Creamy Bullets (14 page)

He looked around quickly and then took a little onto his tongue. It tasted like shit. “Snort it,” she said. He hadn’t snorted anything before. He tried a smaller mountain for his nostril but exhaled as he brought it up and it blew off, falling dust-like onto his pants. She smiled a little and her eyes looked red. “Out of practice?” she said playfully. Conner looked down at his pants and started to brush it off. “No, wait,” she said. She leaned over and put her face near his lap. She sucked it up gently, little snoring sounds escaping the back of her throat. She sat up straight then and tilted her head back a little. “Clean pants,” she said.

As he was finally pulling up to his apartment building, she started to play with her hair nervously. “I’d rather go to my place,” she said.

“Oh, do you have your own place?” Conner asked. “I mean, we don’t want to piss someone off if we’re going to do this stuff.” He was into doing whatever she wanted but he was feeling strange about driving. It seemed like he was going so much faster than everyone else and his little Rabbit was feeling like a Cadillac. He was suddenly low to the ground in the thing. His ass was almost touching the asphalt and his feet hovered over his body instead of on the pedals. They were being pulled by a cable connected to the power lines.
Yeah
. He was a fucking bus driver!

“I need more and I just want you to come to my place anyway,” she said. “I’m only about ten blocks from here.”

Conner drove the ten blocks, which turned into sixteen blocks and felt like fifty, his car like one of those long drag racing vehicles, except wobbling through space. The parachute billowing behind them, shadowing their bodies. He was almost embarrassed about the parachute.

“I’m not Krystal,” the girl said. “I’m just the bait.”

What? Conner felt something disconnect in him, his brain lost. “What is Krystal? Who is Krystal?” he said, and laughed uneasily. Some of the drug was out on a plate on a low wooden coffee table in front of him. He sat directly in the middle of the leather couch, staring at it and trying to estimate how long he was going to be messed up.

“Krystal’s my mom,” she said.

Conner groaned and rested his head on his shoulder. The girl came over and caressed his cheeks. She leaned against him and he opened one eye to see down her thin red shirt. It was like a doily and it glowed burgundy on her chest, her orange nipples.

More powder in his nose.

His weekend was over. Where had it gone? He hadn’t even found time to call his daughter or his daughter’s angry mother. Instead, he seemed to be watching things happen to him in slow motion. Things he couldn’t stop or for some reason he didn’t care to stop. He was in a clean room now, a woman’s room. In a bed. There was an older woman next to him. They were both wet with sweat and other moisture. The woman was most likely in her 50s, old enough to have veins everywhere he looked. To have teeth that didn’t seem real. Teeth that seemed to dangle over him as she rode him in an unsteady manic rhythm. The woman did everything she could do to him, pushed him into every part of her. She pressed his chubby belly with her own swollen breasts. She worked him like a chore. Until she was done.

Conner stumbled out of the apartment as another morning started somewhere on the calendar. Did he have to be at work tonight? Or did he have one more day? He had to find a newspaper or something. A friendly stranger?
“Excuse me, can you tell me what day it is?”
What did he think he was, a hostage?

He enjoyed himself anyway, or at least he thought he probably did. He thought about the man with the hearing aid shot out, shouting for help and God damn. The white suit splattered with paint. It was a disgrace. An embarrassment. A pathetic attempt at sport that turned into pleading. A bad game that turned worse.

The Layover

I
walked nervously behind him, into the harsh white surroundings of the men’s bathroom at the Dallas airport. I’d never seen a place so bright and clean.

I followed him in there. He turned around when the door closed and this look came on his face, like the brightness hurt. He squinted a slow 360 before looking at me sideways.

“You want to go into town first? Go on a little date?”

I walked over to the sink and splashed my face with water while trying to figure out what my answer would be. I rubbed the bubble gum-scented soap into my right eye by accident. I looked down at my shoes, which were falling apart. I had a layover. Twelve hours.

“Yeah, we can do that I guess.”

We drove into Dallas and I was startled at how big and metropolitan it was. I always thought it would be ugly and full of cowboy hats. His car cruised like slow motion through a part of town that was scattered with drug dealers and women pretending to talk on pay phones. I tried not to think about Rhonda or John.

“You say, Hey baby, and if he acts like he’s paying attention to you then you say, You workin’? That’s about it. Let him lean in the window so we can take a good look. Tell him you aren’t a cop, but don’t say anything about money because
he
might be a cop. Let him tell you how much his dick is worth.”

