Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins

by Kage Alan

  "Seeing is part of the experience,” Tristan managed to tell me between biting one side of my neck then the other. He'd better not be leaving marks! “You'll see. Maybe I should have played Master and Servant tonight instead."

  "Which am I?"

  His answer was to flip me over onto my stomach like I was some kind of human pancake.

  "Umph...” Okay, I wasn't expecting that. “I'll bet Charlie never treated his angels this way."

  "Wrong Charlie. I'm Charles in charge, and has anyone ever told you what a fantastic ass you have?"

  "Gee, I can't recall ever hearing that before.” It had only been six months.

  Tristan lowered himself down on top of me, and I felt the heat of his skin, his mouth on the back of my neck and one other thing that made me feel more like an object than a participant. My face was pushed down into the pillow when he'd lowered himself, and I had some difficulty speaking properly.

  "Thith ith a lithle unforthatble.” It was all I could get out, and I had little doubt in my mind that he wasn't really listening.

  "You want this...” Tristan whispered in one ear as he rattled a condom package in the other. Was he asking me or telling me? If he was asking me, what was he asking me? Did I want him to use a condom? Did I even want to have sex with him? That was a good question. Did I really want to have sex with him? Well, I guessed it was an odd time to be mulling that one over. After all, I was here.

  What was wrong with me? I was so hot for him earlier on in the day, so why was I having second thoughts about this now? Wouldn't I look like a complete idiot if I told him no? And what did I think I was getting myself into tonight? I showered and dressed up for what? I did it because I hoped—no, assumed—I was more than likely going to have sex. What did that say about me?

  I liked being wanted. If everybody else could be wanted, so could I. I wanted my night of passion.

  Tristan didn't wait for an answer.

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  5

  Hero Takes A Fall” isn't just a song by The Bangles. My “night of passion” turned out to be a whole whopping minute and a half, maybe less. My insides felt like jelly, and it wasn't anything like that song by John Cougar or John Mellencamp or whatever the hell he was calling himself this week: “Hurt So Good."

  The sex wasn't like I remembered it being with Jordan. That had been romantic, seductive, affectionate, humorous and tender with just a hint of danger, like James Bond, except not having to worry about social diseases. Jordan had taken his time and actually included me in the event. Tristan just ripped me asunder like a bag of Cheetos—loud and satisfying for him, hollow and deflated in the end for me. It certainly wasn't making love, and I'm not even sure it qualified as my definition of sex, though I got the impression I'd just been royally screwed. There had been something missing from the experience. Communication? Oxygen?

  "You've got one hell of an ass.” He looked over and gave me the I-just-got-laid look. Grr...

  "That's...” What? Romantic? “...nice and, may I say, ex-ceptionally original."

  His mannerisms left a little something to be desired. To make matters worse, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I didn't really know him well enough to know what his mannerisms even were, hadn't truly considered what I was getting myself into before I got into it and certainly hadn't gone about this very intelligently at all. What was his history? How many people had he been with? Was he looking for a relationship?

  "How many others are you comparing it to?"

  "You make...” He counted in his head. “...sixteen."

  "Excuse me?” I think I blinked several times as my brain refused to process the number he'd just so casually thrown out without any hint of affection for his victims. I mean, I wasn't asking for a textbook answer. He could have at least said I was the best of sixteen, make me feel a little bit better about it. “Sixteen?"

  He nodded.

  "You were only my second."

  "Who was your first?” Finally, a little interest on his part.

  "A cousin in California."

  "You had sex with your cousin?"

  "Cousin by marriage only.” I should have seen that question coming. “He made it a really memorable summer."

  "You mean last summer?” Tristan asked, and I nodded. “Oh, I thought you meant this year."

  "This year?” A little alarm went off in my head. “You mean you've had fifteen men since January first this year?” He nodded. “How many have you had total?"

  "I don't remember anymore, but I could look it up for you if you want."

