by Justin Chin
“You see this dildo?” the dealer says, pointing to one of the large fleshy disembodied cocks on the bed.
“Yeah,” he says. He swallows another hit.
“It’s big, huh? You think you can take it in your ass?”
“It is a little too big for me,” he says.
“Well, if you want anything at all, if you want me to give you anything at all, you will let me put it in you. Fuck you with it.”
He thinks for a while. He takes another hit. He takes his prepared shot. He agrees.
He lies on his back with his legs spread apart. The hit is prickling right through his body. He can feel it spread through him as if every capillary was trying to go neon. This must be what it feels like to be pickled, what a beetroot or an onion or a cucumber undergoes, he thinks this funny.
The dealer is lubing the dildo. He grabs a bottle of lube and squirts some of the tacky fluid onto his fingers, smears it onto the ass. He runs a finger or two into the ass to loosen it up.
He can feel the warm slush of his shit still there.
The dealer pokes at the butthole with the head of the dildo. The butthole puckers up. The dealer pokes at it with a bit more force.
He tries to loosen up, and the hits he has taken is helping. Poppers, he thinks. That will open everything up. White Rabbits would fall through. Rosebud would not be the name of his sled.
The dealer mercifully changes tactics and proceeds with a smaller training butt-plug. The dealer pushes the butt-plug into the ass.
He breathes in the right moment and motion, and the cruel projectile slips in but not without some sharp pain.
The dealer lets him have another hit, a good big beautiful deep one while twisting the butt-plug around.
His hole feels looser, but he’s not sure. He’s sure he’s had much bigger things up there before but he also knows that one shouldn’t live in the past.
The dealer pulls the butt-plug out. And again, he breathes at the right moment and the pain is assuaged in that breath. He can feel some liquid seeping out of his hole. He decides that he will describe it as glacially oozing if he ever tells anyone of this night. But it is the middle of the afternoon. Or early morning. Or daylight savings. Oh, what is the time, Mr. Wolf?
The dealer doesn’t seem to mind the shit, nor does he seem to care; he will leave that room in that residential hotel that night and move to another room somewhere else. The dealer is wielding the evil dildo again, and trying to work it into the ass.
He is torn between wanting to have that huge dildo, huger than any he has ever seen (though he is not in full possession of any senses of perception or perspective), inside of him, fulfill the bargain, get his stuff, and wanting to hold all that shit inside of him, not let it go. He thinks of the bathroom shared by the floor’s residents, outside and way across the building. He thinks newspaper might work, too, like how puppies are paper-trained.
He is thankful that the dealer’s boyfriend is not present, lurking around in his y-fronts. He hopes the boyfriend doesn’t show up unexpectedly; he doesn’t need, can’t stand, the drama. Those two have a relationship that is best described as “brokeback,” in that one’s a needy bottom and the other’s a selfish top.
The dealer pushes absent-mindedly and the head of the dildo enters him. He is trying not to flinch too much, trying not to stop the deal. The dealer is working more and more of the dildo into his hole. He can feel more shit glacially oozing out of his hole, or maybe it is not coming out of his hole but being stopped up by that rubber plug. His guts hurt. His heart is pounding like mad.
The dealer is still working the dildo, corkscrewing it in.
He takes a good swallow of air and his hole loosens so that the pain eases a little.
The dealer is working the dildo in and out of the ass.
He can feel even more shit coming out of the sides now. He know he is shitting. He can plainly smell it, see the earthy streaks.
The dealer doesn’t seem to mind nor care, instead he is working the dildo with even brutal strokes, pushing deeper and harder, jabbing and digging as if it was a clam hunt at Pismo Beach. His face is one of concentration, single-mindedly focused on the task. The dealer lets him take another long hard hit on the pipe.
He is thankful. It helps.
Now he has stopped shitting; instead, he is bleeding. He can see the smear of blood on the thin white poly-cotton sheet. He knows it is blood because its viscosity against his bare skin is so different, unlike that of shit, or piss, or spit, or cum, or sweat, or bile, or mucus. He feels his blood flowing like his shit was flowing a moment ago.
