Date: Mon, 26 Jul 1999 14:22:37 EDT
From: Slsw@aol.com
Subject: Journal of Ricky the Perv
The Journal of Ricky the Perv (t, t, t [sort of] -- adult
language, minimal sex)
The underlying is ADULT FICTION. It is a made up
story. No characters contained in it are real or bear any
resemblance to real people, living or dead.
It should not be read by minors or miners or others not
empowered to do so by the laws in their communities.
Comments to: SLSW@AOL.COM
Many thanks to Jon Mark in deepest GA for his
encouragement and patience. You're a Perv, Dude, and
I mean that in the finest sense of the word.
********************
My name is not Rick. But I'm not going to tell you
what it is. I am the dayshift cleaning supervisor at one
of the Holiday Inns in the one of the desert towns of
California. But I'm not going to tell you which one.
What I will tell you is that a floppy disk was left in one
of our rooms about 2 months ago. The maids don't
remember which one, or they'll only tell me in Spanish
-- they have a conspiracy. I'm a computer junky so I
tried to open the file to see whose it was. So we could
return it, see. So, it took me a really long time to crack
the code. So when I did, this is what I saw. There's no
hope of getting it back to its rightful owner. No last
names are mentioned anywhere and we've had a hell of
a lot of Rick's stay at the hotel. Richard's, Bobby's and
Jason's too. I don't remember too many Hondo's but I
don't think this is his. For a long time I couldn't think
what to do with it. Except read it. It's pretty
disorganized and real wordy. But kind of interesting in
places. Kinda sad, kinda funny. Makes me feel for the
little fag guy who wrote it, at least a little bit.
I haven't got all the chapters open yet, they all have
separate passwords and guessing them is a bitch. This
one's is "Perv".
So, anyway, I'm sending it to you because the day desk
clerk, who's a fag too, but nice, says that's where all the
gay fiction goes (he doesn't like when I call it fag). I'm
not sure it's fiction but here it is anyway.
Let me know if you want me to send you the rest. OK,
that is sort of dumb. Considering I won't tell you my
name. I'll send it to you when I can open the files. If I
can.
<file follows>
"The Journal of Rick(y) the Perv"
I'm starting this little Journal after thinking about it for
two years. Every time something particularly weird or
sexy or just interesting happens to me or my buds, I
think: I've got to get this down. Then there are things to
do, herb to test, butts to wag (more on this, I promise) or
chill time to serve and I never get around to it.
Well, something happened.... And I'm finally at the
laptop in a Holiday Inn room, it's raining and I'm
starting. Don't know if I'll ever finish or even keep
going but here goes...
In re: Rick, the Man.
My name is Rick. I'm 19 years old (don't look it), 5'
9", skinny with just the recent start of pecs and abs. But
I have good legs and a Fabulous Ass (at least Jason says
so). My name is Spanish but nobody I know speaks it. I
live in Los Angeles, CA which is a hellhole on earth
(we're not on the beach, in the hills or any other good
place). But I'm never there; which is good. While I'm
being so forthright with you, Journal, I'll say that I'm
smooth, slim hipped, energetic and MUCH smarter than
I look. I have a really big dick called Little Ricky (you
think "Lucy" isn't on reruns?) and I'm a practicing,
almost 100 percent Homo, bisexual. I am NOT a virgin.
I also have a really big nose. Maybe that's where Little
Ricky comes from.
I work with three buds. Their names are Jason, Tommy
and Bobby and I'll write more about them later. We
travel all over the USA and karaoke sing and wag our
asses in front of little girls at Shopping Malls. We are
not Pervs (well, I am but not because of this) and we
never get arrested. We are hired by large, greasy, stinky
guys (Management) to do just that. Our job is to make
little girls wet their panties in public places. I thought it
sounded like a good deal when I first heard about it.
I have a BMW, nice clothes, a little nest-egg and an
extremely limited future in my chosen profession. I'm
not sure why. I'm not sure I care. Only Jason really
cares; the only reason I care at all is that his pain quickly
becomes mine. We're buds.
In re: my Fabulous Ass
Journal, did I say I'm skinny? I am. But I love to
dance. I've been dancing with neighborhood girls since
I was nine. Don't think I didn't take some shit for that;
at least until the other guys' hormones caught up with
them. Dancing is funny. It does nothing for your upper
body but, wow, without even exercising you get strong
legs and a Fabulous Ass. It's one of the three most
valuable things I own. The other two are the Beemer,
and Little Ricky (well, maybe not in that order.) I only
keep mentioning it because it is a central character in the
saga that will (might) follow. Yeah, it's going to be that
kind of story. But since you're a Journal on a computer,
you can't make moral judgements. So Fuck You.
Think I'll quit now, I think I hear Bobby knocking on
the communicating door.
Spell check, grammar check and save.
****************************
Shit! Grammar checker has more morals than the Prez.
It tells me that I shouldn't capitalize "Fabulous Ass" and
that I can't write "Fuck You". I beg to differ. I OWN
you, goddamn it. There, I CAN sound like
Management. Later....
Day 2 (actually day 4 -- this is a hard habit to acquire)
The Story of the Start of he Journal
I'm a Perv. There, I said it. I'm a Perv who really likes
leather pants. I used to wear them when we performed.
The reason I started to wear them and, more important,
the reason I stopped is the reason I'm writing this
Journal. It's your conception, baby. So pay attention.
And hold off that snarling weasel, grammar checker.
I was a pretty good student when the idea of a singing
group first came up. I sang in the (Catholic) church
choir. I danced with anyone who would dance with me.
I actually had a bunch of good friends even though I was
a little latent Homo. I went out with girls and I even
fucked a couple (told you, Journal -- almost 100
percent). In general, they ignored my skinniness and big
honker and concentrated on my personality (hey, I'm
likeable), Little Ricky and my Fabulous Ass. Did I tell
you I used to get pinched in the halls? In return, I
ignored their giggles and flabby butts and their lack of
dicks and concentrated on the decent head and, you
know, a pussy does sort of feel good -- loose but good.
Course I was a Homo virgin then so I didn't know any
better.
Then the BoyBand audition thing came up. I wasn't all
that enthusiastic about leaving school, living with a
bunch of straight guys in a bus -- Christ, gym's hard
enough --, and touring every Bo-hunk, redneck town in
the US of A. By this time I was pretty sure I wanted to
lose myself at college and play around with my
roommate. I didn't even contemplate that he might not
be attracted to me or might not be gay or might not be
out. I was sixteen and full of needs and hormones. I
didn't want to be in a BoyBand. Besides, it wasn't
going to be a band anyway -- nobody played any
instruments. Just sang (lip-synced) and danced (not
very well, mostly just wagged their butts). The only
qualifications I had to be in a BoyBand were that I was a
boy and I could sing and dance. Come to think of it, I
was more qualified than a lot of those guys.
Then Jason came over one day and talked me into
auditioning with him. Jason was a good friend from
forever. We hooked school together (and served time for
it... after, together), got high together, got laid together
(once), laughed together, even did homework together if
we had to. Jason protected me when I needed protection
(which wasn't very often, Journal, even though I was
skinny); he was big and strong and knew how to fight.
When the time came for him to be interested, I quietly
taught him how to dance. He was sort of clumsy but
eventually he got the moves. After a while I even
stopped thinking of Godzilla on speed when I watched
him dance ... Most of the time, anyway. Anyway Jason
and I were buds. No queer shit. He wasn't like that. I
valued him. I trusted him. I owed him. Let's be honest
here, Journal, I wouldn't have minded if he boned me.
Not that I'd ever been boned. The Internet said it hurt...
a lot. I didn't even have a pierced ear because I don't
like pain. Lucky he's straight...
Anyway, Jason convinced me to go to an audition for a
BoyBand-in-the-making with him. Two weeks from
Saturday. I knew he could sing since he was in the choir
with me. I knew he could sort of dance since I'd taught
him. But, it wasn't one of my most shining
accomplishments.
We thought we'd better practice some (or a whole
fucking LOT) beforehand so Jason came over to my
house a lot for the next two weeks. Jason knew my
older brother Hondo who was a senior. They'd played
street hockey together for years; they were both big
dudes and bashed the shit out of the dweebs on the other
side. And enjoyed the hell out of it. So when those two
got together in a house with little me, I was bound to
absorb a large ration of shit. Nothing physical (except
pillow thumps and tickling [Goddamn!] and the dreaded
noogie) but I got teased unmercifully. Especially when
we were practicing our dance routine. Luckily, I liked
both of them enough to put up with it.
I had got some videos of the Backstreet Boys and we
were trying to copy some of their moves. Jason was
almost hopeless. But we worked real hard anyway. He
and Hondo would break into fits of laughter when I
hollered "Thrust It Out, Goddammit!" and pushed my
hips out, motioning for Jason to follow. We WERE
getting there slowly and I figured in about four months
we'd be ready for the audition. We had three days left.
Two days before the audition Jason produced some
righteous herb at our second break. We went out into
the backyard to test it for potency in a purely scientific
procedure. Hondo, of course, showed up about 30
seconds after we fired up. The DEA doesn't need
helicopters and dogs, Hondo on a good day can tell if
you're packing from two miles away. Of course, he
says he's only mooching to make sure we weren't
ripped off by the evil dealers. What the hell, we had
enough and Hondo was cool when he was ripped. So
we tested and tested again and decided that the potency
was pretty fucking good. But, just to make sure...
Then Jason started getting paranoid about what we
would wear to the audition. I said to look real close at
the Backstreet Boys video. Some old tracksuits would
be fine, thank you very much. Then Hondo arose from
his blissful repose to Change My Life.
"I know what you should wear, Ricky," he said with an
evil and bloodshot gleam in his eye.
"My name's, Rick, Hondo! Ricky's the name of my
dick. It's Little Ricky and proud of it", I replied,
tempting fate (did I say Hondo was BIG, Journal? And
he's the Tickle Torture King of the Universe.). I also
knew, right after I said it that I was revealing much more
information than I should have. JASON!
I expected at least a major ration of shit for this last
remark. But this was pretty fine dope and all that
happened was that Hondo continued, course unchanged.
"How about your `Triple L's'? `Bout time you got some
REAL use out of them."
Now this was a MAJOR breach of brotherly trust (it
stood for `Little Leather Leotards' and it was private,
way PRIVATE!). Even on three joints I wouldn't
expect Hondo to reach so far back in my personal closet.