  "You mean you keep records?” I was now getting that cliched sinking feeling. “I'm now a part of some sexual archive?” I gestured at him and then myself. “I thought maybe this was something special, that we could see each other on a ... regular basis ... like a relationship."

  "You mean like boyfriends?” He sat up on one arm and looked at me. “I'm not sure I want to be tied down in a relationship right now.” My face dropped. “But, yes, I would like to have sex with you again, just nothing more compli-cated. Boyfriends hold you back. I'm too young, and there're too many hot guys out there to do before I settle."

  "How honest of you ... now.” My voice was barely a whisper. There was so much going through my mind at this precise moment that I didn't know how to sort it out or what to deal with first if I did get it sorted out. Had I just been used? “I told you that I wasn't looking for a one-night stand."

  "And I said I wasn't either. I don't understand why you're acting so freaked out.” He frowned. “You accepted my invitation to come over tonight.” The grin reappeared. “And I'd do you again. Hence, not a one-night stand."

  "Do me? Is that all this was to you?” There was such a simplicity to the whole thing that it made my stomach turn. There was something oddly familiar about it, too. Didn't this usually happen to...

  "Well, yeah.” He cocked his head to one side. “What did you think it was?"

  "I'm the girl in this relationship?"

  "You really need to learn how to loosen up.” He stood up. “And I hate to break this up, but I have to take a shower and get dressed before some friends pick me up to go clubbing. You can use the bathroom first, if you want."

  I rose slowly, as if in a trance.

  "Look.” He sighed. “We're not held to the same rules as everybody else. Sex is fun and free and should be shared with as many people as possible. It's not like I didn't feel you squirming or hear you gasping for breath!"

  "That's because I couldn't breathe, you asshole!” I snapped at him. “It was hardly the highlight of my love life."

  "You mean sex life. Forget about love, because it doesn't exist, and if you think it does, it's just an illusion.” Tristan sounded as if he actually believed what he was saying. How could he? “You've got some hot equipment, and I think you could definitely be popular if you got off your morals kick and embraced your raw sexual talent."

  "Charming.” I gathered my clothes, hurried into the bathroom to take care of a few things and get dressed. He was busy changing the sheets when I came back out. Hadn't he just changed them before I arrived? That just begged an entirely different question that I did not want to know the answer to.

  "Just in case,” he told me when he looked up. “You never know if you're going to bring somebody home with you or not. You're looking at me funny again."

  "I feel funny when I walk."

  "That's because of the lube. You'll get used to it.” He said it offhandedly.

  "I'll get used to it?” As if I planned on doing this again anytime soon! “And just an FYI regarding your pillow talk, a little rug burn isn't a good thing. They are red. They do hurt."

  His response was an arrogant little smirk, condescending even, as if I might one day realize something I was currently missing. So, this is how he and others like him would see me? How many of them were out there? Then there was the sobering thought—I really am a bag of Cheetos. Disgusted, I put my shoes on, grabbed
my coat and left.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  6

  There's a lovely little defense mechanism that kicks in after a traumatic incident called “denial.” Mine was a classic case, and I couldn't help but wonder why nice guys always had to finish last. Okay, I wasn't always nice, but I was nicer than ... than ... than Tristan. All I'd wanted from him was ... I mean, all I wanted him to do...

  Well, he certainly didn't do what I wanted him to do, and I certainly didn't get to do what I wanted to do while he was doing what I wanted him to get down and get done. Basically, not a whole lot of doing done got did according to my diminutive design. And damn it, I dislike alliteration!

  I'd worked so hard since I came out to be the kind of person I could be proud of. I wanted to be more openminded, peaceful and loving. Instead, I felt like Corey Haim and Corey Feldman must have after an all-night drinking binge with a couple of hookers and an eight-ball. Most people started off being nice and turned into assholes once they became an adult. I started off the exact opposite and had only recently promised to use my powers for good. Now I was starting to embrace my inner bitch again and...

  Ahem ... la ... la ... la ... la ... la...