He is surprised by how unaffected he is by all the smells in the room and the viscosity pooled under him. This is what life smells like, he thinks. Even before birth, you spend all those months in the womb shoved up beside the bowels, and then you’re born mere inches away from the poophole. And when you die, your bowel is the last thing that releases its hold on your life. And in the middle, in the middle. He once, with a few friends watched a video on the internet that was reputed to be so hideously gross that it spawned millions of reaction videos of people watching the clip. “2 Girls, 1 Cup” showed two young attractive women indulging in some scat play while watched by some men. At one point in the clip, the two women crap into a plastic cup and then proceed to eat and feed the contents of the cup to each other. His friends were howling and shrieking in disbelief, one was even nauseated to the point of dry heaving. At that time, he was merely bemused by the action on screen, and all he remembered thinking was: in our lives, who among us hasn’t had to eat the shit out of someone else’s cup?
The dealer pulls the dildo out.
He almost passes out from the pain when the head of the dildo pops out of his ass. How could relief feel so painful? he might wonder, if he could even think. He is quivering, trying to quell the racking spasms. The dealer takes his forefinger and dips it into a baggie, coating his finger up to the first joint with the powder white crystals; crushed chunks and shards stick to the finger like fake snow frosting on shopping mall Christmas trees. Like coconut frosting, he thinks. The dealer puts his finger right into the open hole.
He feels his hole close on that finger like a Venus Flytrap. The finger feels strangely cold. Everything else feels magnificently hot. Soon, very soon. Everything will burn.
“Do you want a line? Here…” He takes the small packet and taps out a neat line on his belly. The sweat mats the fine powder. He gives me the McDonald’s straw that has been cut into a manageable inch-and-a-half length and I sniff up what’s not stuck to the sweat and the fine hairs, those I lick up, savoring the bitter taste of the powder and the salt of his sweat. I lie back down. He takes my dick and flops it onto my belly.
“Don’t move,” he says, and he taps out a line on the underside of my dick. The tweakered dick plumps up as he does this. He sniffs that up noisily. He takes my dick into his mouth to suck up the leftover powder. His tongue starts to go numb.
“Like Novacaine,” he says.
“Like sucking spermicide,” I say. I should know, and I do.
The deal was that I would collect a small vial of my cum and he would do likewise. Then we would pack it in blue-ice and FedEx it to each other. What would you do with my cum? he had asked. I said I would eat some of it, dribble some of it on my chest, and use some of it to jack off. And what would you do with mine? He said he would drink most of it. That’s what he did with all the cum he got from all those men all over the country. But he never e-mailed me back his address and so the small bottle that once contained Body Shop Elderflower Eye Gel sat in my fridge, tightly capped and covered with aluminum foil, filled with a week-and-a-half ’s worth of daily (twice, thrice even) jacking off.
One day, a trick came over. A real cum pig. He wanted to drink my cum, he wanted to feel my juice on his face, dripping into his mouth. I have something better, I said. I got the bottle from the fridge. I opened the bottle and the smell of cum hit us. He was excited. I held the bottle out
to him and he stuck his tongue into it. You want it? I asked. Oh yes, he begged rather all too convincingly. I let him lap at the bottle like a dog. The smell of that cum was mesmerizingly clinical, so medicinal. As he was lapping at the cum in the bottle, I noticed that a layer of mold had grown on the inside of the lid, and then I noticed a spindle of mold floating in the bottle. I held his head back, pried his mouth open with my fingers, emptied the bottle down, and shut his mouth and held it, made him swallow it all, like how you make dogs and cats take their pills.