Literally and figuratively. I mean WE knew. But,
FUCK...! Christ, JASON'S here.
Shouldn't have had that fourth J. No, not atoll.
Although Jason didn't notice the innuendoes hovering
about like Apache gunships, he did demand a translation
(which Hondo grinningly supplied) and then he wanted
to see the pants. Deeper and deeper, Journal.
I pleaded that they didn't fit and weren't in fashion and I
didn't know where they were. And, to make a long
story short -- I'm tired of typing, Journal -- I had to go
upstairs, go to the very bowels of my closet and bring
out the pair of leather jeans I got when I was 14 (more
about this later, for now just think "Backbeat"), squeeze
into them and hobble downstairs. I was wondering if
California Workman's Comp covered nad injuries due
to tight trou'. Sometimes it really doesn't pay to be well
hung. Nah...that ain't true. No, not atoll.
Anyway, by the time I got downstairs and into the
backyard, I could have forgotten all about it. Hondo and
Jason were listening to the music of the spheres, spaced
beyond recall. If I hadn't fallen on my ass trying to
avoid a lawn chair in my straight-jacket pants, they
never would have seen me.
But fall I did. And the accompanying cacophony of
falling lawn chair, table, ashtray and soda bottles put me
on center stage with an irised spot. I slowly got up to
run (hobble) away when Jason said those fateful words,
"Fabulous Ass, Dude!" He capitalized them just like
that so don't give me any shit, grammar checker.
Do I need to say what I wore to the audition?
Think I'll quit now, I know I hear Bobby knocking on
the communicating door. And he sounds horny as hell.
Spell check, grammar check and save.
***********************
Shit: Grammar checker still doesn't like my
capitalization. It also doesn't like "nad". I know what I
mean and if you had any and I squeezed them real hard
you'd know too. Fuck You! Jesus, I just noticed that I
still haven't gotten to the reason I started the Journal.
Well, it'll be a while because I have to explain
"Backbeat" first. Later...
Day 5 (day 6 actually -- I'm getting better)
We're in another shit town but still in a Holiday Inn.
Still the same low shower head. I mean, I'm only 5'9"
and it's low for me. What about normal people?
The problem with writing things down, Journal, is that
you can read them over afterwards. Then you see that
you lied. Or left the wrong impression. Or screwed up
in a thousand ways that scumsucker grammar checker
can't find. So I'd better correct some of the above
before you don't believe me any more.
In re: Lies
There aren't too many outright lies above. I guess that
the biggest was the title for the start of Day 2 (actually
4). It wasn't about the start of the Journal; it was more
like my Fabulous Ass II. I don't want you to get the
wrong impression. I am NOT conceited about my ass.
Well, not a whole lot anyway. I've brought it to your
attention, Journal, because it is so important to the story
that I'm going to tell. If I ever get around to telling it.
But I'm going to give in to the asshole grammar checker
and not use caps any more. I mean, it's a machine and
has more endurance than I do especially after shaking
my ass (there, I gave up "Fabulous" too but you know
what I mean) at a Mall all day. God, that's tiring and
boring and Frustrating.
The other lie is the quotes in our conversation in the
backyard. I, for one, was much too fucked up to report
anything with quotes (except Jason's "FA" statement --
and I'm only sure about that because it became a
running joke with Hondo, Jason and me.) Something
was said that made the outcome come out the way it did
(yeah, I read that sentence and yeah, I've been testing
again -- SFW, Journal.)
In re: Wrong Impressions
There's a lot more meat here.
The first is Little Ricky. He's eight and three sixteenths
inches long which I know is not the biggest dick on
earth. Shit, I've seen Johnny Wadd, too. But the fact
that I have big balls and Ricky's real fat and doesn't go
down a whole lot when he's "soft" have given me a
reputation since I was 12 going on 13. I mean, the bulge
is way impressive.
The second is Jason. More specifically, my relationship
with Jason. I really did have a major thing for the guy.
For a long time. So while he thought we were buds, I
thought we were soul mates waiting to happen. And
waiting, and waiting. But, you're right, Journal, I didn't
spend all that time helping my other clunky friends learn
to do things. And I certainly wouldn't audition for a
BoyBand for THEM. "Just a Little, Latent Homo..."
isn't that a song by somebody? No. Not atoll. Ok,
Journal, you're probably wondering where that came
from. I use it a lot. It's from "Buckaroo Banzai" my
favorite movie of all time (almost -- see "Backbeat"
further down the road.) It's about this famous scientist,
brain surgeon and Rock `n Roller who never plays
Shopping Malls. Ever! And Perfect Tommy wears
really tight pants.
The third is what I wore to the audition. Obviously I
couldn't dance in pants I could hardly walk in. But
Jason got it into his (thoroughly zoned) head that I
looked "real good" in them and it would help at the
audition. After I got over Hondo slipping up on one of
my most secret Pervs, I compromised with them. I'd get
a new pair that fit. But I wasn't paying. No. Not atoll.
Shit if Hondo didn't pull out his Visa and drive us to
Downtown. Same store we went two years ago. With
me modeling and Hondo and Jason critiquing and all of
us blasted, it was an afternoon in the city to remember.
Except I don't, real clear. We had fun and I probably
revealed a few more secrets to Jason; Hondo already
knew all my secrets. All those secrets that a 16 year old
Homo virgin can have.
Which brings us to the fourth:
In re: Hondo (this will eventually bring us to "Backbeat"
and then, finally, to the topic at hand (well it was
supposed to be), The Origin of You, Journal.
Hondo was two and a half years older than me and just
about the best brother a guy could have. At one time he
was huge. Then as I got older, he became merely big.
And built. And popular. And straight (this didn't matter
`til later but he always was). I can't remember one time
when he picked on me. This is damn unusual where I
come from. Most guys I knew had the "brother from
hell" but somehow I lucked out.
Not only did he not beat and tease me like an ordinary
brother; he helped me with everything. Hondo taught
me to tie my shoes. To spell "Mississippi" (he sang it).
To hit a ball. To ride a bike (both kinds, actually). To
blade. To understand when hair started to sprout around
Little Ricky (and he was, then) when I was in sixth
grade (way early bloomer, Journal). Yeah, I got my Sex
Education class from my big bro. But, NOTHING
HAPPENED, you Perv. Hondo wasn't like that. He
really wasn't. To this day if I had to trust my life, my
balls and my sacred honor to someone, it would be
Hondo... No contest.
So it made perfect sense to a thirteen and a half year old
Ricky (me, not my dick -- I was Ricky back then) to
report the strange and frightening hormone driven
episodes that were beginning to plague my waking and
sleeping world to my 16 year old brother. Hondo took
all of them in stride. Even the ones that labeled me a
flaming faggot like sporting wood in Gym (which was a
really big problem now that Little Ricky belied his
name). He gave me real information like about the
Homo phase all guys go thru (almost all -- Hondo didn't
remember his). He gave me wise advice like `don't
look' and `take cold showers in Gym'. He added long-
division-in-my-head to my list of remedies. Then he
brought out the big guns (Right!) and said I should
probably jerk off more. Who was I to question?
It worked for a while. By 14, I was even going out with
girls. And I hadn't sprouted wood in the locker room
for a long time. I was well on my way to statistical
normalcy. Hondo, who by now looked like a Greek
statue because of the weights and the sports, remained
my confessor and advisor but I didn't need his services
that often. I was still skinny but was dancing like mad
and I started to get anonymous butt pinches in the hall at
school (the main stairs were the worst.) They really
spooked me. Some of them hurt... bad. And left marks.
Gym could sometimes be a problem again but now for a
different reason. Hondo commiserated but really didn't
have a solution. His suggestion of iron underwear was
voted down.
But for the most part things were cool. I learned to test
hemp. Hondo taught me this necessary skill. I got to
second base. Hondo approved but was not a participant.
I had good friends (Jason's here by now). I did well in
school. I went to the movies a lot. On dates and with
buds. And that was my downfall. See, Journal, I told
you we would get to "Backbeat". And I'm always right,
and I never lie...
There's Bobby on the communicating door again. Man,
he smells horny right through the door. Gotta go...
Spell check, grammar check and save.
****************
I got that grammar checker by the balls, man. I even
snuck "FA" past its dead ass. Later...
Day 7 (really! -- I'm so good)
We're on the bus tonight and the only place I can do this
is in the lounge out back. I'll have to watch myself
because the table and the laptop are bouncing like crazy
and any time Bobby feels the urge, he can come back
and "pinch my titties"(he's such a romantic), tell me a
"joke" about Polish sausage and I'm gone. In case you
haven't guessed by now, I have a 17 year old lover who
I haven't said a whole lot about, yet. That's because he
hasn't fit into the logical progression of this saga. Don't
give me that; there's logic and there's LOGIC. Then
there's you, Journal. And I have final say. Then there's
that grammar check dude who fucks over both of us.
Anyway, call to order.
In re: Lies
None in Day 5(6) that matter very much.
In re: Wrong Impressions
Nothing major.
If you don't understand why I went on so about Hondo,
you will eventually.
Boners in Gym. To my knowledge, I never got caught.
They were really like half-boners anyway. The kind
where YOU know you're sprouting wood but you catch
it or hide it before you're dripping pre-cum on the floor
(eeeewwwwuuuueeee -- but you know what I mean).
Sleeping episodes. Wet dreams, dude. Really messy
and sometimes vivid wet dreams. And not all of them
featured tits and pussy. Well, at least not female tits.
But all this was behind me now until:
In re: Sep 16, 1994 -- I see "Backbeat" for the first time
(`Bout fucking time! Chill, Journal, I am your GOD!)
I'm fourteen and a half. Short, skinny and developed
below the waist in a whole lot of ways. Almost
experienced, accepted, straight (well nearly) and happy.
Then I went with some buds to see a movie at our local
fifth run multiplex. "Backbeat". In case you don't
know, Journal, it was a movie about the early Beatles.
Quite popular in those days. Lots of tits and ass and
some serious simulated fucking. The only reason we got
in was that Jason played hockey with the usher so we
could buy tickets to some PG trash and actually see
"Backbeat".
But it wasn't a movie about John and Paul and those
other guys but about someone named Sutcliff(e) who
could have been in the band but chose not to. He was
played by Stephan Dorff and, in a way, I lost my Homo
virginity to him that afternoon in the dark theater.
