Stupid Faggot

“Do I look like a stupid faggot, sir?” he asks. The boy is looking up at me from waist level. My cock is distending his left cheek. He’s got his yap wide open, his lips wrapped around my shaft. When he speaks around the inches, his syllables come out thick, slurred, and heavy, like he’s slow. Drool is trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes, dark as the night sky, stare up at me. They’re imploring me for an honest answer.

He’s been on my dick for a half-hour at this point, sucking it. He’s been curled up in a fetal position, lying on his side, nursing at it as deeply as he can get it into his throat. I lift my foot and kick him back so that he rolls over so heavily that the mattress shivers. “What the hell do you think?” I snarl at him. “Yeah, you look like a stupid faggot. Because you are a stupid faggot.”

“Yes sir,” he whimpers, looking at me adoringly.

“What are you?”

“A stupid faggot, sir,” he whispers.

“What the fuck was that?” I ask, irritated. “I didn’t hear that.”

“A stupid faggot, sir,” he says. This time it’s louder. More aggressive. “I’m a stupid faggot.”

“Yeah? And what are stupid faggots like you made for?”

“For superior dick,” he tells me. His fingers instinctively clutch for his own dick. It’s triangular in shape, wider at the base, short, and narrowing toward the tip. I use my foot to kick away his arm. “For superior white dick like yours.”

“That’s right,” I tell him. “Now go get me a glass of water.” I scarcely let a second pass before I roll my head with impatience. “Jesus Christ,” I snap. “Do I have to tell you twice?”

The boy hops up. His skin is the color of manila paper. He has a long ponytail pulled back into a rope that hangs to the small of his back. It ends just above his butt, which is small and muscular. He is a beautiful, beautiful young man. If I’d seen him in a bar, or supermarket, or walking along the street in his everyday work clothes, I would have stared at him in frank admiration. In fact, I do that now, as his egress sets those miniature globes of his ass revolving around an invisible axis. I hear water splashing in the sink of his miniature kitchen. A moment later he’s back, his naked body strolling toward me, then dipping as he approaches his bedside. He kneels on the floor and, holding the glass out with both hands, offers it to me.

I take the cheap tumbler and swig down the water. I need it, after all the talking I’ve been doing. The water’s cold and delicious. I let it cool the ache in my throat. But I have a point to make. “What the fuck?” I ask as I stare at him and then the drink in disbelief. “Don’t they teach you people what the fuck ice is, in Puerto Rico?”

“Yes. I’m sorry, sir. I’ll fix it, sir,” he says, grabbing back the glass. He can’t take his eyes off me. He wears the grateful expression of a man who has gotten exactly what he’s wanted, and then some.
“Don’t you worry, papi. I’ll fix it for you, just the way you like it.”

***

Men don’t like to talk about this particular ghetto of sex, this shadowy neighborhood where so many dwell or wish they could play tourist. We don’t talk about it because of our aspirations to middle-class respectability, and this isn’t a nice place to visit. These racial and sexual extremes not how we like to think of ourselves by light of day.

Humiliation is a very real part of many people’s sex lives and fantasies, however. Pretending it’s not—just because it doesn’t fit in with a narrow and homogenized vision of the tame activities to which gay men should constrict themselves—does everyone a disservice. To do so propounds a limited vision of what we are, as sexual creatures.

Banishing humiliation to the shadows makes it only more mysterious, though. More desirable. If it’s something that only dirty men do, it’s where men will scuttle like roaches when they need to feel dirty.

Most people don’t realize how many men need to be treated like dirt, when the apartment doors are closed and the clothes come off. Upstanding businessmen can crawl on cold concrete for the privilege of being splattered with piss and called faggot. Black men can gasp and sink into ecstasy when a white man snarls the word nigger at them. Latin boys like this one can become submissive when vilified as a spic.

There’s a certain subset of so-called good people that becomes outraged by this sort of play, though. They clutch their pearls and declare they’ve never heard the like. It’s not the sort of thing respectable folk do. The people involved must be full of self-loathing. Or they’re mentally ill. They’re certainly not normal. Never mind that there are conservative forces out there who’d be happy to outlaw any kind of man-on-man sex—even the tamest—in the name of purging it from the earth. We’re all too happy to tell each other what kinds of sex we can’t have, too.

Fuck that shit. Men come to me with these fantasies because they know I’m not going to be one of the stick-in-the-ass naysayers. They know they’re safe with me. What’s more, they know that this kind of sex is play—and that’s exactly what it’s supposed to be. These men craving my foot planted on their foreheads aren’t freaks. They’re not sick, or crazy.

They’re our brothers.

***

“You know you’re just a hole to me,” I tell him, after I’ve sprayed my load in his ass. “Just a fucking hole. And what is a hole, baby?”

I’m eight deep in him, and his cunt is stretched to capacity. I fucked him on all fours—like the animal he is, I told him. He’s on his back now, his hands on his dick, tugging himself to a climax. I’m twisted behind him, my hips glued to his, as my meat gently slides in and out of his slick wet hole. He’s resting on me like a comfortable sofa; his head lolls back against my face, so I can whisper in his ear. “I am, sir. I’m a hole.”