John has put Joe in a smart pair of white y-fronts and a dog collar, and chained him to a pole. Joe’s hands are bound a little too tightly and he can feel his fingers getting tingly. John is sitting in an armchair chain-smoking Camels and watching Joe. Joe is expecting something to happen. He is expecting John to give him some orders, maybe spank him, maybe some cock-and-ball torture, titclamps, clothes pegs on the nipples and scrotum, butt torture with a series of dildos, each one more menacing than the next, the dirty balled-up gym socks in his mouth as John rapes his butt; maybe John will stuff those filthy socks up his butt, or use them as a condom to fuck him. Joe’s dick is getting stiff thinking of what John would do to him. But John is sitting in the armchair smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring at Joe. John doesn’t look at Joe with any discernable emotion, no sense of meanness or malevolence, no desire, no disdain, no amusement, no boredom, nothing. John is not even touching himself. He is sitting there in his black jeans and green tank top smoking cigarette after cigarette. Joe thinks he can see John’s eyes tearing up, but it’s difficult to tell in the haze of cigarette smoke and Joe’s allergies are beginning to act up, his eyes are watering, he cannot breathe easily. John is still sitting and looking at Joe, his gaze unflinching, unerring. Joe is not bored, he is not turned-on, he is not scared. He is chained to a pole, in a dog collar, in a pair of y-fronts, his hands bound a little too tight.
A few lines of good coke in the restroom at last call, then we are at his place. He sets up the rim seat in the middle of the living room. There is an alarming pile of dope carelessly and showily dumped on the coffee table. “Want to watch a video?” he asks, popping a tape into the VCR. The box is plain black and says “Russian River Weekend.” The screen flickers to life and it is a scene where a hunky guy is shitting on a pudgy guy. They are in a motel room somewhere, presumably Russian River. The pudgy guys is smearing the shit all over himself as if he were icing a cake. You almost want him to start making little rosettes around the neckline.
I am seated on the rim seat, not the kind you find in medical supply stores—those are always too high—but a makeshift thing made up of a toilet seat attached to four sturdy stool legs. “Made it myself,” he declares proudly. He lies on the floor and crawls under me so that his face is under my ass, and the rest of his body is sticking out from between my legs. The scene on the television has now moved on to two guys squirting their enemas out onto a third person. The third person takes the stream of brownish fluid all over his body and in his mouth. All this in the motel room somewhere in Russian River. The clean-up must be hell. I always thought a Russian River weekend would entail some river rafting, a barbecue, going for the really good fried chicken at that one restaurant, and perhaps a leisurely walk in the woods with the dogs, but obviously, I was mistaken. Or we have very different travel agents.
He starts kissing, licking, and with gusto poking at my puckered hole with his tongue. The narcotics in my bloodstream make my head torque in strange pleasurable sensations. It does what the poor choice of porn doesn’t do.
Someone is in the hallway. I can see the vague shadows swaying back and forth in the dark passageway. The person is watching us from behind the stairs. “Who’s that?” I ask. “Roommate?”
He replies between slobbers. “It’s my mother.” His iguana tongue, lick, prod, lick, suckle. I’m not sure how to react, what to say. “It’s okay,” he reassures me. Lick, poke, circle, lick, prod, suckle, suckle. “She has Alzheimer’s, she doesn’t know what happening. She’s not seeing a damn thing.” He continues eating my ass out, sticking his tongue as far in as he can go, lapping and slurping boisterously.
His mother sways a bit more and comes shuffling out from behind the stairs. I try to make eye contact with her. I think she sees us, I could have sworn she looked me in the eye. I’m almost certain that she smirked. But she sways and shuffles off into the kitchen in her bedroom slippers.
I can hear a familiar rustling sound coming from the kitchen. I can see his mother standing unsteadily at the kitchen counter. She has emptied the bowl of sugar packets onto the counter and is picking them up one by one, shaking them to tamp the sugar down the packet. With great difficulty, she tears open the packet and with shaky hands, she pours the contents of the packet into her mouth. A good portion of the sugar misses her open, gaping, wound-like mouth and sprinkles the front of her gray housedress, printed with little apples and oranges, with white crystals that sparkle in the yellow lights of the gas cooker. She takes another packet, shakes it, tears it open, and pours the sugar into her mouth, or tries as best as her deteriorating motor skills allow, dusting her dress with more sparkle. And another packet. And another. More sugar. I can hear her crunching the sugar; I can hear her grinding the crystals between the molars of her dentures. Soon there is a pile of empty sugar packets on the kitchen counter. The front of her housedress is dusted with so many sugar crystals that it looks as if it is a frumpy sequined gown made for some low-rent suburban drag queen.