Almost immediately I was captivated by his presence. I
never thought to challenge my gut reaction, he was
achingly, heartstoppingly beautiful. Thin, slim hipped,
clear skinned (I never had zits), FA, self-possessed,
yeah, I identified with him a little. On the other hand,
he had pecs -- hairy, little ones but really defined, a cute
little nose AND he was getting real action every other
scene. So the identity meld only stretched so far.
About halfway into the movie, I slouched down in my
seat and decided: 1) he was too gorgeous for words and
2) all those Homo feelings?... "We're baaaaaack.." I
knew I should be really worried but between gripping
the armrest and starring at the big screen, I didn't have
the time. Every time he walked or kissed or hugged or
fucked I became more conscious of his beauty. My first
crush and it happened in a dark theater and the crushee
was on the screen, not in the seat next to me.
Then one hour and sixteen minutes (I bought the video
later) into the film, Stephan Dorff is sitting in a huge
elegant hall interviewing to get into some school and
you see the profile of his FA in his leather pants. The
whole scene lasts only about two and a half minutes but
in those minutes, Little Ricky had the time to throb,
throb harder, vibrate with need and erupt. Like Mount
St. Helens, like that place in Hawaii, like "how the
FUCK am I going to get out of the theater!" Man, I was
oozing. There was no way that my buds weren't going
to notice. Most psychiatrists say it takes years of
therapy to find the origin of a fetish... I know where
mine came from. But to this day I don't know why. I'd
never reacted before. Was it just some fluke of timing?
Could I have cum a little earlier and got a hard on
forever-after about body painting with a girl? Don't
know but right then I had more vital things on my mind
like: Gotta get a cover! Just gotta! The blond, what was
her fucking name! We saw her tits! I've been hard up.
The devil made me do it. Gotta get a cover!
That's when I got fixated, Sep 16,1994. That's when I
became Ricky the Perv. But I didn't have a clue for the
next couple of weeks and I really didn't believe it for a
couple of years. And five years later I still can't believe
it's true. But it is, Journal, it is.
Well, anti-climax. With the aid of my popcorn tub, my
jacket and the fact that it was getting pretty dark when
we left, I escaped undetected. I thought. Jason was
making sniffing noises but he probably had a cold. I did
overhear him mention Clorox, but he was probably
talking about washing clothes.
I entered our house quietly, talked to no one, went right
to my room. Assessed the damage, bigtime mess,
Christ, I even got my belt! I cleaned what I could and
buried the jeans and briefs in the bottom of the laundry.
Shirt too. This was like cleaning up after a mudslide. I
lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. All night.
Well most of it. I was scared and disgusted and
mortified. I thought this was OVER! Strangely, I
thought about having to confess my sins, this sin.
Weird, I hadn't been to confession since I was 12. Hell,
Christmas but you never confess any REAL sins at
Christmas. Easter either.
The only thing I decided that night was that this was an
aberration. I hadn't been jacking as regularly as I
should, like Hondo told me. Only morning and night. I
was forgetting about the all-important Noon hour.
Maybe right after school. Then there was morning
break. I'll work on those, then try it again. Bet it
doesn't happen again. If it does, I'll have to talk to
Hondo. He'll know what to do...
This isn't over but there's a cute, blond skater guy
twisting my nips like the knobs on a video game. He
looks like he's about to talk about sausages. I'll tell you
more about him sometime.
Spell check, grammar check and save.
**************
Fuck it; I'm too horny to complain about grammar
checker, tonight. But, that fucker does piss me off.
Later...
Day 8 (alright, 9, we had a party with some pathetic
groupies yesterday)
OK, Journal, this could be a long one. Did I mention
that Bobby's 17? Well he is and he has to go home
almost every weekend and take tests and shit for High
School. I had to do it too, when I hadn't graduated. We
all know this shit can't last and we'll have to get real
jobs. Maybe we'll even go to college and I'll finally get
to make out with my roommate. Then my roommate
could be Bobby; because of this band junk we'd both be
freshmen together. Random thought: we AREN'T a
band, goddamn it. Well, we DID sound pretty good one
night in Kalamazoo, MI when we had all tested some
truly noble hemp and played our kazoos until
Management put in a thoroughly unpleasant appearance
(Gorilla City, man). You know the sorry part about all
this is that we CAN sing. And we can dance too... well,
Jason tries, really hard... We're actually damn good.
Shit! I'll never get to the important parts if I start
moping. Man, you can sure tell that Bobby's gone. Just
me and Little Ricky here in a Quality Inn. The Holiday
was booked but it means we get regular showers which
squirt down on your head instead of up on your chest.
Did I mention than I'm finally developing pecs? Look
out, Stephan Dorff! No hair and I'll probably never get
any. Hondo still doesn't have any and, at 22, he's
getting to be a pretty old fuck.
OK, I sort of like the format I've adopted where I read
and correct what I've written. It's just like the
Congressional Record. Right? No. Not atoll.
Call to order.
In re: Lies
I don't know if it really counts as a lie or not but I did
NOT lose my Homo virginity to Stephan Dorff. Wish I
had... then again, maybe not. He sure seemed straight
in that movie. He'd probably just whip my butt with his
developed little hairy pecs (yeah, I did notice something
other than his FA in leather). Did I tell you, Journal,
that I don't like pain? Anyway, there really was this
series of patterns of colored light on a reflectorized
screen that triggered some sort of sexual epilepsy in my
hormone-crazed body and I creamed my jeans (and shirt
and belt -- shit!). I never really met the dude, ever. And
my virginity remained intact. Now that's the truth.
One other BIG one: Jason KNEW. Christ, I was sitting
right next to him. And I bet I at least sighed when half
my body weight came bursting out in the form of
smelly, steaming ooze. And he probably knew from
when I did it that the hetero fucking wasn't the cause.
But Jason was a bud. Even back then. And buds don't
nark. They tease, but they don't nark. Why did I say
that I got away with it? Cause I wanted to so bad at that
time that I convinced myself that I did. I didn't allow
myself to think about Jason's knowledge for many,
many months. To this day, I have never asked him to
his face. Don't you dare say, "Wuzz", Journal! Or, so
help me, no more truth.
In re: Wrong Impressions
One major one and a couple of minor.
The first and major one is that I reflected on my
imprinting at the time I was imprinted (Conrad Lorenz,
Journal, see, I do read, even on tour; I told you I was
smarter than I look). Ain't true. No. Not atoll. My
ONLY reaction was desperation not to get caught. Any
reflection came weeks (months/years) later. I just
wanted to get out of that theater with my reputation,
such as it was, intact.
The second is that I don't have parents. I know that I
never mentioned them. That's really why I'm afraid,
Journal, that you would assume that I was an orphan.
My parents were (are) good people. And they're both
very much alive. We always lived pretty good. I mean,
I didn't get that summer in Europe I always wanted
(joke, Journal), but we were never short of money for
any necessary and, frankly, many frivolous things as we
grew up. To do this, both my parents worked for about
as long as I can remember. Full time. Of course, Hondo
set an early standard of both independence and
intelligence (Hondo, again. Don't worry he'll show up
lots more.) So it happened that when I scraped my knee,
it was usually Hondo with the Bactine and bandage.
Not my Mom, not day-care, not a babysitter. My
parents DID set up the rules for living. Good grades, no
fighting, in by Midnight (10 on school nights), no cops --
ever! And, yes, some of them were arbitrary -- like no
skinny dipping in the pool even when no one is around
(NOT ME, Journal! Hondo, in one of his rare lapses
and the grumpy old lady on the next street over).
Anyway, I do have parents and they are good and
thoughtful and loving people. And I'm sad that to this
day, they don't know I'm a Perv. I just don't know
them well enough to tell them.
The third is about the behavior of Little Ricky during
"Backbeat". He did NOT just rear up and shoot one
hour and sixteen minutes into the movie. He had reared
up 30 or so minutes before during one of the hetero
scenes, thank God. Because when Little Ricky really
gets the urge, there's a LOT of squirming and adjusting
and re-adjusting to do. I mean, he ain't small and pants
were tighter back then and we wore Jockeys. Luckily, it
was getting to everyone about the same time and Jason
was doing his own adjusting at just about the same time.
So there was nothing to notice. Little Ricky just never
went down again. Until the flood.
The fourth is that Hondo was around all the time. He
wasn't. By this time Hondo was 16 going on 17 and
what with sports, friends, girlfriends and other screwing
around (Testing has to fit in somewhere here; he was an
episodic but quite enthusiastic Stoner) you could count
on him being around 3 times a day. Meals, he ate a
LOT and couldn't possible afford to buy all that food
himself. Not if he wanted to pay the insurance and gas
for his junker car and his cool-as-shit motor bike. Study
Time, right after dinner for two full hours, no cheating
with TV or music or telephone (parental rule of living --
ironclad -- every school night, Monday thru Thursday
and Sunday too). I also suffered under this cruel yoke of
iron. It's where I learned to like to read. And Weight
Time, the hour after Study Time on Tuesdays,
Thursdays and Sundays. It was during Weight Time
that I most often consulted with him on the problems of
the hour. Watching him sweat and grunt and grow to
awesome proportions, I grew up absorbing wisdom,
being comforted in affliction and shooting the shit -- I
wasn't THAT afflicted, Journal, gimme a break. He
could be around at almost any other time but he mostly
wasn't. Two things of note. One: during all my High
School trials and Pervy-sexual crises, `til Hondo went
away to college, Little Ricky never once got out of line
during Weight Time. He didn't even try and I didn't
even think about it. And Two: I never attempted to lift
with Hondo or with anyone else (`til Bobby) -- the pain
thing, remember, Journal?. I never even thought about
it. Oh, yeah, Journal. Hondo did sleep in his room
almost every night. But unless there was a really big
fire, imminent death or breakfast was ready, right now,
it was NOT politic to be in his room. So it really didn't
count.
One more minor one then we'll get back to "Backbeat"
and its many, many aftershocks. About beating off. I
really wasn't the beat-off-king I made myself out to be
before Sep 16. I did it enough to keep most of the
unwanted boners in check, but it scared me a little.
First, it seemed a little Pervy although Hondo said it was
OK. Second, and much more important, every once in a
while "those thoughts" came, unbidden, right about the
point of ejaculation. Not always, not even often, but
sometimes. And sometimes was enough to make me a
judicious user. After Sep 16? See "Sea of Love" as part
of the "Backbeat" aftershocks section below.
