Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Hieroglyphics

I was in tenth grade. I was fifteen. And I had a tortuous crush on my neighbor’s sixth-grade homeroom teacher.

For the nineteen-seventies, Mr. McConnell was a foxy man. He had a handlebar mustache and a wedge of brown hair that was flat on the top and puffed out in a wide arc to the sides of his head, only to be cut off below the ears. I thought he was dreamy. If today I saw a photo of him as he was then, I would probably think he looked like a porn star. But in the seventies, any man with a ‘stache, tight pants, an open shirt, and a little bit of chest hair looked like a porn star.

My crush began in the eighth grade, when I would encounter Mr. McConnell leading his columns of students, lined up two by two, from the lunchroom back to their class. We eighth graders would be on our way to our lunch shift. Every day we would pass in the hallway. I’d stare at him with unspeakable longing. Mind you, I was sexually active by then. I’d taken hundreds and hundreds of fucks. I was hopping on my bike and hitting the local parks for sex the minute I got home from school, most days. I’d worked sex parties for cash. I’d had a (sadly unconsummated) affair with my sixth-grade teacher, for the love of gawd. But when I was confronted with a crush, my reaction was to go slack-jawed. My mouth would dry up. My eyes would have the mournful expression of a bloodhound’s.

Little by little, I gleaned what small bits of information I could about him. He was thirty-six. He was married, though his wife lived in her native England. His first name was Nathaniel.

Oh, how I ached to be the boyfriend of Nathaniel McConnell of the handlebar mustache, the hairy knuckles. and the smooth, ironed shirts with the scoop-necked t-shirts underneath and the neatly-tied neckties hanging to his slim waist and with the alleged wife. I knew the wife was a myth, a cover, a beard. England? Whatever. It was almost as if he’d never heard of the my girlfriend, who lives in Canada cover. I could’ve made up better lies than that in my sleep.

Every day that year at 12:35 in the afternoon I would see him approaching, his class trailing behind him, and I would look at that impossibly handsome face and covet it for my own.

And then he started looking back.

It was about a month into the school year when it happened. He would search me out in the crowd as we approached each other, nail his eyes on mine, and then, at our perigee, the corners of his lips would raise into a smile. Day after day it would happen, so I was certain it was not a mistake. I would then go into lunch with butterflies in my stomach, unable to eat or concentrate. No wonder I was so skinny.

All through eighth and ninth grade we exchanged our daily glances and smiles, fleeting and sweet. When I would be walking alone in the halls and happened to encounter him, he would even sometimes bestow upon me a much-treasured ‘Hi there.’

And then, when I was in tenth grade—the high school and middle school shared the same building—my neighbor got him as her homeroom teacher. I was jealous. It drove me crazy that this twerp, this nobody, this little sixth grader got to see him every day and bask in his glorious mustachioed presence for hours at a time. I would grind my teeth whenever she dropped his name casually in conversation, with a “Oh, Mr. McConnell said this” here and a “Mr. McConnell thinks that” there. The only thing I wanted to hear was that Mr. McConnell said he wanted to strip me down and have his wicked way with me.

It was during the tenth grade that I was at the peak of my fascination with ancient Egypt as well; for years I’d wanted to be an archaeologist when I grew up. I’d seen it as my natural destiny, somehow. In fifth grade I won a city-wide art ‘what I want to be when I grow up’ contest with a watercolor self-portrait of myself posed in front of a pyramid. The prize involved someone from the administration erecting a pyramid in our school auditorium (it was made out of sticks and bedsheets, and its construction did not involve slave labor) and getting someone from the local museum to visit and give our class a talk about ancient Egyptians and their daily lives. The museum guy brought a mummy foot in a plexiglass case. I felt oddly gypped when I wasn’t allowed to keep it. In sixth grade, the King Tut exhibit came to the U.S. and I went to see it with my parents. I felt as if they’d flown it over just for me.

The fire continued throughout grade school. By tenth grade I had an especial enthrallment with hieroglyphics. I devoted massive amounts of time memorizing them and how they were constructed. I pored over The Book of the Dead. And one day, when she was hanging around our house waiting for her mom to come home, I showed the next-door neighbor a fun way to create her own hieroglyphics. “This is cool,” she said, after one of my impromptu lessons. “You should come show it my class!”

“Excellent suggestion,” said my dad, who was passing through. He had an eye on my resumes for the colleges I’d be sending out the following year. How many other kids could put hieroglyphics instructor on their applications? “I’ll see what I can do.”

What he could do, apparently, was talk Mr. McConnell into letting me teach about hieroglyphics in his class for one hour a day, one day a week, four weeks in a row, at the beginning of the next semester. Ordinarily I would’ve met my dad’s meddling with a surly teenaged reluctance. But this particular scheme involved Mr. McConnell, and as long as I got to see that dreamy face of his up close, I would’ve taught anything my dad suggested. Even clog dancing.

