The Room (14 page)

He watched the movie for a few minutes as she squirmed slightly in her seat, pushing lightly against his hand and squeezing his joint. He felt her movements and waved his finger around a bit in her snatch until he became annoyed with the action on the screen then jabbed his hand into her cunt faster and faster as she tugged harder on his prick and continued even when he stopped. She was rigid again and was pumping her thighs together and he looked at her out of the corner of his eye, puzzled, then inwardly shrugged his shoulders and told her to go down. She sucked as hard as she could and he could feel the pressure of her thighs on his hand and the tingle of her teeth against the head of his cock. His groin and gut ached with excitement and his mind pleaded for more, but more of what? His joint was in her mouth and his finger was up her cunt yet there was a confusion of more and what and all he could do was sit as quietly as possible feeling the tingle of her teeth and pressure of her thighs, vaguely aware of movement on the screen and the sound of voices and music, as she sucked as hard as she could.

When her jaws forced her to stop and she sat up and spread her legs he moved his hand in her sodden crotch, as they both stared at the screen, bewildered by the screaming urgency for more, more of some damn thing, but what? His hand stopped moving and he watched whatever it was that was happening on the screen. His hand was a little stiff and tired, but he left it where
it was. There was no sense in taking it out, hed only have to put his finger back in again, so why bother taking it out. It felt good where it was. It would smell when he took it out, but he could always wash it. And it was nice and warm and wet in there. And on the outside too. It was good to think of his hand being there. To think of her pants being down around her knees and her legs spread apart and his finger in her pussy. To think of his finger in her bush and his prick in her mouth. He moved his finger in a circle and shrugged off the more and what and told her to jerk off, then play around, then go down and in between she squeezed and tugged and he jabbed and thrust and they sat as still as possible and stared at the screen as she jerked off, played around, went down and he kept his hand and finger moving as fast and long as possible vaguely aware of her stiffening from time to time and tugging a little harder on his joint, but he ignored it and kept his hand and finger moving and kept her jerking off, playing around and going down until the second show started and he told her to jerk off and she jerked him off harder and faster until he said he was ready to shoot and took his hand from her snatch and she cupped her hands between his legs and he pulled back her jacket and grabbed his joint and yanked it off until he shot his load into her cupped hands, his body twitching as he strained to keep the stream directed properly, then milked the final drops and rubbed them off on the sides of her hands.

When he finished he let the head of his joint rub against her jacket, then shoved it in his pants and closed his fly as he watched her open her hands and let the scum drip to the floor then told her to rub her hands together and watched as she rubbed his scum into her hands sensing how it felt and aware of the smell coming from his finger. When he told her O.K. she stopped rubbing and wiped her hands off on the seat in front of her. After she got her pants back on they got up and went to the bathrooms. He went directly into a stall, locked the door, then inspected his pants carefully, opening his pants and belt to be certain there were no telltale spots anywhere, either in or out. When he finished he flushed the toilet then washed his hands. He washed them many times, filling his hands with soap each time, sniffing his finger between washings. When he was satisfied that all he
could smell was soap he washed them once more then left the bathroom. She was waiting for him at an exit and followed beside him as he left the theater.

They strolled down the street and he asked her if she was going to baby-sit tonight and what time and told her to look out the window when the people had left, that he would be waiting downstairs in the courtyard. He left her in front of her house and went home. He quickly and vaguely answered his mother when she asked him how he liked the movies, and went to his room.

He sat on the edge of his bed for a while just sort of wondering. It seemed like he always felt like this when he got home from the movies. Like there was something missing or something. He never could quite figure it out. Just some little something missing, or just not right. It puzzled him, but thinking about it got him nowhere and anyway he couldnt wonder about it too long because of the itchy feeling in his crotch.