In re: New Review Category
Rereading this I see that I need to set up a new category,
"Left Hanging". It will be an aid to memory and only a
list. It means, "come back and explain this/ not clear/
not complete." It doesn't mean that I'll get to it in the
entry it appears in. Most likely it means the opposite. I
don't want to interrupt the flow of the story. You can
quit laughing, Journal; you're not writing this, I am...
ably assisted by grammar checker. The little electronic
scumsucker.
In re: Left Hanging
1) "Same store we went two years ago"
2) Lasting effects of Study Time
3) "Triple L"
And now without further ado,
In re: "Backbeat" II, the Sea Of Love
Self help is the best help and I was damned if I was
going to confess to Hondo (the Church was now long
forgotten) what a creepy little Perv his brother had
become without trying. Trying everything I knew. I
had some free time at the end of Study Time and I
methodically drew up `The Plan.' The Plan involved
mags from Jason (he had some killers), Kleenex by the
gross and Vaseline Intensive Care by the gallon. We
had just started to hear about a Plan by some Nazi
psycho-sadist called Scared Straight (or maybe it was
Boot Camp -- but that sounds like a porn mag for
someone even Pervier than me -- I just don't remember,
Journal) which involved marching and shoe polishing
and was supposed to make you a Good Citizen. Well,
look out Little Ricky, you're going to be polished `til
you gleam like a beacon and you're going to be Straight
even if you can never raise your head again. Long ago,
Dr. Pepper -- my favorite drink -- had a slogan printed on
every (glass!) bottle, "10, 6, 4". This was back when
soda had sugar in it. I'm not sure that anyone ever
really knew what it meant but I took it to mean, "Drink
it at 10 o'clock, 6 o'clock and 4 o'clock".
Little Ricky's new slogan was going to be "6, 10:30, 12,
4, 10". Guess, Journal, you ain't that dumb. I'll give
you a hint on the "10:30"; morning break at our school
took place at 10:30 AM.
I talked to Jason the next day at school and lined up a
copious selection of gutter-low porn -- for an
"Experiment" to last about two weeks. By that
afternoon with no questions and a truly minimal amount
of razzing, Jason provided real sleaze that wasn't sold at
the Newsstand, even on the top shelf, wrapped in brown
paper and shrink-wrap. An amazing assortment to be in
the hands of a 14 year old boy. Who the hell was his
dealer?
Step one, check.
Paper supplies and lube was as easy as a stop at the local
Ralph's. But they didn't sell Intensive Care by the
gallon. Turned out to be alright because I couldn't have
hidden a bottle that big anyway.
Step two, check.
Now for the hard part (shut up, Journal), planning for
the morning break and noon sessions. Bathroom stalls
have doors. Check. Supplies of toilet paper are
plentiful. Check. Lube and porn. Lube and porn.
Well, uh...
There was no way I was going to carry a quart of
Intensive Care and "Split Beaver Review" around
school all day. Even in my backpack. Especially in my
backpack considering how many times a day I emptied
it on a desk trying to find something. This has GOT to
be lean and mean
Well, hell, Journal, you get the idea. An all out War on
Perv and I'm everything from the General to the Sub-
Assistant Gunners Mate. More likely to be the latter,
later. (It's a JOKE, Journal, and I know it's pretty lame)
I couldn't figure the logistics of the school jerks. The
final killer was my buds. They would think something
was weird if I disappeared from my usual hangouts.
And they'd be right. So I settled for attempting to go
two times between school and dinner.
The all out War on Perv lasted less than 72 hours. Little
Ricky got a running sore on his left side that made
clothes of any sort uncomfortable. And Mom's Clorox-
residue-but-really-really-white Jockeys were just
impossible. I couldn't go to Gym for a week and school
for a day. And you know what, Journal, yeah...
Stephan Dorff. And even scarier, some of Hondo's
friends. And even my reflection. My FA (jeez, I
KNOW the term hasn't be coined yet but I'm trying to
avoid offending the electronic storm trouper) suitably
encased in black showed up in my fantasies. Regardless
of the mags and all the wishing and praying I could do.
I had proved to be a well and truly fucked little Perv.
Sore one too. Little Ricky threatened repeatedly to roll
over and die. In the meantime, he caused me some of
the most grievous pain I had ever experienced. I was
given to understand that his new slogan was "Never
Again!"
I fell asleep in Biology the day before I stayed home.
My teacher noticed, my buds noticed. And by the time I
got home I had a `Command to Appear' at Weight
Time. And it was Wednesday for Christ sakes. No
denying, Hondo had the grapevine thing down pat.
I was too tired and sore to even worry about what I was
going to say. I was also defeated by superior force.
Come 9:15 I walked down to the basement calmly,
resigned to my future status as a homeless outcast. I
was going to miss Hondo. I was going to miss my
parents. Shit, I was going to miss Study Time.
Hondo and I had a two and a half hour session. After it,
I went up to bed -- didn't set the alarm, no school
tomorrow.
That was probably the most intense conversation I ever
had. With anybody. Ever. I honestly don't remember
one even pseudo-quote, Journal.
I know I cried.
I know I told all. I know Hondo prompted me when I
stumbled.
I know I even showed the damage. I know I went
upstairs and got the porn mags from under the mattress.
I know I cried some more.
I know that Hondo cried. And he hugged me so tight in
his big, weightlifter arms that I thought I would pass out.
And that then he took me up to bed.
And that then I felt good about myself.
And that then I slept `til noon.
But of the most important conversation of my life I
don't clearly remember one thing -- except, "I love you,
Little Ricky, always". See, Journal, I always lie... a
little bit. Learn to deal with it.
Bummer, Journal, I've got to end it here for the night.
Probably one more grim day `til Bobby gets back. Then
we'll get back in the groove.
No, I don't know what happened to the mags. I never
saw them again and Jason never asked me for them. And
no, Journal, Hondo was NOT talking about my dick.
No. Not atoll. You PERV!
Spell check, grammar check and save.
*************************
What the hell, "accept all" I don't feel like screwing
with you tonight. But, I hope you get bumfucked by a
grizzly bear. Later...
Day 10 (10 on the money, Bobby's still at home)
We've got a "Photo Shoot" tomorrow. Management is
still about half trying to get us to the bigtime. Shoots
used to be a trip so remind me to tell you about them
sometime. Then, we're going to be like fifth billing in a
real traveling road show for two weeks. No Malls! A
real back-up band so we get to actually perform. God,
it's refreshing. I only wish that someone over the age of
15 would see us. Christ, I'm on a downer again and it's
only 11am.
Jason came over earlier and he had THAT face. No
doubt about it, he'd got laid but good -- all night... Had
to, to look that happy. To my "Get any?" he replied,
"Who me. Why'd you ask THAT?" with the biggest
Cheshire Cat grin. Without my saying anything more,
he added, "Bobby'll be back in a few hours, Rick. Try
not looking like your puppy died." Then he smacked
my butt and said, "Hear me, Sweet Cakes? You
alright?" "Yeah, Bro... Now, since you woke it up, you
want some of this FA?" I wagged my butt seductively
(I'm damn good at it, Journal, I practice almost every
day at the Mall.) "Later, Sweet Cakes, but don't you be
telling that dumb, blond Polack". He smiled. I smiled,
and he turned around, walked out and closed the door.
Jason!
Jason and I have a complex relationship. Jason is still
my bud. My best bud. But he also took over a lot of
Hondo's duties when we went on the road. He's my
advisor, confessor, sounding board, my steady rock
when things look bad. He's sort of my Junior Big Bro.
It doesn't matter that I'm two months older than he is.
Not to Jason. He saw I needed a big brother and he
became one. But he still can't Tickle Torture for shit.
In times of real pain, he became more. Journal, he even
had some (manual) sex with me in a bashful but loving
way before me and Bobby happened. When I was
lonely and depressed. On the road. Yeah, he got hard,
you nosey Perv, and he came too (I ain't no slouch with
someone I love.) He wanted me to be happy and he was
willing to do whatever it took to get me there. Actually,
I think he loves me in his own hetero, jock way. And
I'm in love with him in my Pervy but I-understand-that-
he's-really-straight way (there's a difference there, did
you catch it, Journal?) Then Bobby showed up (I WILL
tell you about him sometime, Journal, I promise) and
Jason and I went back to a more Hondo-like
relationship. I know he was relieved, but he DID make
the effort when it counted. I still owe him. A lot.
There's always been a small sexual edge with Jason that
was never there with Hondo. For instance, he would
feel my butt, even grind up against it when he thought I
need the encouragement. Like at photo shoots. Because
he knew I liked it. But he was never hard (well, hardly
ever -- even hetero studs have dry spells -- and it IS one
fine ass). I would die if Hondo ever did that to me. Not
that I wouldn't enjoy it; Hondo's way prime. But
because it would be so out of character. I guess there
are degrees to straightness just like there are to
Perviness. Writing you, Journal, IS making me examine
things that I know by instinct but don't understand.
Maybe that's why I'm still at it. In spite of the
electronic thought police. You should see what he did
yesterday when I gave him his head. I'll NEVER
"Accept All" again!
I'll tell you two more things about Jason before we get
back to our story (can you even remember what the
story's about?). Jason has a way with words born of his
directness, his honesty and his good heart. He, of
course, coined "FA" and uses it to this day whenever it
fits, cause he knows that, deep down, I like it. He also
coined, "Ricky the Perv". Nah, that's not mine, Journal.
And when he said it for the first time, I couldn't take
offence or be hurt or have any other unhappy feeling
because he said it with deepest affection -- a total
acceptance of things as they are. An acceptance of me.
And the other thing? I bet you two FA's to one
grammar checker, Journal, that he'll wander over about
1:30 and tell me he's so hungry he could eat a dick (and
I'll reply that he came to the right place; all you can eat,
bro, right here -- nah, the teasing will NEVER end).
And we'll go out to lunch and Jason will have found
something to do in this shit town that will take all
afternoon. Then we'll have dinner. He'll probably eat
half a cow. Then Bobby will be back in two hours and
Jason will fade into the background because he knows I
won't be lonely anymore. Sensitive, thoughtful and
straight, how the Christ did I ever find him? He defines
"bud", man, and I love him. Hope he gets laid tonight,
too... All night.
Call to order.
In re: Lies
None that I did. A few that grammar checker committed
but I WILL NOT be responsible for the little electronic
scumbag.
