by Z. B Heller
“Just look at these fucking homos, waving their faggot hands around when they’re talking. They might as well just strip down and fuck each other right there.” Dad laughed as he sat down in an old, beat-up recliner.
I rolled my eyes and looked up from the pages I was studying. “Because that’s not cliché,” I grumbled. I wasn’t as quiet as I’d thought because he whipped his head in my direction.
Dad put his beer down on a television tray table with slow precision and rose from his chair. He stalked over to where I was sitting, never taking his coal black eyes off me. “What did you say to me, boy?” His voice was low and menacing.
My whole body tensed, and I wished I kept my dumb mouth shut. I didn’t know what I was thinking. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “I… I didn’t say anything, sir.”
I put the book I was reading on the table and the wooden pegs of my chair squeaked as I pushed away from the table. I stood, wanting to make my escape, but my feet remained glued to the floor out of fear. I knew what was coming; I thought I would have learned my lesson from the countless times it had happened in the past. But there was a small part of me that felt that maybe I deserved this.
“Shirt off and against the wall.” His eyes were glazed over from the liquor that boiled in his blood, but I still could see the flames, too. The man was all anger and hatred. He was a man who felt everything was owed to him, and anyone who didn’t give it to him was a worthless piece of trash.
I looked straight into those rage-filled eyes. I searched them to see if there was any hope for mercy. But I saw nothing but black and hate. Reluctantly, I pulled the hem of my shirt over my head, rustling my messy, brown, chin-length hair. I chose the closest wall and faced it, placing my sweaty hands flat and above my head. My dad’s cold presence loomed behind me. I heard the whooshing sound of his belt being ripped from his pants and folded into a whip. Leaning my forehead on the wall, I closed my eyes and braced myself. I would never be able to prepare myself for what was coming. I tried to calm myself by chanting the words “it’s almost over” in my head.
His boots hit the laminate floor; each step meant the devil had inched closer. “Count,” he hissed in my ear.
I gritted my teeth as I felt the all-encompassing pain of his belt against my back. With the first stroke, I could feel my skin welt from his assault.
“Count, you fag lover!” he screamed. I wanted to scream back, tell him to go to hell. But my jaw was locked shut to keep my cries from coming forward.
“Keep it down! I’m trying to watch my show, damn it!” my mom hollered from the couch. I heard the flicker of her lighter as she lit up another cigarette. There was no intention of rescue from the woman who bore me. No solace from the person who was supposed to protect me the most. Wasn’t that what mothers did—protect their children?
“Do I need to remind you once more to count? Or do I strip you down and work on your legs, too?” Another blow came down on my back.
Tears stung the corners of my eyes. “Two,” I said, shaking.
“No, I believe that was number one, fag lover, since your mother interrupted us. Now we have to start all over.”
Half an hour later, I was lying on my stomach on my bed. My bedroom was so compact it barely had space for a twin-sized mattress. I had a washcloth draped over my back in hopes it would ease the searing pain. Fifteen times my father hit me and fifteen welts had formed on my back. This wasn’t the first time my dad had beaten me. It was almost as if he’d made a sport out of it.
I remembered when I was eleven years old and some boys in my class made fun of me because I liked to bury my head in my books rather than play baseball with them. I’d run home crying and, of course, my dad was home from a job he’d just been fired from. His breath reeked of beer and smoke. He slurred his words when he said things like “you’re a pussy” and “only faggots don’t play sports.” He made me go outside and pick out a tree branch that was pliable. I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I dried my eyes and went searching for a branch. I found one, thinking he would be proud of me for doing something he asked.
I had vivid memories of the sound the branch made the first time it hit my skin. They would forever be burned not only on my skin, but in my brain. He said he thought he would toughen me up, and there was no way in hell he would have a homo for a son. He would rather die than feel the shame.