He seemed to know this wasn’t my scene, but he said it didn’t matter. He liked to break in new ass. And he liked to suck a boy’s cock as he did it. He’d get bored with just one guy.

“Where’s your wife?” he asked me, spotting the ring on my finger.

“She lives in Eugene, Oregon. She works at the—”

“You got kids with her?” he interrupted.

“One.”

“You think he might be gay?”

“He’s only ten,” I said.

“Does he look at porno yet? Like hard core stuff?”

“Never found any in his room before,” I told him. “But when I was his age I think I was into really big tits. Raquel Welch and Dolly Parton. The whole mother’s milk thing.”

“You should try boy nipples more—not so flabby,” he informs me.

“My wife is flat-chested,” I said to him. “Sometimes I think she’s a boy. I bought her a fake mustache once. I fell in love with her mouth. Her mouth and her skin.”

“You tell her you pick up on men?”

“I told her about things in the past. She even slept with one guy I did once and we talked about his tattoos. She wanted me to get a tattoo down there.”

The next morning I woke up at his place and realized I missed my flight by several hours. I got up and looked for a telephone to call the airport. A handsome black boy, about 17, was putting on a coat and opening the door. He gave me an uneven, nervous grin and slipped out of the apartment.

“You don’t even know my name,” a voice said.

I looked over and saw the man from the airport, standing in the bathroom doorway.

“You can call me Jeff,” he said, smirking.

“I’ve missed my plane,” I told him, looking for my shoes.

“It’s okay. I saw your tickets. I called and postponed for you. I thought you’d want to rest after last night. In fact, you should probably just stay in bed.”

He walked over to me let his towel fall away, his washed cock half-hard and swaying there. “I just shaved it,” he said, “Smell the Winto-green?”

I did, and almost gagged from the air around us.

“There’s some water and an extra toothbrush all ready for ya,” he said, waving toward the bathroom.

While I was brushing my teeth, Jeff said something from the bedroom. I had the water running loudly but I think he said: “You fucked my boyfriend last night.”

“Something smells queer in here,” one of the three men at the bar said when we sat down behind them. Their barstools spun around to face us. “You’re not cruising when we’re in here, you got that?” His black cowboy hat said
CLYDE
on the front, the letters arched around an eagle.

The bartender walked over and said something to the men. They huffed and returned to their drinking. They all wore leather and denim in various combinations.

A Kenny Chesney song played on the CD jukebox. Jeff sang along to the chorus and then leaned over to my ear. “The small guy there, with them-” he started to say but was stopped quickly by unwanted eye contact from the bar.

“Why don’t you talk so we can hear y’all,” Clyde said. The other two kept their mouths closed tight, as if they weren’t allowed to speak. Their mouths only opened for beer, with Clyde sometimes rambling on to them in an almost-fatherly tone. I noticed he was the only one in the bar who kept his cowboy hat on. He slid off his stool, boots clicking the floor loudly, and he stumbled a bit as he stepped suddenly toward our table. He seemed to be drunk.

“Okay, okay,” he said loudly as if about to make an announcement to the whole bar. His hands went up, palms out. “I got to apologize to ya boys,” he said. “This is a public bar and you can do whatcha want to. I’ve been here long enough anyhow. It’s time to get my men back home.” The other two got up and pulled their jackets on. Clyde motioned to the bartender. “Get Jiffy and his friend here a beer on my tab.”

“Have you lived in Texas all your life?” I asked Jeff.

“No, no,” he answered, “I grew up in Baton Rouge. Louisiana.”

I took a slow drink from the thin watery beer. “When I was a kid my favorite football team was the New Orleans Saints, so I always wanted to live there.”

“Louisiana’s no place for kids. For strung-out grown-ups maybe and criminals, but for sure not little boys,” he said.

“What did you do while growing up there?”

Jeff scooted closer to me and I felt his hand hover over my leg, near my crotch. Despite myself, I had an erection.

“My friend Truman and I, we, like pretended this game. I think we were nine or ten. I’d wear his sister’s clothes and hide somewhere in his house. When he found me I’d act all scared and weak. He had a pocket knife.” Jeff’s hand pressed against my hard-on as he spoke in a steady whisper.