In re: Wrong Impressions
One major and two minor ones.
The Beat-Your-Way-to-Straightness story sounds made
up. OK, I admit it sounds improbable and I did
embellish is a little (I only bought one extra box of
tissues) but it's basically true. You can't believe how
desperate I was. And with all I say about Hondo,
Journal, I'm not sure I can ever convince you what a
huge influence his every word had on me. When I was
14, he was my archetype (pretty neat word for "ideal
model", Journal). In many ways he still is though I
know that it can't be... I'm a Perv, for Christ's sake.
Anyhow, if Hondo said I should beat my meat more,
even if it was months before and in another context, beat
it I would, and did. To an actual bloody pulp. I think,
but I'm not sure, that fact, together with the angry
evidence on my dick is what made Hondo cry. I never
saw him cry before or after that night. Even when he
broke his collar bone in Street Hockey, even at his
wedding (yeah, Journal, he's an old married fuck now).
I try to be like him in at least this respect but you'll see
below that I still had one more river to cross. I stand by
my story. I've still got the ruled paper with the schedule
on it. 6...10:30...
I've got the same name as my dick. Not true. I named
my dick "Little Ricky" sometime in sixth grade. No one
had ever called ME that except Hondo. And he only
called me that when I was really little and hurt like the
time I broke my arm. I was "Ricky" thru age fifteen and
fought for "Rick" with mixed success at age 16 and
after. Some people (Mom, Hondo, Jason come to mind)
still call me "Ricky" when they're annoyed or pressed
for time (Bobby uses it when he wants "More Power"
since he knows that it stirs me up). But no, except for
that one night of cosmic unification with Hondo (where
there was absolutely no confusion), "Little Ricky" has
always been the junior member below the belt. Even
my Mom uses it. Like when the picture came out in the
bopper mag of me with a MAJOR hang to the left in my
leather jeans, Mom wanted to know why I couldn't
"tuck in" Little Ricky. I never told her that they WANT
you big so they can sell the mags -- Management even
offered me a "fluffer" at that shoot; I didn't know what
one was. I found out later. Talk about Perv!
Hondo accepted my total Perviness after THAT night.
Not true. Hondo accepted me, his brother, without
reservation and with love. Hell, he always had. But, I
was still quite capable of distressing him with Pervy
actions or words. I found a general rule of thumb later:
If Hondo made jokes about it, he had accepted it as
"normal". He became more accepting very quickly.
But I could still shock him as you'll see, Journal, in
"Backbeat" III, The Last Time I Cried in Public, below.
In re: Left Hanging
1) Photo shoots
2) Jason knows
3) Bobby
And now for our Feature Presentation (which will
probably be interrupted by Jason and Bobby in that
order)
In re: "Backbeat" III, The Last Time I Cried in Public.
Things were a whole lot better for a while. I
couldn't/wouldn't go public. But I always had a brother
in my back pocket who knew the real me and loved me
anyway. As a result of That Night, Hondo and I decided
that we should have a running discussion of what was
happening in my head and my loins. And that
NOTHING was out of bounds. Further, I was to execute
no `Plan' without a serious, prior discussion. Little
Ricky eventually decided it was safe to come out of
hiding.
The first matter on the table was how Pervy was I? I
really didn't know. Girls didn't disgust me, in fact I
liked a lot of them. We thoroughly reviewed all the
mechanics of sex with the opposite sex (which leads me
to state, Journal, that I had little or no idea of the
mechanics of sex with the same sex) and nothing
seemed too grotesque. Then we made a list of girls and
guys who made me hot. The guy list was pretty small:
Stephan Dorff (how could I deny it, but Hondo still
wanted to know what grade he was in and what school),
Jason (Hondo, knowing a clear and present danger when
he saw one said, "Be careful, Ricky"), two guys from
Gym. Hondo actually asked if HE turned me on. I
answered, truthfully, "No" but I couldn't explain why
(probably because I didn't know). I don't think he
believed me but he never modified his behavior towards
me. And I think he did believe me later.
Surprise statistic, sports fans, I had three times as many
girls on the list as guys. And one of the guys didn't
count because he didn't go to any of the nearby schools.
Sort of independently we both concluded we need a
whole lot more information here. About life and about
sexuality in general. As you know, Hondo had wheels,
six in all. So he and I were able to spend many
mortifying hours in far away libraries reading books
which were not considered dirty, but fully confirmed the
restored health and eagerness of Little Ricky. HONDO
even got wood at more than one of these sessions and
fully boned pleaded for the use of my jacket when it was
time to go. Once we even checked out a big book on
wallpaper because we had two bones and one jacket.
But before we got out the door, the situation was
corrected and we took the book back. The librarian gave
us a quite peculiar look. We giggled like schoolgirls on
the way to the car. And you know what, Journal? When
I saw Hondo, primo hottie of the sophomore class with
full bone on, I still didn't want to jump him. Not even a
little. Go figure.
Our conclusion? Don't know. I could just be going thru
a particularly late and powerful Homo phase. The
mechanics of male-male sex (aside from rubbing)
actually didn't sound that appealing to me. Some
sounded positively awful to my 14 year old libido. Little
Ricky retreated to almost sixth grade size when I
decoded what anilingus meant. PERVALACIOUS!
Sort of a dead end. And you know what, Journal? All
this immersion in the study of sex really cooled the fires.
I declared myself cured. I thought we should drop the
subject from the agenda. Hondo thought we should
table it. We compromised and I promised to report all
urges before acting and Hondo promised not to bring up
the subject on his own. So we could finally get back to
our social life which had almost been abandoned during
this two week Perv sabbatical. And, yes, Journal, I did
have a social life. And you know Hondo did. Thus
ended the quest for knowledge; certainly not with a
bang...
Nothing to report but normalcy for over 2 months. I was
dating one of my dancing partners (and secret butt
pincher it turned out) when the unspeakable happened. I
GOT HEAD. Just a little licking and slurping in the
beginning. But I was so wired that the beginning,
middle and end were somewhat concurrent. Wow! Was
it GOOD!
Names omitted to protect the guilty, I reported this
milestone at the next regular Weight Time. And Hondo
almost killed himself. After skinny little me helped him
get the weight bar off his chest, and after he took a quick
shower, we went on his bike to get ice cream. Any kind
I wanted.
Triple Feature: Head, a (really fast) bike ride -- normally
considered "too dangerous", and a huge banana split.
God, sex is good. Hondo even broke out the good stuff
the next weekend. And when we were suitably fried, he
admitted that I beat his record by 5 months. Let's hear it
for the little kid with the FA!
Pretty much all downhill from here, Journal. But what
did I tell you? Here's Jason. And he's REALLY
hungry. He said so.
Save only. I want a WORD with the little tyrant before
he trashes any more of this and I don't have time now.
******************
I'm back and it's 7:30pm. Bobby's due at 9:45. Both
Rickys are happy as hell, in fact, one's twitching... not
me, Journal! Since this session was never really
adjourned, I don't think that we have to go thru all the
formalities. You agree?
I'm going to take a short diversion here, Journal.
Laughing will get you an electronic kick in the butt as
soon as I find the right button -- we HAVE made some
progress, Hey, a little. And tell you that the town we're
in, Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario, population 90,000 is not
such a shit place.
The first word is pronounced "Soo" as in Indian, not
"salt" as in Morton.
Yeah, Jason found something to do. And it was
interesting as hell. We took a boat ride out into the lake
-- Superior -- which is huge and pretty. Then we came
thru a "Lock" which is an absolutely huge boat elevator.
Our boat which wasn't small looked lost in the thing.
What it does is lower/raise huge iron ore boats between
two of the Great Lakes 52 feet (? -- I'm converting from
meters and I don't do that too well). I'm not sure how it
does it yet but I got a brochure from a beautiful
Canadian girl (they say "A" and "oot" a lot so you can
tell [Don't hold me to it, Journal but I think the former
means "Do you agree?" and, no question, the latter
means "out"]). I'm going to read it some time. The girl
didn't know us. But she had Jason drooling. They went
over to look at the "special brochures" for about 15
minutes. She looked REAL interested. Maybe it's his
eye; he still looks sort of like a pirate. Don't know, but I
may get my wish that he gets his wish tonight.
Anyway we walked back to the locks and after a little
while this monster boat (ship) came slowly into it and
was raised the 52 (?) feet and slowly left. It took about
an hour. Doesn't sound as interesting when I write it as
when I saw it. The water gushes in around the boat like
crazy. Ship size doors at either end are waterproof and
move really slow. And the whole thing looks like it was
made by cavemen. It's all huge blocks of stone. It was
built in 1895. That was carved in the stone, all covered
in moss. And you know what else? Nobody else
watched it. There must be a LOT more to do in Sault
Sainte Marie, Ontario than I thought. I guess I still can't
make it sound interesting but it was. I never saw a
"Lock" before... that wasn't on a door. Another boat
(ship) was approaching to go down and I wanted to stay
and watch but Jason wanted to eat.
So we did. He ate half a pig, not a cow. But that wasn't
a major part of the bet. So I win, Journal. Looser!
Dweeb! Teach you to laugh!
Where the hell was I? Downhill, oh yeah...
In re: "Backbeat" III, The Last Time I Cried In Public --
Continued
We always jump to the wrong conclusion too soon.
Cured? No. Not atoll. My First Head (capitalized
always in my heart) set off such a deluge of hormones
that Little Ricky was getting flat feet. He was
ALWAYS standing straight up. Cheerleaders gave me
wood; teachers gave me wood; bicycles gave me wood
(not just the seat, either); Christ, a fire engine could do
it. Boner City! I didn't carry my backpack on my back
for three days. I looked up priapism to see if it was
terminal. It wasn't. But it might as well have been.
Christ, GYM! So I did what any normal teen would do
and I forged a note. Please excuse Ricky from Gym; He
has an ear infection. My ear was as far away from my
dick as I could go and still sound somewhat plausible.
But this wasn't a permanent cure because my absence
would get back to Hondo real quick. And I LIKED gym
except when I was getting beat up like in football and
lacrosse (they use BIG sticks!)
I could think of a couple solutions. All had to do with
getting off, good and proper. It was unlikely that the
Head option would be available again anytime soon.
My partner (you'll never get the name, Journal... deal
with it) was somewhat appalled at the extent of the mess
that made. A good After-School jerk? Little Ricky
cringed but didn't go down. So it was settled. After
school. Use plenty of lotion and watch out for sores.