He threatened that if I told anyone what happened, he would make sure I wouldn’t be able to walk. I couldn’t breathe a word to my teachers or go to the police. From then on, he knew I was the only thing he could control since his own life was a never-ending downward spiral. The abuse was the only life I had ever known.
I needed to get out of that place and be free of the secret that weighed heavily on my shoulders.
I went to school the next day and tried to ignore the pain in my back. I thought hard the night before about speaking to the school counselor. The risk of being removed from my home had to be better than getting the shit kicked out of me. On the flip side, I would be turning eighteen soon and headed to college. Was it worth getting everyone involved when I was so close to seeing the light at the end of the tunnel?
Maybe going to the cops would be better. I certainly had enough evidence on my back to prove what had happened. I also faced the fear that no one would believe me. I’d heard about stories about teens who would self-mutilate for attention. Although nothing in my past suggested I would do something like that, it still spooked me enough not to try it.
“What are you doing, douchebag?” Ted pushed me face-first into my locker. He was the resident football all-star and dickhead. The pain from my back seared through my entire body, making me go weak in the knees. Ted had been bullying me since freshman year simply because I was quiet and kept to myself. Apparently that made me an easy target.
“What are you reading today? Ladies’ Home Journal? Better Homes and Gardens?” Ted’s cohorts, who followed him around like he was their idol, laughed like hyenas. He took my bag, which had fallen off my shoulder, and unzipped it. He proceeded to throw books onto the floor so he could evaluate the contents.
“Wuthering Heights? Only pussies and fags read this shit. Are you a faggot? Maybe that’s what I’ll call you from now on—Faggot Ford.” He let out a maniacal laugh. A crowd of students gathered around to watch the spectacle. “Hey, everyone!” Ted yelled, raising his hands to get everyone’s attention. “Let me introduce you to Faggot Ford.”
There were bursts of laughter and cackling. Some people whispered to each other, but no one stood up and called Ted out for his disgusting behavior. Between Ted’s hateful words and my father’s abuse, I felt there was no option but to keep my secret. I would have to suffer through keeping my deepest desires and fantasies to myself. I knew if I told anyone the truth, the teasing and bullying would just get worst. I just had to get used to the idea that I’d have to endure this torture until I could get out of this town.
I climbed the steel stairs of the bleachers and weaved my way through the crowd to find a seat. I was at the Darling High School track meet, which was our competing high school. But I wasn’t there to root for my home team. I was rooting for the Peter, the hunk of meat I’d been making out with on the dirty floor of my father’s shed. We’d seen each other a few times after my dad caught us. It took some convincing to assure him my dad wasn’t going to out him to the community. My concern for his coming out wasn’t my priority. Getting to feel and occasionally suck the massive rod in his pants was number one on my to-do list.
I felt more confident in my making out abilities after learning a few new tricks from my favorite gay porn websites. My dad had said he would even buy me a subscription to one of the sites. I was horrified after he offered and told him that I was going to become a monk. His response was that even monks needed some relief. I told him how horrified I was by the discussion and never to speak of it again.
I found a seat near the edge of the bleachers, sat down on the cool metal, and rested my arms back o
n the bench behind me. The weather was beautiful, and spring was in full swing. It was only two months before graduation, and while I loved life in this small town in Iowa, I needed to get out and see what other things the world had to offer. Including what different men the world offered, as well. Peter was a fling, and I was by no means attached to him. I looked at what we had as the appetizer to the main course. Soon I would be among a buffet of fine Grade A hunks of beef.
I spotted Peter on the track; his long tanned legs splayed out before him as he stretched. He bowed his head while he grabbed his feet with his huge hands. I thought about his hands wrapped around my cock, squeezing it. The first time that had happened, I actually choked out a squeal. It was foreign—a mix of pleasure and pain. Since I was the only one who had ever held my cock before, it was a little strange having someone else touch me. Shit, I was getting hard thinking about it. I needed a distraction fast, or else I was going to give everyone a show when I stood up.
