“Speak English, you fuck,” I said.
“He said your experiences don’t count -- .”
“I know what he fuckin’ means,” I snapped. “I ain’t a retard. But he’s usin’ fancy words to hide the fact that he’s full of shit. All of it’s full of shit. ‘Empirical’ research. That’s some computer wuss goin’ out an’ askin’ questions of all these guys an’ decidin’ he knows what the fuck he’s talkin’ about, even when another wuss’d ask the same questions of a bunch of different guys an’ come up with a different answer. You wanna know what my ‘research’ told me? When I fuck a guy -- don’t matter if he’s queer or straight or old or young, don’t matter if I grab him at night or in the day, don’t matter if he knows me or never seen me before, don’t matter if he trusts me or tries to keep away from me -- when I get my dick up his ass, I can make him hard, an’ I can get him off. An’ I do it just to fuck him up.”
“Pun intended?” Lenny snickered.
Well...no, but I had to give him props for noticin’ it. An’ a chuckle. Guess I can be funny even when I don’t mean to be. But ol’ Wayne, he wasn’t done, yet.
“Oh, please,” he said. “It’s impossible. Some men would be too afraid to experience even an erection, let alone an ejaculation.”
“An’ just who told you that?” I asked. “Newsweek?”
Wayne gave me this look back -- swear t’ God, if we’d been in prison, I’d of punched him. It was sort of an “I know what the fuck you’re up to” look that gets guys knifed. It must of popped out without him meanin’ it to, ‘cause a second later it was gone an’ this “Whatever you say” kind of manner took over with him. But it set off this bell in my head, not loud but there. An’ all of a sudden I’m wonderin’ if these guys think they can get me drunked up an’ back to their place an’ used like some piece of shit whore they’d conned into comin’ home with ‘em. Maybe they’d even grabbed a guy off Santa Monica an’ used him. Maybe that’s what all this bullshit chit-chat was really about -- checkin’ to see just what they might be able to get away with, or not. I mean, I know it’s happened.
I met this one guy at Mid-State, he did it to a few fags over in Houston. Grabbed ‘em off the street in the queer district, tied ‘em down in the back of his van an’ fucked ‘em, then dumped ‘em out a few blocks away. They never got a good look at him; all they usually had was the color of the van. An’ even when one or two of ‘em told the cops, they never really came lookin’ for him. Typical. If you ain’t part of middle America or rich out the ass, cops don’t give a shit about what kind of shit happens to you. It means too much trouble for ‘em an’ they got troubles enough to deal with. Just ask a cop; he’ll whine for hours ‘bout how much crap he’s gotta put up with, like nobody’s got it worse than him. Selfish fuckin’ babies.
Anyhow, the guy didn’t get caught till he pulled it on some fag while he was in San Francisco. He was seen kickin’ this beat-up half-naked guy out the back door of his van an’ was chased down by a bunch of pissed off queens. In drag! Even then, he figured the only reason he got put away was ‘cause the guy he fucked’s dad was one of those “I’m proud of my gay son” types an’ was a judge. No cop or D.A.’s gonna piss off the man who might handle their next case. So he got “two to five” an’ has to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life.
“Like that means shit,” he told me. “If this’d been Texas, I’d have got off with probation, at worst. An’ you think when I go back they’re gonna give a shit what I do to a bunch of queers? Shit, no. Not with Republicans runnin’ the fuckin’ state.”
I hear he got out six months ago. Wonder if he’s back in Houston?
But knowin’ that guy -- an’ keepin’ my distance from him; not so much ‘cause I was afraid but more ‘cause I just didn’t want the trouble his kind of shit brings -- it got me to thinkin’, “Maybe they really think they’re gonna pull this crap with me. Maybe that’s really what this is all leadin’ up to.” If not that, somethin’ like it. It’d be funny to see what’d happen if these two middle-aged faggots tried that shit. An’ maybe a little fun. See who’s really in control here. See what happens when they find out I’m on to their crap. Okay, fuckers, I figure that’s a game I can play. Shit, I know it is.
That’s when I smiled an’ looked at Lenny an’ said, “Fuck, ol’ Wayne ain’t much fun, is he?”
“It’s been a rough year for him,” said Lenny. “He’ll loosen up with a couple more screwdrivers.” Then he gave me a look an’ added, “Of course, we have the makings for all kinds of drinks, at home. It certainly wouldn’t take up so much of our ready cash.”
I got the hint. “We’ll buy you drinks as long as you want, but if you want some money from us, there won’t be as much left.” So I smiled an’ gave off a good long stretch that showed off my pecs an’ shoulders an’ said, “I don’t like silly drinks. All it takes is a decent beer in the fridge to make me happy.”
“You like