It was my first experience teaching—oddly enough, I was fantastic at it. Probably because I had teachers for parents. For some reason, Mr. McConnell never met with me to make sure I knew what the hell I was doing. He just let me into the classroom and watched from the back, arms crossed, while I tried not to get distracted.

Much of the time I was in my neighbor’s class I spent helping the kids understand how Egyptian pictographs represented specific sounds, and how those pictures and sounds, combined in different ways, could make entire words. I started out with them making their own hieroglyphics. They used construction paper and glue to make cartouches of their own names—oval loops containing the pictographs they’d come up with to represent the sounds.

It was a lot like rebuses. One kid was named Monique. She came up very quickly with a pictograph of a person with a round mouth who was obviously in pain, and then another of someone (or at least their heel) leaping into the air to escape a rat. Moan + Eeek! = Monique. A kid named Walter drew a picture of a wall, and then of a turd. Everyone thought that was hilarious. Mr. McConnell did, too. And the kids were loving it. Around the classroom I would go, person by person, helping the kids break down their names into their component parts and brainstorming a pictograph to represent it. Mr. McConnell would help out, squatting down and murmuring with the students to pass the time along.

At the end of each session, he would stand beside me and tell the class to thank me for the great time they had. I wasn’t so much grateful for the obedient chorus of thanks as I was for the warmth of his hand on the small of my back, where he would always place it while we stood there together. It was as intimate as we ever got.

The fourth and final session happened to coincide with my birthday. Every student had, at that point, two cartouches of their names created from construction paper to take home—one with their own hieroglyphics, and another with the real Egyptian pictographs. We’d spent most of the class with the students showing off their handiwork and explaining why they’d chosen the various images, and when it was all over, Mr. McConnell came to my side and as usual, put his hand in the small of my back, which longed to be touched.

“We heard it’s your birthday,” he said to me. I’d not said a thing—I flushed at the thought he’d actually done some research on me. “So as a gesture of appreciation, we made you something.”

From his desk he pulled a simply enormous homemade birthday card. It was easily two feet high by a foot and a half wide, and decorated with glitter and smiley faces and stickers and everything a sixth-grader loves. Inside were wishes for a happy birthday, with all the names of the students in big old magic market letters. In a neat cursive, in the page’s center, was my crush’s signature. Nathaniel McConnell. “Oh wow,” I said aloud. I was genuinely stunned. “Thank you guys!”

The classroom was moderately noisy at that point when Mr. McConnell once more put his hand on my back. “So how old are you today?” he asked.

“Sixteen,” I told him.

I remember his voice as being intimate in the words that followed. “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed?”

Whatever poise I’d developed around Mr. McConnell during that month instantly vanished. I stood there with my jaw hanging open and my tongue unable to produce speech. If I know myself, I probably turned beet red. When my vision stopped swimming, I gathered my materials, took my card, and spirited myself out of that classroom.

And that is as intimate as Mr. McConnell and I ever became, sadly. But wow. It meant a lot to me at the time. I saw him for the rest of the semester when our classes would pass each other down the lunchroom hallway. His eyes would bore into mine, and I would stare at him, mute and longing. We’d exchange smiles. But as much as I longed for him to find me in some forgotten corner of the school building—in my imagination, it was always the shop—and shove me against the wall and press his mustache against my tender boy lips, it simply never happened.

What I do have, though, is a sweet memory of the warmth of his hand, the tones of his gentle voice, and a birthday memory of his words to me. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. As far as mementos go, I’d say I came out pretty well.

I know I kept that card at my parents’ house until after I graduated from college. I don’t know where it is today—my folks probably threw it out. I wish I still had one of my middle school yearbooks, though. I’d like to look through its pages at the faculty photos and see if Mr. McConnell’s face is anything like my memory of it, intense and brown-eyed, alert and alive.

Friday, October 4, 2013

Nasty Little Faggot

“What do you want?” I ask him. He’s kneeling on the floor, naked, knees spread wide. His wrists are crossed as if they’re bound, though nothing is holding them together. His little peter curves up to point at the ceiling.

He’s mesmerized by cock. My cock, which is dangling in front of his face. It’s bait to a hungry fish; his lips work in and out as unconsciously they strain for it. His eyes are the size of saucers, as he stares at the heavy, blood-filled meat exuding heat a few inches above his face.

“What do you want?” I ask again.

He delivers his answer with a rattle in his throat. “I want that cock.”

“Why do you want my cock?” I demand.

He thinks about it a moment, trying to suss out the response I expect to hear. “Because it’s big. Because it’s beautiful. Because it’s yours.”

