCR where his gaze was fixed. My brows furrowed. Good god, they can’t be more than three.
“Come to poppa,” he said with a fatherly grin.
I was like a panting puppy with the promise of a walk. He held the leash. I leapt and was sucking on his teat like a hungry lamb before you could say baahhh, drooling and lapping up and down the hard shaft, savoring the throbbing gristle of his veins, weeping at the sweet softness of the massive velvety helmet. I was aware of what felt like a tear rolling down my inner thigh. My asshole was sweating like a day laborer short on rent: more baskets, more peaches.
I knew I needed to strip but balked at taking a time-out for fear he’d lose interest or lose control. I hopped up and stripped quickly. He didn’t even notice, his eyes locked on the romper room shenanigans stage left like a baby enthralled with a mobile.
I knew all I had to do was get into position, and in no time was on my knees, facing the TV, blocking Clown Daddy’s view. He didn’t miss a beat as he hopped up on his knees and grabbed my waist, answering my plea for “Lube, Clown Daddy, lube,” with a hawk into his palm.
I opened like sunrise, pulled him into me more than he plunged. I heard him as he vanished into my sleeve: “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhh.” And I matched him like a chorus: “Aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh.” I dropped my face into the mattress as he pounded me, knowing I’d be unable to maintain any balance with my arms, which not only were shaking with excitement, but were seriously challenged considering the slams he was delivering and the fact that my body’s focus was pretty much solely directed at the contractions of my rectum as it greedily grabbed at what can only be described as the bread of life. A baguette of it, no less.
He sent me onto the floor by thrust ten or so, and then he emitted an enormous Josh Hartnett “FUUUUck,” as my asshole filled with his ambrosia.
He pulled out with a pop and wiped his cock with the blanket and fell backward onto his back. “That’s a great age,” he wistfully concluded, staring at the ceiling.
I felt a momentary sinking feeling as I looked at the video monitor, realizing all at once the makeover I would need if I was to hold onto Clown Daddy past the duration of his probation.
“I gotta go to work,” he stated. I nodded; I knew the protocol. He popped out the tape and handed it to me. I staggered down the walkway of that shitty apartment building past dried-out cactuses in pots and a pair of roller skates—good God, did his or her parents know who was living next door? What about Megan’s Law? I was lost in a strange milieu of overarching lust, revulsion, horror, responsibility, and that unique postfuck feeling of that was great; everything’s gonna be just fine.
At home, I fumbled through my bathroom drawers for the Flowbee and set to work shaving my body clean of hair. While my mind remained a stew of anxiety, and I winced at the razor nicks I was inflicting on my balls, I reveled in how I was going to finally incite his lust as he had mine.
Next, I got out my sewing machine and set to work on a new wardrobe: a sailor suit, a Boy Scout uniform, a large diaper, Teletubbie briefs.
I put on the briefs and sailor suit, looked at myself in the mirror. Ridiculous. Don’t be so negative, I self-talked back. I did a striptease, attempting to be convincing. I worked on my little-boy shy look. But when I finally dropped my trousers and gazed at my hairless cock, I was sorely dismayed. I had a big dick, huge really, and the shaving had only made it look bigger. How am I gonna convince Clown Daddy I’m a child with this thing? How many grade-schoolers are packing eight inches? Then there was my chest and arms. I worked out, for God’s sake; I was a mess of secondary sex characteristics. I needed to gain fifty pounds, maybe take some hormones. One step at a time, I calmed myself.
I’d done what I could and I wanted to see him, to show him how I’d be whatever he wanted me to be. I don’t think at that time I was considering saving him and reforming him. I just wanted to please him, make of myself a gift. Woo him.
Chocolate. I bought a box of Le Petite Ecoliers and went for pancakes. He smiled big when he saw me. The hostess looked askance. The crowd wondered. It occurred to me I was exposing him. I blushed red as a swollen cockhead. I left as quickly as I’d come, racing back up the street. Whatever happened, I didn’t want to hurt Clown Daddy. Goodness no, I was interested in his pleasure.
There was a message on the machine when I got home: “Nice suit, hee, hee. Eight P.M. Wear it.” Click.
The shirt never came off, as Clown Daddy’s maleness hovered over me and he ominously climbed up on top of me, his lead pipe of a cock bobbing like a tank gun, my legs held behind my ears like the spring-loaded pogo stick I would soon be playing the part of as he bounced me off the mattress.
“You look fucking great,” he smiled, and he kissed me this time, full, his tongue like a tapeworm, bent on my intestines, determined to reach all the way down to where his cock was reaching from the other end to meet it in a hot sticky mess of saliva and semen.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy,” I yelped. We growled, we lost ourselves and rode our dicks like runaway horses. His final thrusts were so divine, my hands digging into his firm white buttcheeks like talons holding their kill. He split me like a piece of wood and my cum hit his chest so hard it bounced and splattered like blood would if the axe of his cock had buried itself in my forehead.
I’d brought the diaper in my backpack.
“Daddy…please…diaper me.”
He guffawed, and then with an eagerness I’d never seen, yelped, “Yeeeeaaah!”
He diapered me. Patted my ass. Told me to pack up and get out.
My god, I’d done it. I’d seduced Clown Daddy.
He didn’t kiss me good-bye, of course, or invite me to brunch. But I walked away without a videocassette this time. Progress.
I guess that’s when it occurred to me I could save him. And maybe not only him. Maybe I’d just found the t
reatment for pedophilia. God knows, no one seemed to give a damn about these people. The last sexual minority. I could rehabilitate them all. My shaved asshole, a rehab center.
That’s when I saw the squad car. Parked in front of my house. Next to the undercover white Crown Royal. Three men in dark suits. It was The Matrix and I was Neo, standing on a street corner in a sailor suit, my hips bulging from the diaper that swaddled my manhood.
I knew what they’d found. I knew my chances. I ran. It wasn’t much of a chase. I had nowhere to go. All I had was a shot at making it back to Broadway where the great voting public could witness four cops tackling a child—a rather large child, to be sure—in a sailor suit.
I felt the tug as one of them got hold of the back of my shirt just as I reached the intersection of 23rd and Broadway. I screamed as high-piercing a preadolescent scream as I could muster.
I was interrogated at length. I assumed they had Clown Daddy somewhere. How else would they have nabbed me? I drank coffee, got knocked around, but through it all I endured by dreaming of meeting Clown Daddy—when I was finally convicted—in some filthy prison cell where we could pursue our love affair in peace—me trading cigarettes and gum for razors to keep my cock and balls soft as a baby’s behind for my Clown Daddy and his meat-Eucharist, truly a transubstantiation of all the misery around us into an Elysian Field of bliss.
“Where did you get the tapes?”
I refused to tell. “I found them.”
“Where?”
I had to place them as far away from Clown Daddy as possible. “In a trashcan in Vacaville.”
“What were you doing going through trash in Vacaville?”
“Someone on the Internet told me he’d put them there.” I was indicting myself. I thought I was saving Clown Daddy. If I had to lie, even to the point of destroying my own future, I’d do it for Clown Daddy—blinded by love, or myopia for his cock. Same difference. And to think I didn’t even know the details of his crime. We’d never discussed it. I didn’t want to know.
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