His breath was filling my nostrils. I tried not to breathe. The neon window lights around his head pulsed like a sick halo.

“I’d have to lay on my back when he found me. I didn’t wear any underwear and if I did he’d pretend-hit me until I slid them off. Sometimes toward the end of the game he’d let me have the knife and I would rub the dull side along his dick like I was whittling a stick. I’d suck on the head and whittle the rest. The first time I did that he got scared and pissed a little on my chin. I thought it felt pretty good and so then sometimes he’d piss a little bit on me after he came. He’d wash the sperm off me that way.”

I jumped a little as the bartender swept our beer bottles away and replaced them with full ones. He looked at Jeff and smiled knowingly, as if he knew the story being told. I looked at Jeff and saw his strange smile but also something on his cheek, like tears, or maybe just sweat.

Jeff and I spent the rest of the day shopping and sight-seeing. He wanted to buy a pair of women’s panties and a bra. “You can give these to your wife when you’re home,” he said, and I felt some relief knowing that he realized I had to go soon. “What size does she wear?”

At 8:00 that night we began eating dinner back at his apartment. I told him I had made reservations for a flight home at a quarter after midnight.

“I wish I was married,” Jeff said. “I mean to a man. I kinda get pissed sometimes because you gotta have a straight marriage to get kids and have a family. Sure, you’ll see rich fags and closet-dykes with kids, but not too often middle-class and out of the closet.”

We were drinking wine. On the couch were several small bags from our day shopping—toys and books for my son John. A pair of panties and bra for my wife Rhonda, courtesy of Jeff’s Visa card. A gift box of assorted cheese and crackers for myself.

“Do you spank your son?” Jeff asked me.

“Once I did when he was four. I didn’t want to but I was under a lot of pressure. He was playing underneath our neighbor’s police car after I’d told him twice that week not to. I never saw the guy drive it at all. I just saw it there every morning. He worked the night shift. And what’s kind of funny is that I never even knew what the guy
looked like
until he died last year and his picture was in the newspaper.”

Jeff shifted in his chair, knowing that I was drifting off the subject. “Did you feel love for him as you were doing it? Or anger?” he asked.

“Both, I guess.”

“Have you ever hit your wife?” he asked.

I thought for a moment, wondered how the word “hit” was defined in this question. “No. But she hit me once. Drew blood.” My finger touched my nostrils lightly. My face felt unreal.

“I want you to be your wife,” he said, standing up. He grabbed one of the bags from the couch. He looked at the clock and his eyes went intense.

He bit my nipple through the cloth and pulled the straps down off my shoulders. “I think this looks sexy,” he said. I was wearing the bra and panties for my wife. One of his fingers pushed itself into my ass, through the black lace of the panties. It felt good this way, better than just his dry skin.

“Move like your wife would move. Make her sounds,” Jeff whispered in my ear. “I want to know what it’s like.” The toys and books for my son had been taken out of their bags and scattered around near us.

Part of me shut down. I didn’t want to pretend this game. I felt mocked in some way. Despite this feeling I became more aggressive. My hand wrapped around his warm cock and I wanted him to get inside me. Two of his fingers were starting to stretch me out, pushing the soft fabric into me.

I felt him get bigger, wider in my hand. He took his hand from my ass and pulled me to my knees. He stood in front of me and told me to squeeze my tits. He rubbed his dick against my cheek. He pulled it sideways and slapped me with it harder than I expected. It stung. He guided it into my mouth. It pressed down on my tongue, taking up all the space between my cheeks. I breathed through my nose. I tried to masturbate but he stopped me. “Save it,” he says.

His hips pulled back and his dick slid out from between my teeth. I choked for air, trying to work my mouth to say the words I desperately wanted to say to him. “I want you to fuck me. I want—”

His cock sprayed me with cum. Some of it in my eyes, on my face, down my neck and chest. And then a last shot in my open mouth. He grabbed my head and softly nuzzled it against his chest and belly. We stuck together awkwardly.

“I know what you want,” he said softly. “It might change you forever. Maybe you’ll come back to me. Maybe we could be a family.”

The clock said 10:25pm and my body still twitched with a pulsing erection. I tried to keep him hard with my hand.

“If I’m the first to fuck you, would you fall in love with me like a schoolgirl?”

I looked at his face and drifted into his eyes. I lusted.

“Do you understand what I’m about to give you?” he asked me.