Repeat as necessary. The rest of school went OK. I
even lost my hard, after Biology.
All the way home on the bus I prayed that Hondo
wouldn't be home. That last candle at Mass worked!
He wasn't. I hollered as I came in the door and again in
the kitchen and again down the cellar stairs. Then
upstairs, I hollered again. If anyone was home, they
were deaf. Or, asleep. Yeah, Hondo could be asleep. It
takes three alarm clocks to get him up in the morning. I
slowly cracked open Hondo's door. This was pretty
much forbidden territory. No Hondo. Room's pretty
neat. I looked around and slowly entered. Hey, I didn't
get to do this that often so I decided to at least make a
survey. Smells like him. What do you expect he sleeps
here.
I finally looked on the bed and there, on the bed, was his
Motocross gear. Jeez, it never occurred to me before but
they LOOK like leather jeans. They were even black
but they had a yellow stripe on them. I didn't even
think, not one second. I grabbed the pants and dashed to
my room and closed the door. I stripped so fast that my
one sock came off with by Nike. I put THEM on in
front of the mirror. The effect would have been
ridiculous to any thinking person. They were huge. I
had to hold them up to keep them off the floor, FA or
not, it just didn't jut out far enough. But I wasn't
thinking. I was harder than I'd ever been and I grabbed
Little Ricky in a death grip. And I whacked, without
mercy or care in front of the mirror.
And then I heard, "Hey, Ricky, have you seen my..." as
my door opened. Then I heard, "Oh, Ricky..."
Never, Journal, never has so much communication been
contained in two words and the long following sigh.
I didn't even cry, I wailed like Irishmen at a wake as I
ran from my room to the bathroom and slammed the
door. And locked the door. And cried. Eventually, I
noticed that I was still holding up Hondo's cursed bike
pants.
I just sat there numb and crying gently for an hour
(Hondo says it was about five minutes, Journal, but I
KNOW it was an hour). I wasn't even thinking about
why.
Eventually, I heard Hondo shouting outside the door,
"Open the door Ricky. Come on. We've gotta talk."
I didn't move. I couldn't.
"Three screws, Ricky, three screws. That's all it takes.
Now come on and open the door. If I have to go all the
way down to the cellar for a screwdriver it's an RNT.
Come on, open up, Ricky!"
For those of you not in the know and Journal you are
probably one of them, Hondo had three degrees of
enforcement when he (mostly not arbitrarily -- after I'd
thought about it a while) wanted his way. The first was
Tickle Torture (and I kind of liked that and kind of
provoked it upon occasion and Hondo knew it). The
second was a Talking To. It involved him grabbing my
arms right where the biceps should be and telling me
what he wanted REAL LOUD over and over again and
not letting go until I agreed. I did not like a Talking To
at all. The last and most feared was an RNT (Remember
Next Time). It was delayed and, like the execution
CAN'T be as bad as sitting on death row for twelve
years anticipating it, the waiting was all. An RNT was
redeemed when I wanted to do something with Hondo
really bad. It could be about anything but it had to be
something that he could see that I REALLY wanted.
Then the answer: "No, that's your RNT, Ricky". No,
appeal, no nothing.
I sometimes made a vow after I got an RNT, but before
it was redeemed, that I wouldn't do anything with
Hondo again. Ever. Just like a little boy who vowed to
never talk to his parents again or hold his breath `til he
turned blue. Worked about as well too. The best I ever
lasted was five days. They weren't fun. No. Not atoll.
I hated RNT's.
So I got up off the floor and walked over and opened the
door. Hondo's pants were around my ankles. The rest
of me was bare. I didn't know; I didn't care. Sort of
like those pictures you see of the liberation of the
concentration camps in Germany. That always affected
me. Men without pants and they didn't have the energy
or life left to worry about it.
For the first time that I can ever remember, the ensuing
discussion with Hondo did not come up with an answer.
Oh, we talked about all the facts. I had to remind him
that the same subject had come up before when we
discussed "Backbeat". He didn't remember that the
leather pants set off my flood. He thought that the
problem was that it was a guy.
"I'll have to think about it, Ricky. We'll talk about it
some more later. But leave my pants alone, `til we do.
OK?" With a mortified promise, I scuttled out of the
bathroom.
I avoided Hondo as best I could for four days. He
wasn't doing anything to me, not even showing his
justifiable disgust. Every once in a while, usually at
dinner, I caught him looking at me. But, he seemed to
look more puzzled that appalled. But, he was silent and
avoiding me too. And I ached for the loss.
On Saturday, right after breakfast Hondo unexpectedly
said, "Come on, Midget, get in the car we're going to
Downtown". Well, "Midget", was what he called me
when I did something extraordinary, like when I won the
Long Distance, or got my First Head. I sure hadn't done
anything like that recently. On the other hand,
Downtown was a way BAD place. I was really leery of
the mixed signals. Let's be honest, Journal, I was
scared.
Considering WHAT I'D DONE was Hondo going to
take me to Downtown and leave me there? I'd only
been there twice that I could remember in my life. That
WAS where really Pervy people lived. Maybe this is
how they got there. Driven to Downtown, one way, by
their disgusted, former Loving Brother.
But I knew, deep down, that I deserved it so I got in
Hondo's Honda (yeah, he gets shit) and we rattled and
backfired our way on to the Freeway on our way to
Sodom in the Smog. Life had been nice...
Hondo chattered (distracting me from the swoosh of the
ax) and I sort of looked out the window a lot. Pretty
grim. Pervs don't live well at all! Where we got off the
Freeway, the streets glittered, all right. But with broken
glass, not gold. We parked on a block where there were
no other cars. A few pieces but not enough to make one
full car. Hondo got out and I noticed that he looked
about sharply. Oh, CHRIST, what's going ON!
"Come on, Ricky, the Pervs don't get up this early.
We're going to fix you right up. Let's GO, Man!"
HE'S GOING TO HAVE MY DICK CUT OFF. I
didn't know people would DO that; even in Downtown.
Even the really Pervy people. But he said it. "Fix you
right up" that's what they said about the Gonzoles'
Labrador right after he fucked that beagle. And right
before he came back from the doc's and sat under a tree
and licked his crotch and didn't bark for the rest of his
life.
I CAN'T lick it; I can't reach. That's what I though as
Hondo led me into the shabby storefront and hollered
out for service.
"I called earlier, about the small sizes? Guy said you
had them."
"Sure, you Hondo? The boss said you'd come in early."
Journal, I swear I wasn't breathing. SMALL SIZES?
"What's he wear?"
"Twenty six to twenty seven with a twenty seven
inseam". Huh?! "He'll probably want them a little
loose and leave some let-out material in the legs. He's
still growing... A little bit at least." Hondo punched my
arm when he said that and I was just beginning to figure
out what was going on. Hadn't figured out whether to
be relieved that Little Ricky was safe or TRULY
PISSED OFF that my most righteously secret Pervs
were being displayed to this loathsome Perv of a sales
clerk. Hondo, how could you!
"What style are you looking for?"
"He needs them for a band; they're Punkers. What are
THEY wearing?"
Jeez, cover and everything. Hondo is one righteous bro.
And he was. And he is. Hondo had practiced the age
old maxim -- If you can't lick `em...
The sales guy really wasn't a Perv. I tried on a number
of different kinds and looked at myself in a three way
mirror. Selected what I wanted. Then Hondo made me
get them 2 inches looser in the waist (they WERE 1 inch
too tight). Then they worked on the legs and Hondo
insisted on a three inch hem (he was dreaming, I STILL
wouldn't need that [and I'm 19!] if... I could still
button the waist.)
Then we were done. I really liked the sales dude by
then. But I still cringed when he recommended a
piercing parlor up the street "...for when the band gets
serious". "It hardly hurts at all," he assured me
unreassuringly.
We walked out to Hondo's golden chariot, for so it
looked amidst the rubble of Downtown. We got in and
Hondo said, "OK, Ricky. Now, you've got your own
Leather Leotards. Beat away, Guy. But stay away from
MY drawers... OK?"
I smiled thru teary eyes and said, "Sure Hondo.
Thanks... And stay away from MINE too."
Hondo punched my arm; then he hugged my shoulder.
And nobody has ever seen me cry again. Ever.
Yeah, I'm a Perv. But I'm a big guy now.
This was my personal nadir in the Pervy hall of shame.
It's all uphill from here, so hang in there, Journal.
And what do I hear at the door? What do I see standing
in the entry? It's my Polish Prince. Buzzed, bleached
hair, droopy drawers (the boy ain't got no hips; he had
them removed in Downtown), tired eyes and goofy grin.
I bet he's packing the PofB, his magic wand, too. "OH,
FUCK, WE'RE GLAD TO SEE YOU" (And that ain't
the Royal we, Journal, and Bobby knows it.)
Spell check, grammar check and save.
******************
You Douchbag! You are a stupid, stupid fuck. There IS
SO such a place as Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario. I've
wagged my ass in the Mall there; I've seen the "Locks".
We're here RIGHT NOW! "IGNORE ALL", Asshole.
You got an RNT. Later...
Day 11 (Surprise!)
Journal, bet you didn't think you'd see me today. I have
to admit this is becoming a little addicting. Anyway,
I'm sitting at the little all purpose table in my Quality
Inn room, my laptop in front of me and over to the side,
sprawled on my king size bed is the Polish Prince. He's
only half covered and the half that isn't is SO prime I
ache.
Well, yeah, I ache (and burn) for another reason really,
Journal, thank you so much for pointing that out. I can't
count how often I told Bobby that there's no such thing
as `hurts so good.' And then I'd push the PofB away
from my butthole. Then he'd fuck my crack and not
complain hardly at all; it's a damn fine crack, better than
his; he's sort of flat in the butt. But finally, and after
some long discussions with Jason (he was so red-faced I
thought he'd explode -- but he hung tough and ultimately
said, "OK, do it, but be careful, Ricky), I let Bobby
Have His Way with me. And yeah, it hurt in the
beginning (real BAD the first time -- Jason said he heard
me two rooms away) and the burning's still there in the
morning, but the middle and the end ARE worth it. We
kissed so much; we SWEATED so much; we CAME so
much; we MELDED so much. We loved so much. Sort
of defines: `hurts so good.' And it really never stopped.