He went to the bathroom, closed the door quietly, let his pants and underwear drop to his ankles, then sat on the commode and toyed with his joint, his eyes closed tightly trying to create a new image in his mind, one that would give meaning to the more and what he was feeling, but always ending up with the same one, the only one that seemed to satisfy his needs. It consisted almost completely of a single frame from a story in a comic book he had read a few years before. He couldnt remember anything about the book, or the story, except the one frame where an ancient and evil looking oriental had a white woman chained to a pillar in a large hall. He was thin and bony with a pointed chin and goatee, a large sharp nose, long droopy mustaches and red evil eyes. The woman was young, very white and her arms were stretched above her and chains were wrapped around her wrists and around the pillar. Her feet were bare and the tips of her toes barely touched the floor, her evening gown was ripped and her left tit was hanging out. And she was terrified. And the evil oriental stared at her and you knew he was going to do something horrible and whatever that something horrible was satisfied the more and what and made his balls tighten with excitement and he beat his meat faster with the sharp image in
his mind of the young white and beautiful woman chained to the pillar and the evil red eyes staring at her and the tit hanging out of the torn gown and he focused on that evil face, the horror on her face and the tit hanging from the chained body and he reached over and grabbed a handful of toilet paper and held it in his left hand as his right hand moved faster and faster and a feeling of satisfaction drifted through him as he could sense what was going to be done to the young white woman as she was chained to the pillar with her left tit hanging in the yellow face with the red evil eyes and he felt the warmth of her terror in his hand as his body jerked with the forced final strokes and he milked and wiped the drops on the paper and stared briefly at the heavy, yellowish white fluid in his hand. He milked his joint one last time, wiped the tip on the paper, then dropped it in the bowl and flushed it.

He went back to his room and sat in his chair, waiting for his mother to call him for dinner. He felt slightly more relaxed, yet still puzzled, discontented. It had been a good day so far, like many saturdays. Saturdays that were looked forward to from sunday morning on, yet there was always something missing or not quite right. At least nothing got screwed up today like it sometimes did. At least not yet. Sometimes she couldnt go to the movies, or didnt baby-sit for some damn reason, but so far everything went the way it should. And tonight hed go up the block after dinner and hang around with the fellows for a while, talking or doing something, then make some sort of excuse to get away without them knowing where he was going and he would see Mary again. He just hoped nothing would happen to stop those people from going out. It wouldnt be so bad if he knew ahead of time so he could meet Mary in the park, but he didnt want her coming around the corner and telling him that she wasnt going to baby-sit. The stupid cunt did that one night and he almost didnt get away from his friends without them knowing where he was going. Shit, that was a ballbreaker. Almost screwed up his whole week. But it should be all right tonight. They were going to some sort of a special party or something. The park was all right, but in the house was the best. He could see. He liked to sit on the couch with her and have her lift her skirt and then take her pants off. He always got a look at her
bush and when he held his head right he could see his finger going into her box and he could watch her when she played with his prick and put it in her month, especially when he stood up and she knelt in front of him. And he could put his hand in her blouse and squeeze her tit and feel the nipple and even see it sometimes and when he shot in her hands he could see it and watch her wash her hands with his scum and hear it squish between the palms of her hands and then they would sit on the couch and start all over again. All week he planned and dreamed of a good saturday. From class to class, day to day, he dreamed and planned …

But sunday morning always followed with that oppressive weight on his chest, that irritating gnawing that he tried to relieve by taking deeper and deeper breaths that always seemed to be just about to give him relief, yet never did. And everything always seemed to be so goddamn gray and heavy and his mother always asked him if he wanted to go to church with her and he always told her no. Every fucking week it was the same shit. Do you want to go to church. He felt like telling her to take her stinking church and jam it up her ass, but he gave the same answer to the same question. No, not today, and he would leave the house and wander up the block to meet his friends and screw the day away and he would go to school monday and tuesday and wednesday and thursday and friday and then would come saturday and if things went as they should he would go to the movies with Mary and they would baby-sit at night. But sunday always followed.

Yeah.

Yeah, that Fu Man Chu really knew where it was at. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped between his knees. I wonder if her name was Mary? Seems like it was. Yeah, Mary, Schmary, whats the difference. Whats in a name. By any name she smells the same. Anyway, she was better than nothing. He chuckled. He really knew where it was at that insidious son of a bitch, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped between his knees, looking. just looking …

Shit. He stood up and stepped to the door. Fuck it. Fuck all that shit, thrusting his face at the small window, a
dim reflection thrusting itself at him. He stared at the face, then through it at the wall and the signs over the baskets, yeah, yeah, yeah, blue, green, yellow, purple and shit brindle. He turned from the window and looked into the mirror over the wash basin, at the face and the wall behind him, staring for many minutes at the bloodshot eyes.