I gazed out into the field next to the track. The grass was freshly mowed and the trees swayed in the light breeze. Then something caught my eye. It was a few of the jocks from Darlings who I knew about through reputation. They were talking to some kid I didn’t recognize. There were a bunch of books surrounding him on the ground, and he held one in his hand. One of the assholes grabbed the book out of his hand and threw it to the ground.
The angel on my shoulder, who I decided looked like Brad Pitt—I mean, who could be more angelic looking than Brad Pitt—spoke loudly in my ear.
Brad Pitt: Don’t get involved, Ryan. It’s none of your business. You know better than to get involved in other people’s business. Remember the time you tried to get involved in Jesse Malcolm’s scuffle with Sarah Hanes in the third grade? You wound up going home with a permanent marker mustache that resembled Hitler’s.
With the good conscience also comes the bad, which I called Steve Buscemi. Let’s face it, Steve Buscemi scared the ever-loving shit out of me.
Steve Buscemi: But Ryan, you can be the fucking hero if he needs to be rescued. You’re a tall, strapping man. Maybe you can create peace with all these fine men and have a massive fucking orgy. Don’t you want to be the knight in shining armor? Come on, you know you’re too nosy and you have to know the gossip before anyone. Go, Ryan… be brave.
Fucking Steve Buscemi.
Against my better judgment, I got up from my seat on the bleachers to find out what the scuffle was about since no one else seemed to be paying attention to it. I excused myself down the aisle and headed in the direction of the conflict.
“This isn’t the place for fucking nerds, asshole,” one of the larger guys said. It was Ted Alcott, Darlings’ quarterback. Peter had mentioned him before, and I’d seen him around at parties. Nothing I heard was flattering. Three other guys I didn’t know flanked Ted and obscured my vision of the kid.
“What’s up, gentlemen?” I said, startling them. Their meaty heads turned in my direction, and I soon realized how big football players got. I wasn’t a small guy, either. I took care of my body and had a major growth spurt last year. In height, I was comparable to Ted, who was the tallest one in the group.
All four of them glared at me, and I crossed my arms over my chest.
“What do you want, fag?” Ted sneered.
“What’s going on with you and my friend here?” I nodded toward the direction of the kid behind them.
Ted barked out a laugh, and his three companions joined him like a pack of trained puppies.
“I should’ve known this nerd was a faggot, too. Do all of you homos sit under trees and read poems to each other? Are there fairies prancing around?” He flexed both hands up and down, skipping in a circle. The laughter between the guys increased at Ted’s display. I tried to take in the sight before me and turn it into something ridiculous in my mind, like Ted dancing as a fairy at a pride parade. If I didn’t think happy thoughts, I would attempt to introduce Ted’s mouth to a fistful of grass and dirt.
“Love the skipping, Ted. Actually…” I rubbed my chin. “Did you do that lovely touchdown dance after the football coach helped you hide the fact that you tried to rape your homecoming date? I bet that was a real cause for celebration.”
Ted froze and stared at me, his eyes wide and jaw clenched. His face turned crimson and he clamped his fists so tight I swore he was about to pop a vein. His three partners looked at him, gaped, and took a few steps away from him.
“You don’t know what you’re fucking talking about, faggot,” he hissed through his teeth.
“Really,” I said as calm as a cucumber and checked the nonexistent dirt under my fingernails. “Because I heard there was audio of a confession floating around. It would be a real shame for that to get into the wrong hands.”
Before I could say anything else, Ted was nose to nose with me. His breath smelled like nicotine and his brown eyes twitched like a crazed psychopath. “If you utter one more fucking word I will demolish you.”
“Yeah, see… that wouldn’t look so good on your record since there are four witnesses standing here.” I looked around Ted and wiggled my fingers at his friends.
“They’d back me up.” Ted thumbed back at his friends. But his friends looked at each other like they’d be more than willing to let Ted take the fall if they were to get in trouble. Oh the joy of having fake friendships.