Hurting, that is. The PofB is formidable. So, yeah, I'm
sitting rather gingerly this morning, Journal. But I'm
looking at the Prince, my Prince and damn straight it's
worth it
So what's the PofB, you ask, Journal? Well you've got
to understand Bobby a little. And, no this is not an entry
about Bobby. He'll show up in a main section sometime
down the road. But since you ask and since I'm gazing
at his left tit -- the little purple-green mark under it still
shows -- and half of his left hip (it does go STRAIGHT
down from his stomach and just the fact that his butt-
cheeks stick out -- only a little but they're cute -- allows
him to wear pants without suspenders). And, yeah, his
innocent-devilish face and his bed hair and the little
Skater-Nazi tattoo on his shoulder, well, you get the
picture, Journal. So just a little teaser about the Prince.
Bobby's a Skater. And Skaters, real Skaters, are direct
and aggressive and daring and competitive as all hell.
That explains a lot. How he joined the band at 15; how
he had Perv-sex with me a month after we met. How he
made me like it. How he got my cherry after an arduous
and prolonged campaign. It DOESN'T explain how I
got his -- the `hurts so good' stuff did NOT apply to his
own butt for the longest time -- but I did, Journal. And
I'm glad... he is too. In spite of the complaints. Yeah,
Journal, I won't be the only guy in the room
experiencing "burning love" once he wakes up.
Anyway, when Bobby found out that I had a name for
my dick and he didn't, it immediately became an
unacceptable situation. Since I wouldn't give up mine,
he had to have a better one.
Actually, he said it wouldn't be all that difficult. The
Skater brain does NOT appreciate the subtle irony of the
appellation "Little Ricky" applied to the King of Dicks.
He never really accepted that Little Ricky IS the king.
You decide, Journal. I'll give you that Bobby's 2/16's
of an inch longer by actual measurement with an
independent judge (now there's a picture for your Pervy
little mind, Journal, the Great Measure Off -- and I'm
NEVER going to tell you about it). But Little Ricky's
way fatter. Bobby never gives up about being the King.
But I know who'll be burning (and complaining) more
this morning when he finally wakes up. Little Ricky
Rules. Right, Journal? Remember who's your God.
Back to the PofB. It stands for Pride of Bakersfield
which I think he got from the side of an old Sleeping
Car (did you know they had names, Journal?). Then it
could be that that's where he lived before he joined the
band and became homeless. It took him a fucking week
to come up with this lame name! And it's way too long
so it got abbreviated. But now Bobby has a name for his
dick too and Skater Honor is satisfied. Such is life with
the Polish Prince. But you put up with a lot when
you're in love (Catch that?)
One more thing about Bobby before we get on to the
meat of today's discussion (Journal, YOU, PERV!).
Purely an explanation of his present comatose state in a
room with his one, true, studly love-god. It takes a
LONG time to get from Bakersfield, CA to Sault Sainte
Marie, Ontario. Bobby had been traveling since 9am
yesterday morning when he arrived in the room last
night. Two puddle jumpers and three jets and lots of
ground time. And we DON"T travel first class.
Bobby's lucky that he doesn't have to pay for the flights
home himself but CA makes Management include it in
his contract because he's a minor.
So, he was dead on his feet when he arrived last night.
And we didn't turn out the light `til 3:25am (I looked).
And we didn't watch TV. And I can get a sworn
statement to that effect from Little Ricky and the PofB
and our buttholes (which don't have names yet but who
knows -- Skaters Rule -- or like to think they do) and our
lips (ditto) and most other accessible parts of our bodies
to that effect. Just as soon as we can figure our how to
get them to hold a pen... let it be a challenge to you,
Journal. Meantime, I'm letting Bobby sleep `til lunch
and talking to you, instead. We're ignoring grammar
checker today. He's got an RNT.
Call to order
In re: Lies
Two. One a "sort of", and one a "downright" but not by
me originally.
I really thought Hondo was going to have me fixed? It's
a complex answer. In truth, the thought did pass briefly
thru my mind because of what happened to "Char" the
Gonzoles' dog only two weeks prior to going to
Downtown. The authoritative word came around that
his, "Char's", dick had been cut off when it was really
just his balls. I'm not sure that the real facts were that
much more comforting. Maybe, probably; because to a
14 year-old, your dick is magic. It goes up and down,
sure. More impressive, two completely different kinds
of stuff comes out of it and it never seems to get mixed
up and shoot cum out in the urinal at school. It,
REALLY has a mind of it's own. And it has a method
of reward for proper attention that has never been
equaled. Your balls are just there and sort of strange
looking to boot. In reality, their prime function seems to
be to cause you pain when you treat them with other
than the utmost deference. Let's face it, nobody names
their balls. It probably WOULD have made a
difference. `Ah, it was just his balls, Dude.' Anyway
back to the question and potential lie at hand. Going to
Downtown was like going to hell. It was talked about in
exactly the same manner in our community. Good
people didn't go to Downtown or if they did, they never
returned. So I was paranoid as shit when Hondo took
me there unannounced and wouldn't tell me why. He
had all sorts of good reasons for not telling me: don't
want the parents to know, it's a surprise... But, since
we hadn't talked after that horrible time in the bathroom.
And I could still hear the aversion (disgust?) in "Oh,
Ricky..." I wasn't expecting anything good. No. Not
atoll. I really think that conquering my fear and going
quietly with Hondo to whatever ugly fate awaited was a
serious portent of my coming maturity. On reflection,
it's mostly a lie that I thought Hondo would direct
someone to cut off my dick. I did think for a good
portion of the ride that he was going to leave me in
Downtown. I was never really the same again. And I
really never cried in front of anyone again. Ever. That's
the truth.
I beat Hondo's First Head record. This is a real lie. But
not mine. Much later in our relationship, Hondo
explained (some of) the Hondo Method of brotherly
encouragement. First, his personal best was a very
flexible ruler. It often seemed to fall just short of what I
had accomplished. If we were equal, like in our grades,
he had had to work harder to get them. I guess it was
his way of compensating for the rest of the world which
always managed to say, "You're Hondo's brother? I
would have thought you'd be bigger (or brighter or
better looking)." And it worked. The amiable fictions
woven into Weight Time gave me the confidence and
the time to become myself. Without undue paranoia
about the example he set. I was worth something by
myself. I knew it because Hondo told me. And I swear,
gentle Journal, when you KNOW you're worthwhile?
Other people tend to agree. Sure made things a whole
lot easier when I turned out to be a Perv.
In re: Wrong Impressions
Whole Lot of Shaken' Going On, here
Did possession of leather jeans make me a confirmed
Leather Queen at 14? Not hardly, Journal. A short
history of the big jean Perv. I couldn't wait to get home
from Downtown. Then I couldn't wait to get home from
Church, school etc. for about two weeks. And you
KNOW what I did. In my bed, in front of the bedroom
mirror (mostly), in the bathroom. Yeah it was pretty
ubiquitous. And to the outside world I just seemed
happy. Normal even. Hondo called it the Triple L
Effect. Yeah, he was joking so I was within the pale
again. Hell, I felt normal everywhere but in front of the
bedroom mirror and I wasn't concentrating too much on
normalcy when I was there. After two weeks, well it
didn't happen as often. For a whole lot of different
reasons. Friends to hang with. GIRLS to dance with
(never gave it up Journal). Homework, now that's pretty
low. It started to be a once every one week then a once
every two week affair. I started to realize that the jeans
didn't DO anything. Yeah, I looked sexy in them (still
do, Journal, but there're bigger now). But I came to
grasp that it was ME that was sexy not some dead cow
skin. Now this was both comforting and distressing.
I'm was getting over my fetish. But I was getting more
into my own (male) body. Slippery slope, Journal.
Anyway they moved farther and farther back in the
closet and finally they were uncomfortable to wear, even
with Hondo's `extra inch' cause I got a growth spurt
(my last unfortunately) and the whole thing sort of
petered out. Not even a whimper, Mr. Elliott. I don't
know if this was Hondo's planned outcome or not. If it
was, it worked. They were only resurrected that one day
of righteous testing with Hondo and Jason. Until
Hondo's, "Your Triple L's" or words to that effect I had
not thought about them for a long, long while. But I still
understood that I was a Perv.
Does Perv mean, "queer"? The authoritative answer is
sometimes. First understand, Journal, that it's too hard
for me to keep true to the dialect of the particular time
I'm writing about. I jump around a lot, or didn't you
notice? Unless I'm REALLY trying for authenticity, I
tend to write like I think now. Perv is a rather recent
word to me and it's non-offensive. I have sort of
consciously substituted it for the more accurate Fag,
Queer, (Cocksucker, too) that would have REALLY
been used in 1994, in a suburb of LA. Jason originally
called me a Perv. And I understood his meaning. It
meant what I did, thought, said. It meant me. I wasn't a
Fag or a Homo or a Queer or Gay. I was a PERV. And
a Perv was OK. Unfortunately as my friends and I and
the band used the word it started to mean just about
anything. Think of the word "shit" -- good, bad, tough,
easy, righteous, bull. Get it, Journal? Depending on
use, Perv can mean odd, Homo, despicable or just be
describing me. The rest is left as an exercise for the
student
.
I only talk to Jason, Bobby and Hondo. Not even close.
But I have to simplify this somehow. So I'm
concentrating on the people who got me from there to
here. A few others will show up.
I'm an incorrigible sex fiend. Not true. As far as I can
remember, Journal, I've had sex with 4 girls and three
guys (one of whom I've lived with for the past 19
months). I've fathered no children, acquired no STD's
and, yeah, I beat off a lot when I was a kid. Still,
probably on the low side of normal. It's the `90's, for
Christ sake! Who's the third guy? Continue reading to
"Backbeat's" Over -- Stuck in the Horse Latitudes.
I'm really sixty years old. Not, hardly, Journal, but I
can see how you might get that impression. I DO know
a lot of old, strange stuff. And I throw it at you at
random some times. It was thrown at me at random,
too. So I guess we ought to talk about Study Time some
more. When I first went on the road (I was almost 17) I
was SO FUCKING DEPRESSED that eventually I
snuck off and rode an absolutely VILE Greyhound, 637
miles to home and Hondo (forgot he wasn't there --
College, Asshole; Hondo's at college), Mom and Dad.
It was a MAJOR Violation of Contract. And, I clearly
understood that I was going to lose my balls in a slow
and immensely painful manner, for so it had been
explained to me by Management. But I didn't CARE!