He leaned closer and stared at the goddamn pimple on his cheek. It seemed to be twice as fucking big as it was the last time he looked at it. It was red and angry and seemed to be spreading like some kind of fucking rot. He touched it with his finger tip and fucking pain shot through him as if someone had jabbed him with a hot wire. His body snapped rigidly and his eyes screamed as his body paralyzed itself to keep his hands from clawing the fucking thing from his cheek. His body shivered with rage as his screaming eyes glared at themselves and his hands inches from the sonofabitching cheek and that motherfucking pimple that was driving him out of his fucking mind, wanting to rip and tear the flesh from the side of his face and destroy the rotten cocksucker and the poison that was driving him out of his mind.

Suddenly his hands were at his side and his body jerked around and he leaned against the wall, rigid. Those fucking bastards. Those motherfucking bastards. I wish to krist I had those pricks here now. I/d fucking killem. I swear to krist I/d killem. I/d tear the eyes out of their heads. Those miserable bastards. Those miserable cocksucking bastards. He stormed thru his cell, his voice roaring in his head, YOU ROTTEN SLIMY PRICKS.     YOU        NO        GOOD        MOTHER        FUCK        ING        BASTARDS

strangling air with each hand, snapping his body around as he slashed his way through his cell, I/LL KILL YOU        I/LL KILL YOU,        YOU ROTTEN        SONSABITCHES.        I/LL        KILLYA        KILLYA        KILLYAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAA his fists grinding into the corner over the commode, pounding his head against his hands, the bones in his chest being shoved apart by a growing lump that was slowly strangling him, kill you, kill you, slowly staggering down the wall, kill
you, kill you, kill you, sitting on the commode, face buried in hands, kill you

rotten son of a bitch. Thats all, just a rotten son of a bitch. Do you know that god? Youre no good. No fucking good. A no good fuck        ing        son        of        a        bitch. Do you hear me god? DO YOU HEAR ME YOU LOUSY BASTARD? YOURE NO FUCKING GOOD. YOURE A ROTTEN LOUSY SON OF A BITCH AND I FUCK YOU WHERE YOU EAT, AND YOUR MOTHER TOO, turning to the barred window and the hint of light coming through the milky glass, youre no fucking good, lowering his head and staring at the gray concrete floor. His feet were on the floor and his arms were on his thighs and his head angled forward from his neck and he looked at the gray concrete floor. There were spots and cracks and blemishes and areas where the concrete showed through the paint and that was just a slightly different shade of gray. How many shades of gray were there? The fucking cell seemed to have every shade of gray in the whole fucking world. Gray fucking walls, gray fucking ceiling with cracks going down the walls and into the gray fucking floor. Gray fucking bars. Jesus krist, youd think theyd run out of cracks and gray

maybe it was the North Carolina. Yeah, I think that was the name of it. Put it together with that stinking glue. Krist, did that glue stink. Worse than rotten eggs and old farts. Painted the whole damn thing battleship gray. Should have painted it different colors. Probably would have looked good with some white and blue or something. Maybe even camouflage colors. Shit, I dont know. Dont even know if camouflage was around then. Fuck it. So what. Gray was good enough. And then to xmas services. Always so fucking cold in the church on xmas. Couldnt have the services at the regular time so the fucking joint could heat up. Had to have them early in the morning when it was cold enough to put icicles on a whores ass. Or freeze a whores tit, or whatever it is. Who gives a shit. At least on xmas we didnt have to sing jesus loves me. Every week in that fucking sunday school, jesus loves me this I know, and the rest of that horseshit. Loves my fucking ass. Jesus loves me this I know. Sure did fuck
people up with that chemistry set i got one xmas. Krist, those stink bombs were ugly. Smelled worse than a skunks ass. Sure did fuck up the old Ridgeway movie house. Especially when I put them by the big fans.