You don’t really want to know what goes on behind those bedroom eyes anyway: a lot like a shaky pornographic blur pulped into something less palatable. He hides his mania as best he can, but the more perceptive back away.
'I just wanted to look pretty for you.' He says things like this. His beauty is effortless. He's got the advantage of hormones. He's still shitting yellow.
He’s a magnet for hungry ghosts, thirsty bitches and other dullards hoping to improve their shine by passing through his reflection. In one side and out the other. He takes it all in stride. But, he's only 18. There’s more where that came from, because he’ll live forever. He lives in every hot mistake he makes. His DNA spreads far and why. He lives in the eyes and mouths of all the old pederasts in his home town, if only in their Viagrated dreams. They’d slit their turkey gobblers for an hour of his time. To lick his feet. To snuffle up his gus. He'd pick them clean, if that were his proclivity. But it’s not. At least not the majority of the time. He's a good egg. He's got great eggs. He's probably headed down a really bad path and I don't seem to care. I don't think there are any good paths left for kids anymore, anyway. So why not just have fun? Why not burn out before you get to my age? Seems nobler, more glorious somehow. Seems almost ecological.
He’s here for the apache, to filter the screaming feedback arcing his brain. He’s pushed it, in his short life, but the dismaying impulses grow wilder every year. The apache won't help... or maybe it will depends on how you hold your glasses.
He stands here and even though he's sweating, he smells really good today. Freshly scrubbed, his face flushed, totally suckable. He appears to be 'tweaking', as they say in the vernacular. He turns out his pockets with a cartoonish frown… the little tart.
Yet--- he needs. By golly, he’s desperate for relief.
I have needs too… I need some relief!
And THIS ONE needs to learn the value of hard work.
Life’s too easy for the beautiful, I think as I measure out a quantity. I was never even cute with my bullfrog look, my drooped udder. Every time I see him I want to steal it all from him. Not really... I'd settle for keeping him forever. He is a musician, given to the nomadic and unpredictable lifestyle. I could facilitate that! I could--- you know it's true. I wouldn't be so cruel as to cage him. But... how I'd love to control his body. I want to see with his eyes. Those eyes that can remove thoughts, hopes, money and clothing with just a glance.
But what I really want is to tell him none of it’s worth it. I take a toot of my own stuff, from the bullet. A bullet that hits the frozen center of my brain. Thoughts circulate faster than I can calculate. I don't usually tune myself up in front of 'customers', but there's something about him that makes the top of my head want to fire off. Not sure blow was the right answer to calm these impulses.
By crackie! After my brain freezes, I look at him and I'm looking into him. He can fuck up and still be saved. I can fuck him up and save him, if I'm lucky. Thoughts. Thoughts like, I want to kill him with my bitterness; wipe out his vitality, youth and beauty. Eradicate the promise, that I once had but no longer exists for me. I want him to know how it feels. WIPE HIM OUT!
Thoughts. My hands are a little shaky so I turn away so he can't see. I really want him to squeeze me until I pass out. To hold me as I fade further and further into a blinding distance.
By God, he should just cut to the chase and kill me with his strength, endurance and resilience, his boundless youth. He crushes my insecurity, my failing body and my flagging reserves every time he brushes against me. I want him to take his smooth hands and wrap them around my scarred, hanging throat. Maybe just rip it out. Cosmetic surgery for the spiritually impoverished. The terminally lonesome/loathsome. I want to feel him on top of me crushing out the last of my deluded fantasies. Pushing it in. Just the tip. And then thrusting, 'balls deep' as they say in the vernacular, right as my heart attacks me. The last thing I hear is the conjoined sighs of this rape.
“So--- what do you need from me to square up? I mean, I'm still paying off my court fines...”
“Shhhhhh.' I say. “I wouldn't worry too much. I'm positive you're good for it. Besides... I've got an idea.”
I place the powder in a glittery baggy, shake it in front of him, like it's a cat toy. He swipes at it, just like a cat. I hide it behind my back. I think we both know what's about to go down. His eyes reveal the truth of this. Somehow. To my delight. Cat and mouse for real. The look in my eyes responds in counterpoint. He smirks. Even in submission the little shit's smug. He leaps at me knocking me into the recliner and we tumble backward. His smell and the weight of him on top of me makes spots pop in my field of vision and I realize that I better take it slow, savor these moments... this is my shot and I really don't want to die now. Something like this never happened before and never will again. The most beautiful notch in my handful of conquests. It doesn't even matter that it's not real.
God bless drugs.
About G.P. DeSalvo:
G.P. DeSalvo writes and makes visual art from his monastery in Columbus, Ohio. His various works have been featured on Soft Cartel, Horror Sleaze Trash, Burning House and Terror House. He can be found lurking on Twitter https://twitter.com/durbanmoffer