  I didn't like myself, and I felt dirty. I was a tramp. I'd been transformed into a hussy. I'd violated my own trust. I'd created my own drama. I deserved to be punished. Was I worthy to even be around other people? Was I worth even knowing? If the world around me kept moving forward and I didn't, would they notice? Should they? I did this. Me ... me ... me ... me. How could I have led myself so astray?

  You didn't.

  I had a point. Disliking myself would get me nowhere. I hated him. Tristan had made me feel dirty. He had violated the sacred trust he didn't know I had but should have respected anyway. This was drama of his making, and he deserved to be punished, not me. Furthermore, I should be the one to punish him.

  Okay, where did that come from?

  Me.

  Oh, shit. My inner bitch was awake. Six months of being locked up had to have taken its toll. Well, there was only one way to put the little tyke back down for a nap, and it was a method I'd never before considered. I needed to get rid of all my excessive negative energy and anxiety, and I was going to do it with the help of the idiot on my floor who had recently become a trainer at the Field House. I was going to ... to ... flog it.

  Flog it?

  Exercise. I was also going to cry. Honestly, the things people do to feel better about themselves. What was the thought behind that, anyway? “There's something wrong with me, therefore I must work out because it will make all my problems disappear due to the pain I shall inflict upon myself.” Maybe there was a certain logic to it.

  With a pair of sweats, a T-shirt, an attitude and a dream, I set forth on my mission of physical discipline.

  "Hey, Stevenson.” Daryl greeted me loud enough for all the other steroid-induced jocks working out to hear. “You get snowblindness and find your way here by accident?” He laughed, obviously under the impression he was being funny.

  "You know...” I rested my hand on his shoulder. “...one short conversation with you answers the age-old question ‘Did white man ever fuck the buffalo?’”

  He tensed up.

  "I need your help. I need to get boff."

  "Buff,” he corrected me.

  "That, too.” I didn't skip a beat, though why I'd mention getting boffed was beyond me. I'd just gotten boffed, which was why I was there. Boffing was bad—bad boffing—and also the last thing I needed right now. “Squat me."

  "Spot you?"

  "Call it whatever you want, but let's get a few things straight.” Oh, I could speak his language just fine. “I don't like you, but I'm going to give you a chance to do what you do best. I'm here to be bullied. I don't care how many raps you put me through. My deltas are dense, my dewpoints are drawn, my squads are strained, my peckers are puckered and I'm here to burn off some celeries."

  There was a really long pause here. Really long.

  "I'll start you off with something light.” Daryl gave me the strangest of looks, like he wasn't sure if I was mentally all there or not.

  "What? Are you a pansy?” I struck another nerve. “You keep telling me that without pain, there's no gain. Well...” I stared at him. “bring ... on ... the pain."

  "I really think—"

  "Bring on the pain!"

  * * * *

  Okay, “bring on the pain...” Not the smartest fucking thing I've ever said in my life, especially when Daryl did just that and I had been in it for nearly a week since. It hurt to move. It hurt so bad that my inner bitch went back to sleep. Crisis solved. Well, sort of.

  Everything was fine that first night, but the next morning? Oh, hell no! I couldn't even raise my arms. It took me putting my hands on the wall and then kneeling down to get them over my head so I could put a shirt on. And bending my knees to actually get down on the ground? Not nearly as painful as trying to get back up. Screw steroids! Where was the Tylenol? It did take my mind off of Tristan, though.

  It was during my recovery that I tried my best to concentrate on homework and writing stories for the creative writing class. Miss Kim was giving me the cold shoulder, which was probably a good thing since I couldn't defend myself should she decide to exact revenge. I had no doubt that the authorities would never find my body.

