From Issue 4.0 - September/October 1997
I'm thinking of an image. It's of the future Satan sitting among us and forever looking back to the one place he would never be able to return. Which leads to more stories. Ones where, to soften the pain of remembrance, The Fallen One tries to stick it to The Man by sticking it to one of The Man's favorites. Think Job. Think Jesus. In a way, this is one of those stories.
I have no idea what The Man or any god thinks about my little boy. But I do know that before we met he was fast becoming a darling of the Academe. Not any just any old university, but the Academe -- the site of all discourse and inquiry located in that great metanarrative in the sky.
I'd seen his name several times before he told it to me that night. He'd been a contributor to various anthologies, ones with glossy covers in garish colors drawn on a computer. Covers that promise a mondo-pomo-homo-a-go-go world within. Then you turn the page.
His personal ad? Something about a Queer White Dork, this weight and that height, goatee and glasses. Has a hard spot for hairy, horny daddies. Grooves on the transgressive in theory and praxis.
I had no plans for what we'd do if things clicked. Not even after I recognized QWD's name. My inspiration came only after he offered me a cigarette. I smiled and shook my head. His brand, not his offer, had surprised me. American Spirit. This boy had spent a lot of his time and someone's money redecorating his mind in early '70s French cultural critique. I'd expected Gitanes.
He sucked a few times on the burning paper and then spoke. I had the masculine signifiers he wanted --bulk, a beard -- or so he said. But, he added, I was smaller than the men he'd been with before. And I thought, yes, I am small -- beware the small.
I know. I know. You probably don't give a shit what we said or what I look like. You only want me to describe my dick and what it did. I won't. Call me a tease, but we both know one man's dick is another man's dink is another man's dong. Besides, I'd rather give your puny little imagination a workout. So maybe I have one. Maybe I don't.
The boy and I kept talking. Through several more beers, cigarettes, a course of spring rolls and pad Thai, then along the streets and up the stairs to my apartment and down the hall to my bedroom.
We stopped beside my bed. I put one of my short, thick fingers to his lips. I stepped back. "Strip," I said.
I left him alone in the squirming shadows. It would be three, maybe five, minutes more before I'd return with a wad of pink fabric tucked in my right fist.
I tossed it towards his feet. The wad fluttered up into the air and blossomed into a pair of pink silk panties, a women's size 5, a snug fit even with his narrow hips. The one-petaled flower fell fast to the ground. "Put them on," I said.
I walked up to him, pulling a strip of leather out of my back pocket. I tied it around his eyes, then moved away. "You've talked a lot tonight. Most of it, I enjoyed. In fact, by dinner, I felt like I was back in school. Shooting the shit at three in the morning with a paper due at ten." I paused to cross the room and returned with my butterfly knife.
"I just have one question. It's about what makes a man. You seem to know. Well, you did in that article for Homosex(e)." He started as he realized how naked he'd become. "What was your thesis for that one?" I asked. "Something about 'penetration being a mode of production in the manufacturing of the masculine.' " I stopped to let his own stilted words limp over to him.
I opened my left hand. "This is a dick," I said as I pushed my palm flat against the pink fabric and his prick underneath until each was mashed against the wall of his pelvic bone. I waited for his dick to stiffen and push back. Hand and cock then began a little dance until the hand had shuffled the tip of the dickhead up and under the strangling elastic waistband. Below it, a swelling pink stem was pointing towards the ceiling.
"Then," I said as I plucked the head, nearly in full purple bloom, "to use your own terms..." and I pulled flower, stalk, and the taut rim of the panty out to me as far as I could. I almost lifted him up off his feet. "there's what you called the concretized phallus." Now my right hand and its knife reached into the gap between his dick and his belly.
I turned the knife on its side and stroked the dull edge of the cold blade up the shaft, prickling with hairs and goosebumps. My left hand slowly let go so that only the knife held his cock and the overextended waistband in place. "So here's my question. If I took this..." and I flicked my left index finger at his dickhead, as if it were a marble and this were a game. I paused to feel it thud against the warming metal. "If I took this and left you with this..." I pushed the concretized phallus against the cock that was trapped on the other side by my finger, "...would you still be a man?"
The muscles of his stomach flinched, shaking the skin that rippled the air that stirred the hairs on my arm that held the knife. I hoped that this was his answer. I waited. It was.
I pulled the knife out in one stroke. The panties snapped his prick back into place. Before he could gasp, I had flung him across the bed and tied him to the headboard. Before he could exhale, I'd pulled his panties under the curve of his butt and my buckle and belt out into my hand.
"You cocky little fucker. Answer me." The dead animal's hide slapped across the hide of my little live one. The echo of the clack somersaulted around the room. The candles wavered. But he said nothing. This boy who, in print, had never made his point in under 15,000 words, said nothing. I was growing quite excited as I realized there might be a spark of brilliance in him after all.