Well, I didn't know it but Management was really
counting on me. More particularly my skill in wagging
my Fabulous Ass (grammar checker RNT, remember?)
in my leather jeans (yeah, I was back in them but you
KNOW that, Journal, wake up, for Christ's sake). Yeah,
I HAD noticed that during the audition, two of the
Management guys looked like the were about to pass out
and NEVER stopped staring at my butt. But I never
really understood. I just thought that Management was
REALLY Perv City but actually, they were pretty good
at figuring out what made little girls hot. And they
figured they NEEDED me, or at least my butt. So
anyway, the outcome was that my balls remained
nameless but loosely attached under Little Ricky.
And ACCOMMODATIONS were made by
Management. And I went back, on the road. Of the two
accommodations made that counted, only one was made
by Management. They arranged that I could take out
books in the free library in whatever shit town we were
in. Without fail. I have no idea how they do it but I
always have a temporary card or letter or something that
lets me take out books. So a little bit of normalcy was
restored to my life; Study Time was back.
But it was strange as Catshit (is Catshit really
strange, Journal? I never noticed). First thing I'd do
when we got to the town we were staying at was go pick
out some books. Usually by their glossy covers cause I
didn't have a lot of time. When I got back to the room,
I'd try to find one that was really interesting and read it
during "Study Time" on-the-road version. Here's the
really bizarre part. We're only in town for a day or two
so I had to return the books when we left. I hardly ever
got beyond the eighth chapter of any book. Unless I
found the same book in another shit town, which just
didn't happen often.
So, yeah, I know a LOT of old, strange things.
But only the first third of them. That's why I'm going
to college when this band shit ends. I want to read lots
of books, to the very LAST page. And have someone
there to talk to about them, afterwards. Bobby's no help
here. He's only interested in Skating and Math (he
reads biographies of Mathematicians, for Christ sake...
I keep telling him, he's a POLACK!) Oh yeah, and the
NET (HOLY SHIT! You should see some of the
pictures he finds on it. Some are even of US and OK,
Journal, I am a little dick-proud but Little Ricky was
never THAT big, neither was the PofB.).
The other accommodation was made by Jason
when he quietly and subtly eased into the position of
Junior Big Brother. Oh yeah, later Management
arranged that Bobby and my rooms always connected.
They (or some of the important ones) know about us but
know it's WAY UNCOOL to blow our cover.
FUCK, that was LONG! (I even tried sub-
paragraphs for the first time -- hope they work.) Aren't
you glad you asked, Journal? Whadda ya mean, "Nah"?
Want to know a secret, Journal? You're a product of
Study Time. You're the unnatural child of Study Time
and The Incident, the incident that made me start to
write you. And now I can see that it's going to be a long
time before you find out about it. So right now, you're a
bastard. And nobody knows your father. Except me;
and I wish I didn't...
We're getting there, Journal, final two:
I don't like our audiences. No. Not atoll. This brings
on a brief discussion (DON'T groan, Goddammit!) of
the difference between a Journal and a biography. A
biography tends to integrate ALL the facts of a life and
tell a cohesive story. A Journal is a listing of what
happened today that was out of the ordinary, pet peeves,
occasionally true loves. And, at least in this case, it has
an overall goal (I still have it, it's just not showing up
right now) of telling the facts leading up to and
following a BIG EVENT. (Done; there that wasn't so
bad).
I LIKE girls. Even little girls. I particularly like
dancing for and with them. Remember that I've been
doing it since I was nine. And nobody was paying me.
At some shows, even at Malls, when we can get the
audience up and dancing and singing, I wouldn't trade
this job for any on earth. Jason and I often pull some of
the best dancers up on the stage and usually we have a
blast. We're pretty good at choosing but, yes,
occasionally someone freezes and that's a problem. But
most times we PARTY! And the look of exquisite joy
on their faces when it's time for a hug and then for them
to go back down into the audience is better than sex.
Well... close.
What I don't like are the pushy, overweight,
mustachioed "Fans" who want to paw us afterwards.
One girl makes a habit of running up to me, reaching
around and grabbing my ass while her girlfriend takes a
picture. The next day the picture is on the NET.
Unfortunately Management wants these types around us
for the free publicity (You want to feel my Fabulous
Ass? Get a Website). But this latter is what will
normally appear in you, Journal, cause it's unusual and
cause I'm pissed. I LIKE our audiences; in fact, I love
them. They APPRECIATE us... But I still prefer
Bobby's little, hard titties and nobody beats the PofB
(for Christ's sake, don't tell HIM!)
I really understand and appreciate the fine people in
Management. No. Not atoll. See, I CAN be brief.
In re: New Category (Again). In case you didn't notice,
Journal, some of the "Left Hanging's" from previous
sessions have been covered in the end of the last session
and the beginning of this one. So they have now
become "Cut Down", again only a list
In re: Cut Down
1) "Same store we went two years ago"
2) Lasting effects of Study Time
3) "Triple L"
4) Bobby (sorta)
In re: Left Hanging
1) How DID I get Bobby's cherry?
2) How big is JASON'S dick? <! DELETED !>
Jason's a bud. That's WAY private and buds DON'T
nark
In re: "Backbeat's" Over -- Stuck in the Horse Latitudes.
I'd like to start because it's going to cover 1 ½ years
(14 ½ to 16.) BUT, I just had to wake The Prince. We
DO have a Photo Shoot at 2. And we have to get him
prettied up and fed. And what did I tell you, Journal?
The first words out of his mouth (after the moan) were,
"GodDAMN, it Ricky, you are NEVER getting that
tree-trunk up my ass again. I MEAN it this time."
Then he grabbed me real fast and hauled me on the bed
on top of him and KISSED THE LIVING SHIT out of
me. Morning breath, smelly pits, dried cum and all. He
grabbed my butt in his big, rough hands and Squeezed
for Jesus, grinding our crotches together... (MAJOR
wood -- didn't think I could). After he got thru saying,
"Mmmmmmm!" he said "Morrrrnnnnin', Ricky." And
smiled his Skater-punk smile. (Now THAT'S a picture I
wouldn't mind having on the NET. Maybe I can get
Jason to take it).
Then the fucker pushed me off him and jumped up to
take a shower. Right at the bathroom door he performed
a butt wag with a ten degree of difficulty. He's pretty
damn good at it, too. Another grin, this time over the
shoulder, chin down, sort of bashful (Damn, he
KNOWS that makes me hot! And we've got a SHOOT
for Christ's sake). Then he was gone.
My good clothes. GodDAMN it!
"You'll PAY, Skater Boy. You will INDUBITABLY
PAY!!! And my name's RICK. Ricky's the name of
my DICK."
Fuck it, I'll just have to get in the shower with him.
And if he won't move over, I have a prod that would
make any policeman proud. Come to think of it -- so
does he.
Ain't love grand?
I'll get back as quick as I can...
Save only
********************
I am so FUCKING, FUCKING MAD!
HE was at the SHOOT.
Management told me he was FIRED. They PROMISED
me he was fired.
He still looked way trashed. Even two weeks later. Just
like he deserved. And God forgive me, that made me
feel BETTER... But, it brought back that night... in
Fargo...anyway...
Journal, you know when you wake up and it's the
middle of the night and you know that something woke
you? That something is wrong? But you don't know
what? That was that night in Fargo.
I didn't move but my senses quickly became
supercharged. And... I heard it...
"MotherFUCKER <thump>... You motherfucker
<thump>... MOTHERfucker <thump>".
Jason's voice... Unmistakable... Real slow... Real
serious... Real low and... Really, really slow.
Then a quick thud,thud,thud,thud,thud. "You leave him
the FUCK alone, understand?" Tenor voice, Bobby?
I reached over for Bobby but he wasn't there. But then I
knew he wouldn't be. I know his voice....even thru
glass.
"MotherFUCKER <thump>... You motherfucker
<thump>...".
"Thud,thud,thud,thud,thud."
"Motherfucker <thump>... You MOTHERfucker
<thump> ".
There was a faint third voice. It wasn't saying anything.
Just a steady, high pitched moan that wavered with each
thump.
It was coming from the parking lot under our second
story window. I KNEW what was going on. I knew
EXACTLY what was going on. I knew that Jason could
be way harsh when something stirred him up. I'd tried
to intervene once in high school. And while Jason
managed not to hit me, I was as effective as a gnat at a
bull-elephant showdown. Jason stopped when he was
done.
"Thud,thud,thud,thud,thud."
"MotherFUCKER <thump>... You motherfucker
<thump>... MOTHERfucker <thump>".
You know what I thought about, Journal? `Do I have
enough money for bail?' When I was sure I did, I rolled
over...[`they'll call me if they need it']
"Thud,thud,thud,thud,thud."
"Motherfucker <thump>...
And went back to sleep. May God forgive me.
In the morning, Bobby was back in our bed and he had
two serious bruises. One in his gut and one on his left
pec, right under his tit. I feather-touched them. But not
light enough. Bobby awoke, smiled his gentlest smile
and said, "It's alright, Rick. We talked to him. It's
over."
At breakfast, Jason had a massive shiner-in-the-making.
I raised my eyebrow and stared pointedly. He cocked
his head just a little, shrugged and gave a half smile. I
returned a half smile. We ordered breakfast.
A WHOLE lot of communication, Journal. Don't you
doubt it for a minute.
So I know I didn't hear the whole fight. And it wasn't
as one sided as what I'd heard. Probably the earlier part
was noisier and that's what woke me.
I never needed the bail money. Either Fargo is a bastion
of Cowboy justice where the cops are not called very
often or nobody else heard. I never found out which.
Until, today, I never saw that asshole again. Guess he
was in hospital. They said he was fired. But
Goddammit, why didn't he look evil? Why'd he look so
SMALL?
There ARE sins of omission. Even in this business.
And I committed a really big one that night in Fargo.
But I didn't intend to think about it for a while. Not
until I figured out what HAPPENED here. Not `til I had
talked it over with you, Journal. Because most
everybody I love in the world was in on it. Including
my confessor. And Hondo's really far away... Another
country...
But things just didn't work out.
I'm going over to Bobby's room now. I need to be held
all night... Tight. Real tight.
It's going to be a LONG time before I want to come
back to you, Journal. Sorry...
Save. Later...
<end file>
That's all there was in the first file. I'll let you know if I
can get the passwords for any of the others.
<s> Anonymous Guy in CA