Instead of taking the threat any further, he backed away from me, nodded toward his friends to follow, and walked passed me, ramming his shoulder against mine as he went. I watched him and his friends as they walked away, and I made sure he didn’t change his mind and decide to pounce on me after all. When I was comfortable with his distance, I turned back to look at the person who was the target of Ted’s wrath. He stood there looking at the ground, his floppy chestnut hair hanging in his eyes.
“Hey, you okay?”
He finally looked up, and I got my first view of what I thought were the most perfect pair of brown eyes. His shaggy hair curled at the nape of his neck, giving him an almost skater-boy appearance. He was also shorter than me and thinner, for sure. I could see where hair on his chin and jaw was trying to make a five o’clock shadow. His thin right shoulder slouched downward, which only made the already loose shirt look like it would slip off this shoulder
“Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks,” he whispered.
“No problem. Ted and his friends are assholes, from what I hear.”
He titled his head to the side. “You don’t go to this school, so how would you know him?”
“I’ve got a friend on the track team, and I was here watching the meet.” I pointed to the track. “He told me about some of the other guys at school.” It was somewhat the truth. I just happened to leave out the part about Peter offering me school gossip in return for a blow job.
“Oh,” was all he said. He bit down on his lip. I took another minute to study him, and I focused on his lips. They were a sweet pink, although a little chapped—probably from biting down on it so much.
“I’m Ryan.” I extended my hand instead of molesting his lips.
“Brandon.” He shook my hand with a strong grip. He was small, but I could see the muscles in his forearm flex when he shook my hand. It was like a hidden surprised.
“So, Brandon, what year are you?” I tried for small talk since Brandon looked like he was ready to dart.
“Senior. You?” He put his hands in his pockets and shifted on his feet.
“Same. I’m counting down the days until graduation. First seventeen years were nice, but it’s time to experience what else is out there. There’s a lot of Ryan to share with the world. I want to make sure no one misses out on all of this yummy goodness.”
Then it happened. Brandon’s lips parted to reveal a brilliant smile. What made me lose my breath, though, were his dimples. My dick twitched, and I silently prayed to the boner gods I wouldn’t wave the stiff flag in front of this guy.
“Your ego seems to be pretty solid,” Brandon said.
&nbs
p; “Nah, just trying to make you smile.”
Brad Pitt screamed: No, no, no, Ryan! What the hell are you doing? No flirting with the straight boys. You don’t want to scare the little bunny away. You did your heroic duties for today, although you were stupid to go against my advice. Go back to Peter, where you are guaranteed action.
“I think it worked,” he said, gifting me with another smile
Ha, take that, Brad Pitt!
“Good. Do you want to head to Carrie’s for something to eat? I’m starved.” I rubbed my stomach for extra effect. Brandon beamed like I just offered him a shiny new car.
“That would be great. Thanks.”
I bent down to help Brandon pick up his books, and together we put them into his backpack. The thing must have weighed three times Brandon’s body weight by the time everything was in there.
“What else besides books do you have in here? You’re not a secret murderer and hide severed body parts in here, are you?” I helped him put the bag on around his arms.
He chuckled. “No, it’s just my books for classes. I’m in all advance placement classes, so there’s a lot of material to carry around,” he said as started toward the sidewalk.
“Ah, so you’re cute and smart.”
Brad Pitt smacked his forehead, and Steve Buscemi cackled an evil laugh while rubbing his hands together.
Brandon halted and looked at me. Shit, why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut? “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh no, it’s okay.” Brandon blushed. “I guess I’m just not used to people giving me compliments.”
“What? Your parents never pinch your cheeks and tell you what a cute kid you are?”
Brandon’s eyes fell, and he studied his feet.
“I guess my parents aren’t the most affectionate people,” he said so quietly I almost missed the comment.
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to tell you how fantastic you are all the time.”
He looked back up at me and huffed. “How could you possibly say that? You don’t even know me. We’ve only been talking for the past few minutes.”