"Or maybe you can't." I began to punctuate each sentence with the end of my belt. "Not because you're too dumb." Thwack. "Not because you're too smart." Thwack. "But because you're one of those pitiable scholars who can't speak without citing someone else." Thwack. "Must explicate." Thwack. "Must legitimate." Thwack. "Must use the F-word." Thwack. "Foucault." Thwack. "Foucault, Foucault, Foucault." Thwack, thwack, thwack.
"You lied to me." I struck him again. "I've read everything you've been able to get published so far. You posited yourself over and over as a master theorist. Like you were going to deconstruct the cosmos. "Down," thwack, "and down," thwack, "and down," thwack, "until your praxis led to your dick. But why'd you stop there, boy?" Thwack. "What's so fucking special about your dick?" Thwack. "Is it magical?" Thwack. "Is that where you keep your male essence?" Thwack. "Your fucking transhistorical male essence?" Thwack. My left hand pulled at his hair and shook his head while my right hand flung the belt over my back. "You fucking hypocrite." Thwack. "You're nothing but a fucking," thwack, "closeted," thwack, "essentialist."
In mid-stroke I stopped.
The harder I had hit, the higher his ass had leapt. On the last stroke, it jumped up to meet the belt. "No," I said out loud. I wasn't going to let him take control of the scene. This was about my revenge. Not his pleasure. Not tonight. Not on our first date.
He began to mutter, reciting a rosary of "no's". He must have thought I'd untied him to send him home. I tugged the ropes and the boy over to the chair and down across my legs until I felt the smooth fabric and the stiff cock slide across my right leg. I stopped when I had his dick bent over my knee just so. As if it had been scaling the outer wall of my leg and was now stuck, unable to heave the balls over.
Keeping the ropes in my left hand, my right hand was left alone to tear down his panties for the last time. I could feel the faint pulsing of his cock. It wouldn't be much longer before he wet himself. A few good slaps. So I decided to take my time.
"Now, you're going to tell me the truth. Aren't you, my queercore kid?" I slapped his ass twice. My palm stung. I began to whack at the fleshy underbellies of his cheeks. Soft fat, some muscle. I kept whacking all the while I kept shouting. "Aren't you a liar? Aren't you? Aren't you a fucking closeted essentialist? Queer theorist your ass. You never read Judith Butler. Did you? Did you? No, you hunched under your covers with a flashlight reading Judy Grahn and diddling yourself. Didn't you? Huh? Didn't you?!"
By hitting the undersides of his backside, I'd been lifting his ass with each swat. Forcing him to rub his cock over and over against the hard muscle and bone in my leg. Making his own body first slap his balls and then mash them against the side of my thigh. So hard and so fast that the silk and denim were close to sparking. Even if I'd wanted to stop beating on his beet-red butt, it wouldn't have mattered now. He would've kept on humping my leg like the precocious panty-wearing dog he was.
Now, for every word I spoke, I batted at him with whatever strength was left in my nearly numb hand. "I know you read Mark Thompson's Gay Spirit over and over and over..." A "yes" spurted out of his mouth. "And over and over and over..." Another "yes." "Until you were weeping and clapping for faeries." "YES!" He bucked forward and then rocked back on the fulcrum of my leg. It shook wildly, then he did. And did. And did.
I bent sideways and fumbled along the floor. I was looking for the other thing I'd brought back with me from the kitchen. My hand patted the rug until I saw it glint in the candlelight. It was one of those tiny spoons used for cracking the boiled shell of an egg and scooping out its jiggling white insides.
I opened my left hand and dug around in the pink wad with the spoon. I slid it under a shimmering blob of come. "Open wide." I turned towards him. Even with the blindfold, I could sense him staring blankly. "Your mouth, brainiac." He hesitated, then dropped his jaw.
"That's it. Eat up all the sacred man essence. We wouldn't want your sex to grow up without a gender, would we? No, we want your sex to have a gender," I said as I wrapped my hand around his plump cock and squeezed. "A manly gender."
I scooped out an even larger dollop. And while he sucked down that
spoonful, I smiled to myself. I was nearly humming by the time I made
him lick the still-sticky insides of his panties. And it wasn't
because I knew my little man was ready to be fucked. It wasn't even
because I knew that, from that night on, I could have this little man
as I long as I wanted him. It was simply because nothing soothes the
forever broken like breaking another.
Ian Philips is a virginal pervert and a writer. A chapter from his
upcoming novel will appear in Pat Califia and Drew Campbells's
anthology *Bitch Goddess: The Spiritual Path of the Dominant Woman*,
due this winter from Greenery Press.