“That’s not what I asked, you dumb piece of shit.” He groans. I can see the tip of his penis glisten with a new dime-sized glob of pre-cum. “I said what is a hole. What. Qué. You understand that, right? Qué?”

We’re both sweaty from the long afternoon of sex. His Harlem apartment is a tiny little hotbox. The radiator’s been hissing with steam the entire time I’ve been there. He’s gasping for air. His eyes are slits, behind which glisten obsidian. “I understand,” he gasps. “I don’t know. What is a hole, sir?”

“A hole’s an absence. It’s nothing.”

“I’m nothing,” he says, in an almost-echo.

“Good boy. That’s right,” I say, sounding almost proud of him. “You’re nothing. A hole only becomes something when it’s filled, baby. It’s only worth something when it’s filled. Just like you,” I say into his ear. My beard is brushing against his lobe. He’s shivering and sweating at the same time. “You get it now?”

“Oh god,” he’s saying softly, over and over. Beneath the thin layer of fur on his chest, his nipples are hard and pointed. “I’m a hole, sir. A hole. A fucking hole.”

“A nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” I tell him in a normal voice. “Say it.”

“I’m a nasty, worthless, faggot hole,” he repeats obediently. “I’m a nasty faggot hole, sir.”

He’s beating himself off furiously. His hand is flying over his dick so hard that his balls are flying in the air. “Shoot that pathetic thing you call a dick, you cheap little piece of shit,” I order.

“Oh god,” he says, as he melts back into my arms. His dick erupts and spews his load all they way up to his chin. He shudders against me, becoming heavier with every spasm. My mouth is full of his hair. His hands drift away from his cock and down to my thighs, where they rest lightly. His eyes are closed; his chest rises and falls, each breath almost imperceptibly slower than the one before. “Oh, papi,” he breathes in barely a whisper. “Thank you.”

And then he relaxes completely into me, like I’m a feather bed.

***

The world’s a scary place. People say and do ugly things. Sometimes deliberately. Sometimes not. I understand why people hear the words involved in humiliation play and recoil—it’s because they’ve been taught from childhood how bad they are, how hurtful. What aren’t ripe old Anglo-Saxonisms are derogatory, even taboo. What kind of sane person would ask to have those flung at them?

Brave men, I tell you.

They’re men who choose to confront invective, to hear those derogatory phrases and refuse to run. Fuck, they don’t hear the words and slink away—they invite the slurs into their bedrooms. They face them down. They denature the ugliness and the abuse into something powerful and sexual, something pleasurable—what’s coarse and disgusting becomes, through their grace, something beautiful.

Something transformative.

Moreover, they’re doing so in a context that’s entirely different from where they might ordinarily hear those phrases. There’s a world of difference between being the skinny kid who walks down the hall of his high school and is forced to pass by a crowd of jocks snickering fucking faggot among themselves, and the adult who spreads his legs and looks lovingly into another man’s eyes as the top whispers the same words into his ear. Hearing stupid spic under the breath of a man who signs the paychecks is a world apart from choosing the man who’ll say it when you’re skin to skin with your limbs tangled among sweat-soaked sheets.

Someone who invites these powerful incivilities into his life is brave. He’s facing down those slurs on his own terms. He’s choosing when and how he hears them, who will say them to him. Not only is he saying I am what and who I am, but he’s adding a defiant cry of And even these supposed worst of words will only bring me joy.

How can anyone say that’s not courageous? That it’s not beautiful? Because it is. When someone wants to share that side of himself with me, it’s a gift of unimaginable magnitude.

I treat such gifts with the respect they deserve.

As for the nay-sayers, the clutch-my-pearls, those who turn up their nose and sneer: the names they call those men—crazy, self-loathing, sick—are as bad as any of the epithets. The urge to squelch everyone into their vision of correctness makes them condescending; it makes them as hurtful as anyone casually spewing a deliberate taunt. They reduce men of complexity into objects of derision. It’s fear that makes them do it—but when the result is the same as slapping them with invective, to what end?

There’s nothing to fear here. Nothing that any of us experience, or for which we dream, is truly unimaginable to anyone else. We’re all brothers, beneath the skin.

***

All men are equal in their slumber.

We nap together for the better part of an hour. I’m grateful for the steam from that radiator as our bodies cool. We’re glued together by sweat and spit and semen. My arms are curled around his shoulders and chest, my legs wrapped around his knees. In his sleep, he lifts his hand and lets his fingertips rest against the back of my wrist. From time to time they pulse, as if in his doze he’s typing, or playing piano.

He’s beautiful, this boy. The thin beard on his jaw grazes my own as he sighs and shifts and painfully peels apart a few inches of our flesh. There’s a smile on his face that makes him glow. When I look at it, I yearn to be the one of whom he’s dreaming.

Perhaps I am.

My own eyelids droop. I pull this boy closer in, holding him to keep the world at bay. It’s my unspoken promise to him. He’s known it from the start. Down, down into the gentle rise and fall of our breathing I drift, until I, too, am sleeping once again.