He is working his fingers into my arsehole. All his tonguing and licking has worked my hole and loosened the sphincter. Unplanned encounters do not facilitate adequate cleaning or preparation. And with all the prying of fingers and tongues, I feel myself lose control and a small splat of soft shit falls out onto his face. But he opens his mouth wide, and catches most of it. The smell of my own shit repulses me. I am embarrassed. I don’t want to carry on. I want to get up and wipe up, clean off, go home. But he’s still licking and sucking and cleaning my murky hole. I force myself to cum, and the effort of that makes me shit more onto his face, and he eats that up, too. With his shit-streaked hands, he grabs his dick and in a few quick short pumps, disposes of his load. His face is still in my ass, he is whimpering like a puppy, still licking at my ass.
I get up from the chair, ignoring the dribble down my leg, and walk over to the coffee table and selfishly scrape together the biggest fattest line I think I can handle and force it up my nose, the bits that I cannot hold in there, which fall out of my nostrils back onto the glass plate, I wipe up with my finger and swab onto my gums. I think I am going to black out. I’m not sure how I’m going to get home, and I definitely don’t want to stay here, though I might not have a choice. He is still lying on the floor with a satiated cheesy grin on his face. His mother is standing there in the dim-lit kitchen eating sugar, the sandpapery rasp and crunch between her false teeth, staring into space, trapped in her own brain, staring at us. At the very end. At the forking road. At the closing gyre. You will know what you are. You may even know who. And even if it is just for the briefest of a flicker, taken on some rare forgiving shameless night or day, you will see all the exit signs, all the detours and off-ramps, all flashing lights lit up just for you.
Woo
1.
My suitor is a jack-booted thug, a gangster who stomped on my heart as if it were the liver of a swarthy nemesis. I lie in bed at night wondering who he is bullying and what he is doing with his pale hollow friends, for he never works alone. Not even when he is beside me, even inside me; he is never alone, he comes with far too many people.
I lie in bed and he appears by my window like the Blue Angel. My one confidant thinks the appearance is more like Jiminy Cricket. In the cartoon, the popular version: the conscience that lives in the wooden doll’s head, ready to chastise and to prod awake the mechanisms of guilt. In the original version, smashed to bits in the second chapter, squished under the boot of the evil wooden doll: a bug, a p
est, nothing more.
My suitor takes me by the hand and leads me down mad corridors and unfamiliar avenues. It is as if we were flying (but I have a fear of flying, of heights, of crashing, of flight, of speed, of air, altogether too many fears), and we land on a grassy lawn speckled with flecks of motor oil and engine grease. He takes me by the hand and he shows me a gorgeous building that he will burn down to cinders to prove his love for me. The beautiful marbled tiles, the intricate wooden panels, the luxurious carpeting, all mean nothing to him: these objects of crafted beauty are merely cotton and wool saturated with kerosene in his sore eyes. He places a matchstick in my hand, and guiding my small fist, strikes it against the side of a matchbox to watch it crackle into its horrible flame. Then he takes me by the elbow and leads me in a tango, a foxtrot, to the side of the building, the single flair of light the only illumination in the dark night. Hand in hand in lit match, we touch the side of the building with the tenderness of a vetrinarian, and he brings everyone inside of him to me.
I lie in bed and he appears at my window like Jiminy Cricket. I try to smash him with my boot, then my sneakers, but to no avail, his abdomen doesn’t split open and spill its green guts like bugs would as he is not made of exoskeleton as insects are, but of real bone holding his flesh and helping his blood along the mad twisting paths of his fury.
I do not subscribe to any of his infuriating doctrines and silly conspiracies, and I tell him that he is nothing to think such thoughts; and still he comes to my window in a deranged state. I tell him he is mad to act on his cancer, and still he shows up at my window as regular as heartache and Hallmark holidays. I tell myself that I am insane, total batshit, and am slowly slipping into a raving pit the size of the Antarctic peopled by every demon known to Bible folk, but still I fly even as I fear flight. I fight even as I fear pain and conflict. I fly with him, follow his crusades across a terrain of tedium that holds nothing true for me.
