Even fuckin’ Anthony, as much as I hate the fucker, I -- shit, I gotta admit, I did want to be buds with him. He wasn’t the Big Man On Campus; the football quarterback always got that job ‘cause, for some weird reason every one of ‘em looked like they should’ve been on a box of “Wheaties.” But Anthony, as uptight an’ “proper” as he was, he played ball like it oughta be played -- easy an’ natural, like he was destined for the majors. He actually made it to the big leagues for a few years, till he ruined his knee slidin’ into home, one game. I think that’s why I let him con me into givin’ him that joint -- for a buck, which didn’t even cover its cost; that an’ I sort of wanted to see just how loose he’d get once he got stoned.
Y’see, he reminded me of pictures I saw of the guy mom said was my old man. Some hippie or yippie or whatever they were called at that time, passin’ through Wyomin’ on his way to Seattle. In a VW Microbus that wouldn’t go more’n sixty downhill. He picked my mom up in Cheyenne an’ she rode with him up to Sheridan -- that was mom’s moneymaker route -- an’ somewhere along in there I got started. “For free,” she said, “‘cause he looked like Jesus.” An’ he did. It’s weird. She took some Polaroids of him by a creek in the middle of nowhere an’ he seemed to glow in ‘em. Long brown hair. Deep sleepy eyes...he was probably stoned. Golden skin. An expression of peace an’ happiness...no, he was definitely stoned. Even with somethin’ of a beard, you could tell he had a strong chin an’ good nose -- like mine. An’ he had a perfect mouth. A man’s mouth; I got more my mom’s lips. He was wearin’ this Indian-lookin’ pullover that was so light, you could almost see through it, an’ that with tight low-cut jeans, you could tell he was in good shape. I got some good genes off him. Wonder what ever happened to him, ‘cause she never saw him, again. Never heard from him. Nothin’. He probably don’t even know he’s got me as a son. Lucky fuck. Who’d want t’ be related to a guy who’s dumb-fuck enough to get sent to jail by some tight-assed dumbfuck he’s tryin’ t’ be friends with for buck’s worth of pot?
Shit, where was I? Walkin’ down Santa Monica. Smilin’ at the faggots who looked me over an’ whistled an’ made their faggoty little comments an’ shit. An’ the whole way I’m thinkin’, “Dream about it, cocksuckers. I don’t need you, right now. I’m in control, asswipes. I’m king of the fuckin’ world.”
I didn’t realize it, then, but lookin’ back I can see that’s when I first got this hint of an idea of what it was I really needed. Control. Power. No matter what you call it, makin’ another guy do what you want him to do when he’d never want to do it on his own -- that’s the best feelin’ in the world as regards bein’ the man. I felt it with my first punk, when somethin’ behind my heart started racin’. Somethin’ deep inside me that said, “Fuck drugs, fuck booze, fuck worries forever. Right now, you are the master. You are in control. You are the man, an’ you ain’t nobody who can get pissed on.” An’ here I was about to get it, again.
I dunno if I can really get across the feelin’s I caught hold of as I walked down that street. The tingle of my jeans an’ shirt not...not rubbin’ but whisperin’ against my thighs an’ pecs an’ tits an’ ass, makin’ me feel like I could cum without a thought. The cool night air movin’ round my face. The breezes whipped up as busses an’ cars zipped past me in the opposite direction. The sounds of silence over long stretches of the street, where the cars an’ trucks an’ busses were stopped at one corner or another. It all added to the moment. I was startin’ to feel...I dunno, light headed, I guess.
I passed the “pink” part of Santa Monica an’ headed into the red-light area. Passed tired lookin’ kids waitin’ by bus stops in hopes of makin’ fifty bucks for the night. Most of ‘em looked like the junked-out tossed-aside runaways that they were an’ it almost hurt to see ‘em. But some of ‘em were still kinda fresh. Kinda still with an attitude. An’ as I passed ‘em an’ they glanced me over to see if I was gonna be their next John, I’d think, “I could take you back into an alley an’ make you give me what you charge for, no problem.” An’ it’d give me a jolt that shot from behind my heart an’ into my balls an’ spread over my thighs to make me even crazier.
Then I passed Highland an’ zigged up to Sunset, since my crib was up near Franklin an’ Cahuenga. That brought me past the “A Club”, an’ I saw these sleek neat Young Hollywood guys in their clean pressed shirts an’ hundred dollar jeans bouncin’ in an’ out of the place, all tryin’ to look hot for these tiny Hollywood sluts with inflatable tits who had zero interest in ‘em unless they had cash enough to buy ‘em more than a leaf of lettuce to eat. I stopped across the little side street an’ watched a group of guys by