All true enough, but it’s not the answer I want. “It’s because you’re a greedy little cocksucking whore,” I inform him. “And big dick is what you were made for.”

For the first time in a while he removes his gaze from my dick, and looks me in the eye. “Yes.” His agreement arrives on a sigh.

“It’s because you’re a nasty little faggot,” I tell him. His eyes are locked onto mine. They’re full of adoration. I’ve penetrated right to the secret core of him. I’ve spoken the words that unlock his deepest secret, and in the speaking, unburdened him of it. “Because you’re nothing more than a fucking little skank hole.”

“Yes,” he repeats. “I’m a nasty little faggot boy.”

“Anyone’s cum dump.”

His eyes are beginning to glaze. His cock jerks once, twice, three times. He wraps his hands around it. “Nothing but a cum dump.”

I grab my own dick, thwack it into my palm with a heavy slap. “Well fuck, son. What’re you waiting for?” When he lunges at my erect cock, I halt him with my hand on his forehead. “You don’t get it yet. Fuck. Work your way up, kid.” I shove him back so he’s on his haunches again. “From the feet,” I explain, like he’s simple. “Like a nasty little faggot does.”

The look he gives me is of sheer worship. And that pleases my dick.

No one around this tony community in which I live would recognize this guy as he is now, sprawled on the floor, sucking at my toes, squirming around like a worm in the dirt. He’s one of those fastidious types in public. Neatly dressed in trendy fashions from Zara, little Harry Potter spectacles on his face. I’ve seen him and his boyfriend out and about at the local bars and gay gatherings for a couple of years. When we meet, he and the boyfriend recognize my face well enough to smile and nod, and occasionally exchange pleasantries. We’re not social friends, by any stretch of the imagination.

“That boyfriend of yours know you’re here?” I ask.

“No,” he says. He’s tonguing out the space between two of my toes. He looks up at me in sudden panic. “Please don’t tell him.”

“That really depends on how good a job you do, doesn’t it?”

“Yes sir.” It’s a rhetorical question, but it spurs him on. He’s slurping his tongue all over my feet now, obediently licking the soles when I lift them up, one by one. His ass is pointed in the air; his back arch. In his head, he’s already getting fucked.

“You want me to tell him how you’ve been putting that pussy up in the air for me for months? How you begged me to break that bareback cherry?”

“Please don’t,” he begs.

“Why, are you ashamed of what a little cumdump whore you are? You don’t want him to find out how you’ve been slutting around behind his back with some guy at the bar you barely know? You worried he’d dump that ass when he finds out how many strange dicks have been up it since mine?”

“Please.” He huffs out the word. His face is red. He’s aroused. “Please don’t tell.”

“Suck it, faggot,” I tell him. I grab him by the hair and lower his mouth onto my dick. “No teeth, or I’ll slap the shit out of you.”

This is the root of him, the inner core deep inside that fuels his every waking dream. Daily, in public, he cultivates an air of fastidious perfection. Impeccably-dressed, nicely-coiffed, soft-spoken, a little effeminate. Genteel. Arm candy for his older boyfriend. In private, he wants to be a dirty little whore. The kid wants it all: Men’s Vogue days, Treasure Island nights.

Which side of him is closer to his real nature? I think I know. The artificial tends to fall away from a guy when I drop my pants in front of him.

My cock is slick with his spit. He’s choking on it by the time I withdraw and shove him roughly onto the bed. He howls with pain as I drive into the hole. I can tell by the way he clamps down on my meat that he’s in distress, but this is how whores get fucked. No mercy. Relentless. By the time his mind and body catch up to the heat that’s already pulsing through his still-hard cock, I’m halfway there.

“That boyfriend of yours would kick you out on your ass if he knew what you were doing right now,” I say as I pound his quivering butt.

“Please don’t tell . . . !”

“I don’t know. I think it might be fun to see the expression on his face when he finds out what a cum-hungry little bitch you really are,” I muse. “I bet he’s all polite in bed and shit. Probably thinks a wild time is turning on a fuck flick and jacking off together. Am I right?”

“Only if I’m lucky,” he moans. The words are heavy with rue.

“Who gives you what you really want?”

“You do,” he whispers. “You do.”

“Who gives your faggot holes the sperm they really need?”

“Fuck . . . you know it’s you. It’s totally you.”

I’m close. “Then fucking take it, you little whore.”

My cock pulses. I drive in to the root, and let the seed blast out deep inside him. His back arches more, his butt rises to meet me. He wants every fucking seed I’ve got, and I’m hostage to his need. Finally, after a long time in which his hungry holes milks my meat for every drop, he slides off me.

“Clean it off,” I tell him.

He’s already on it, sucking any traces of sperm from my jizz-slick dick. I hold his head on my dick as I maneuver myself onto the bed, and then I cradle it as he continues to suck and suck.

“Good boy,” I tell him.

“I’m your little faggot,” he murmurs, before losing himself in the scent and sensation of my semi-rigid shaft again. “Just a little faggot.”

Yeah. I won’t be telling the boyfriend. This time.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Lessons from Pasta

Things I’ve Learned About Gay Guys After Being Subjected to Twenty Berjillion Facebook Posts About Pasta Last Week

1. Immediately after someone posts a notice resolving to boycott a brand of pasta, the first three comments are going to be along the lines of That brand sux! __________ is soooooo much better!

Well, welcome to the conversation, Miss Fancy-Pants. I’m really glad that the latest cause célèbre involving outrages against gays and lesbians has given you the perfect opportunity to leap in and show everyone what superior taste you have. I am so compelled by your exquisite discernment that I am hoping, when I prowl back in time to 2011, I’ll find a sensitive comment from you about the devastating Thailand floods that affected over thirteen million people and killed hundreds that reads, Phuket is sooooo overrated anyway! Go to Aruba if you want a real vay-cay!

That brand of pasta was one I used for over a decade and a half because it was recommended to me by a close female friend’s father, who owned a popular and highly-rated Italian restaurant for years and years. If it was good enough for him and his family—who were all born in Italy—it was good enough for me. I can’t begin to count the number of meals I’ve served to my family over the years made from that pasta. Thank you, but I can do without you seeing my anger and upset at the unkind words of the company’s leader merely as an opportunity to show off what’s in your pretentious little home pantry.

2. The fourth comment is going to be some queen saying So what??? Gays shouldn’t be eating carbs anyway!!!

Hey, thanks. Like we didn’t have enough self-image dysmorphia as a population without some little body Nazi shrilling at us what we can and cannot eat, and what we should and shouldn't look like.

Now sit down and shut up. I’ve got some donuts to eat without guilt while you watch.

3. The fifth and subsequent comments are going to be, I don’t know why you buy your own pasta. Making your own is soooo easy and soooo much more delicious! All you need is flour and eggs!

Oooooo, gurrl. You have picked the wrong stay-at-home husband for this hair-pulling catfight, Martha Fucking Stewart.

I am a man who kneads his own bread. I am a man who boils and bakes his own bagels. I am a man who keeps track of what month it is by what fruits he’s currently making into jams and preserves.

Bitches, I am a man who makes his own yogurt. (And even I think that’s a little excessive on the home self-reliance front.)

I know that making pasta only requires flour and eggs. I’ve made pasta. And you know what? The next time I want to spend two hours making a mini-volcano out of flour and pouring some carefully-whisked eggs into it, and then trying to roll out and slice fresh pasta on the two square feet of kitchen counter that I currently have, before actually making dinner itself, instead of simply taking a box out of the cupboard and boiling the dried noodles inside for eight minutes, I will give you a ring-a-ling on the cell so that you can coach me through the process.

I wouldn’t advise holding my breath until it happens, though.

4. One of the comments that follows will be a passive-aggressive statement to the effect that OMG the Chick-Fil-A boycott was a failure! Why are we buying into the media frenzy? It just makes us look mean and vindictive instead of like nice people!

I’m just going to toss out a quote from Nietzsche, here:
When the oppressed, downtrodden, outraged exhort one another with the vengeful cunning of impotence: "let us be different from the evil, namely good! And he is good who does not outrage, who harms nobody, who does not attack, who does not requite, who leaves revenge to God, who keeps himself hidden as we do, who avoids evil and desires little from life, like us, the patient, humble, and just" -- this, listened to calmly and without previous bias, really amounts to no more than: "we weak ones are, after all, weak; it would be good if we did nothing for which we are not strong enough."
We make a fuss because we are strong and growing stronger. We make a fuss because things matter. We cause a ruckus because we realize we’re no longer weak and without power, and because we understand people are listening.

Boycotts don’t work instantly. Progress comes slowly. Over time, though, and with education tactics like boycotts work; companies and institutions will change and have changed under constant pressure. To assume that every battle will be won instantly, and without setback, is naive.

The show-offs, the diet fascists, and the guys who spend too much time with the Food Network are nothing. They’re comic relief. The apologists who would have us and our allies do nothing, however, so that we don’t ruffle feathers? They’re obstructive. They’re dangerous, because they’d have everyone believe they’re the nice gays, the gays who aren’t controversial, the gays who behave at the table and never make a fuss because it isn’t decorous.

They’re also the gays who accept slaps and pretend they’re kisses, who would rather see us all kicked and beaten rather than run a risk of not seeming nice. In the long view of history, they’re the most dangerous of all.