  Mien Fuehrer Cathleen felt the need to impose her master will on the exact kind of writing we were to turn in to her. Horror and science fiction didn't interest her at all, but real-life dramas, human nature stories and comedies did, especially if they were inspired by anything ever done by Peter Bogdanovich or starring Patty Duke. In an act of defiance, I wrote a horror story over the weekend about a blonde vampire obsessed with human sexuality. Every time he initiates intimacy, he compliments them on how nice their ass is then rips their throat out all the while reciting lines from Paper Moon and watching The Miracle Worker. He then writes a lovely little sonnet called “Climax” in memory of each victim.

  I called my own lovely little story “Copuletus Interruptis Of Count El Slutto,” and was to present it to the class the next time it met. It all would have gone so well—or at least better—had I not run into Cathleen before class.

  "Andrew.” She acknowledged my inferior presence.

  "Kaiser Cathleen.” My response came so naturally that it almost scared me. It had to be the pain I was still in. I needed to cover my little blunder up quickly, so I latched on to the only observation I could make. “You're not wearing your headphones today?"

  "Not after last night.” She seemed a bit uncomfortable talking about it.

  "You must have read Reuben's mutant earwig story.” I laughed—aka, I sucked up—and hoped she wouldn't re-member what I'd just called her.

  "You're perceptive."

  "Thank you.” Yes, I was ignoring her sarcasm. “You know, I've been wondering what it is you listen to ... when you do wear your headphones."

  "Classic Heart.” She sounded a bit guarded, which might mean that she'd read some of my reviews.

  "Oh, you mean like ‘What About Love,’ ‘Never,’ ‘Who Will You Run To’ and ‘These Dreams?’”

  "No.” She stopped and looked as if she was having four very different thoughts occurring at the same time, none of them pleasant, and had absolutely no ability to put them into coherent words. “I'm talking pre-nineteen-eighty-five material, songs that they actually wrote and felt, man. ‘Dog and Butterfly,’ ‘Devil Delight,’ ‘Barracuda,’ ‘Mistral Wind,’ ‘Dreamboat Annie,’ ‘Love Alive'—songs that established them as rock legends. Forget all that slick studio eighties crap they were forced to play later on."

  Okay, let me say right now that what I'm about to do will completely merit any and all consequences that will follow.

  "You mean they had albums before nineteen-eighty-five?"

  "Fuu...” It was the start of a word or phrase, but never made it past that initial sound. That couldn't be good.

&nb
sp; "Cathleen?” Maybe I could still cover it up.

  "Call me Professor Gevaultski."

  Maybe not.

  * * * *

  "I can't believe she used a food analogy to symbolize her reaction to my story,” I complained to Ryan on the way over to the student center after class. The wind wasn't as bad today as it had been, and it wasn't snowing, so we could actually carry on a coherent conversation while we walked.

  "Did you do or say something beyond what you usually do to piss her off? It's like she went out of her way to be brutally honest with you.” Ryan was trying to make me feel better by making sense of things, only it wasn't helping and I knew why. “Besides, she didn't start using analogies until you got defensive and called your work ‘an intense study of the hidden desires and dark human nature present in poetic slutty types.’”

  My own words didn't sound quite as eloquent, hearing them spoken by someone else.

  "She called my presentation ‘cold, watery gruel at an ethnic festival of life.'” God, that was embarrassing! “I told her that sometimes gruel is good for you because it's the real thing, even if it doesn't look too appetizing. Then she came back with that bit about people still getting what they need from a meal even when it's not the real thing. She then further suggested that I put my gruel up against a plate of imitation crab, mock applesauce, an enriched white roll with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter and a glass of instant iced tea with NutraSweet and see what gets chosen more often."

  "You know, I seem to remember that entire conversation. Why? Because I was there.” The corner of Ryan's mouth raised and formed a perfect half-smirk. “At least Rueben said he liked it."

  "That's when I knew I was screwed.” I shook my head in dismay. “Connect the dots probably amazed the hell out of him as a child."

  "Not as much as paper cuts."

  "Blood,” we chorused.

  "Hey.” Ryan opened the door to the building and grabbed my arm. “What's up with Kim? She acts preoccupied."