here we are going

Charlie Smith; Single Man, ensorcelled, unreliable narrator, ravenous reader, love child of Jane & Paul Bowles, borne by surrogate, Little Edie Beale, devoted catechumen of Her Grace, Duchess Goldblatt; now living a life of Love & Light, shining from the social-media-free exile of my own personal mirage of Tangier, the Grey Gardens in the Elba of my imagination, here, where I am, going.



     Allan had just pulled his boxers down when the old guy walked in the bathroom.  Shit. At least it was an old guy and not one of those Mungrat-Bastards who’d tagged all the walls of this cinder-block, half underground piss bunker in the park like they’d tagged half the town. They would have forced Allan to buy some of the jook they were pushing or, when they realized he didn’t have any coinage they would have beaten the shit out of him. This guy, not so much. It was possible he’d wandered in accidentally and would freak at some teen almost naked, but it was more likely that the Allan show was what he’d hoped to find because this was that kind of restroom which had been the reason, truthfully, why Allan had come here to take a bath. He needed some cash.

Allan paralyzed himself, deadpan, dick out, doing the trick stare. Looking like you didn’t give a fuck was how you got and kept control. Allan waited as the old guy’s eyes moved from Allan’s junk up to his chest and then, a little desperate and pleading, to Allan’s eyes.

“Don’t let me stop you.” The disagreement between the snarky, dirty leering smirk of the guy’s voice and the desperate, needy hunger in his eyes made Allan consider covering his shit and bolting, but he didn’t listen to the chill that ran through him. Coin: without it, he’d never get Michelle back.

Allan’s choice. He could pull up his boxers and get the fuck away from creepy guy or he could stand there and wait for the guy to walk over and cop a grope and start the molesting. Allan would let it happen, wait the right amount of time then burst into a weep, and scare the freak out of the guy when Allan confessed he was a poor, sad, pitiful underage victim of society. Major payment would ensue.

Allan’s body fooled them every time. The ones who gave a damn. There were plenty of pervs who didn’t, and with them, Allan wouldn’t cry; he’d threaten, because nasty was what they understood. It was a great scam, the disunion between his body and his age. Though he was only five foot seven, he’d been hairy and fairly hung since he was about ten when all the smells and sweat and explosions everywhere began and his mother had left a can of deodorant on his bed with a note, “You smell. Use it. And your socks are for your feet. Only.” That had been the closest to a “now that you’re growing up” talk he’d ever gotten from her. He hadn’t missed her mothering skills in the month since he’d left – since she’d made him leave, but he did miss food. And his phone, which she’d cut off.

He hadn’t eaten in almost two days and he hadn’t had a real shower in over a week and though he had expected all that to be remedied when he’d seen Michelle earlier tonight, well, right, it hadn’t and he didn’t have to prove anything and he was who he was and here he was and maybe this desperate eyed old man would be the kind of guy who’d want to take him somewhere.

Allan forced his “maybe I’ll kill you”  sneer and willed himself a semi by thinking about Michelle even though it hadn’t been two hours since she’d said she never wanted to see him again – well, couldn’t ever see him again. She would change her mind. Again. Just like it had always been with them. And when she did, they’d do what they could do only with each other, because it would never be like it was with them with anyone else, for either of them. They knew this. Allan knew this. Michelle did too. Even if she didn’t want to. They were eternal.

Michelle fantasies soon had him chubbing like they always did when he thought about her and the old man moved in for the kill. Literally. He dropped to his knees and slid his hands around to Allan’s ass, sliding his fingers into the crack – which Michelle said was too hairy – pulling Allan toward his mouth, but before he swallowed Allan’s knob, his lips suctioned the inside of Allan’s thigh and bit. Hard.

Allan felt the pain, a second, the two stabbing needle like jabs, and for that one split milli-moment he was going to grab the guy, hit the guy, beat the shit out of the guy, but as soon as he moved his hands toward him, the old man, who now, somehow, wasn’t so old, without even looking up at Allan, grabbed both Allan’s hands in a grip that was stronger, harder than anything Allan had ever felt, so intense, Allan thought his bones were going to be crushed, but, the –

-what wait suddenly there was jesus this was the best blow job he’d ever had wait his dick still flopping in the air no not slap up against his stomach reaching his wait climbing past his belly button my fucking god I have never been this hard huge how is this gonna cum so fast he doesn’t have me in his mouth shit shit shit hold back gotta cry to freak the freak the –

-wait there’s blood down my leg wait what I don’t care it feels so amazing keep going don’t stop.

Allan felt himself losing consciousness, not the first time that had ever happened, but usually he was high or drunk, or high and drunk, some sort of fucked up. Things had never gone dark and silent when he was being blown. And he had been blown a lot. But never like this. He didn’t want to pass out. He was in ecstasy on the one ball, but on the other, he was afraid, the blood, he could see the blood, he could feel the blood pouring out of his leg into the man. He had to think. He had to get control. He had to-

-wait what freak old not old man was no was slurping licking drinking from him and all like some roofied and cranking at the same time never been so awake and so asleep out of it losing it have to fight try again reach again but the man this man he’s roaring and rearing and what the fuck biting himself his arm his wrist torn open and shit he hit me fuck I’m Allan my mouth slammed Allan mouth filled with freak man’s bloody bitten torn open wrist the blood the wine the what in my mouth my lips the taste is jesus jesus so good I can feel it in my dick which was there which was not there where about to cum-plode all at once and dizzy and every edge electric totally clearer completely blurred see hear feel ways I’ve never seen felt heard before and none of this can be realjesus-

The door to the bathroom slammed open and the angel came.


Glowing wings. No not wings. Hair so red, so long, it was a man. A man but something else and so red fire hair and – wait – no, it is wings on fire hair on fire his head that glow there and wait and did he have to duck to come in how tall was he and why was he pulling the old young freak man off his knees away and making him sail across the room past Allan into the mirror where Allan had been watching himself get naked ready to wash off the stink of the streets and Michelle’s goodbye and his mother’s hate and disappointment and just wait because in the mirror there was no mirror now – no one there – but him – no – not him – he was shattered into pieces of flashes of light explosion shatter fire flying in shards as Allan watched and he was alone in the bathroom in the flying light and the empty disappearing mirror refracting echoing that something empty something too full too there not there at all was this dream in his head in his who had what the fuck and once the man’s mouth was there was blood the mirror what cut him wait flying light flying blood all gone no one in the mirrors no wait where was he who was he was he the old man in his head the angel there in his light and the pain was gone but no the pain was killing him cutting him and screaming where his mouth had been so bad that Allan knew he would throw up except he was falling down and grabbed the sink and couldn’t stop and then angel’s arms and everything was … black.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: