Guide, p.13
Guide, page 13
“How about this,” I say. “No kissing, but anything else is okay, and I’ll give you … I don’t know, five hundred dollars, if it’s really amazing.”
Sniffles’s eyes freak. They practically electrocute me, the road ahead, his own crotch. “Shit, yeah,” he shouts. “Whatever you want to do. That’s … wow.” He slides low in the seat, rests his Docs on the dashboard, and starts pounding out a rhythm on his knees. “Are you rich? Because you don’t seem rich.”
“No. I’m just spending Spin’s expense account.”
“Great scam.”
“I guess.”
“So when you say ‘amazing,’ what do you mean?”
“Well, you’re amazing.”
He smiles cautiously. “I’m your type.”
“Completely.”
“That’s cool,” he says. He thinks for a second. “Yeah, that’s really cool. I like you too. I have a thing for older guys. And I sort of like being told what to do. During sex, I mean, not in my life.”
“Lucky me.”
Sniffles studies my eyes. “So what’s your thing? You want to fuck me without a condom? I mean, that’s no problem, if you want to.”
“No, no. God, you shouldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, I know.” Sniffles grins. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking.”
“What?”
Sniffles stifles the grin, but it’s still there, just stunted. “You want to hit me.”
“Actually, I wasn’t—” But now that he mentions it. Well, not “hit.” That’s not a word I would use. I might have said “rough.” “Rough” sounds more … something.
“You can tell I’m into that, right?” Sniffles says. “Johns always know. They never even ask, they just start whaling on me.”
I picture that scene for a few seconds. “Yeah, I could tell.” Like Sniffles says, I’m weird.
“Wacky.” He fixes his eyes on something far beyond the windshield. “I don’t know why, but I love when guys hit me. I guess it’s because of my dad or whatever. It’s like my favorite fucking thing in the world.”
“Lucky me,” I say.
Sniffles’s eyes search mine. “Cool, yeah. Listen, is there any possibility …” he says, smiling, “… that we could … have a relationship?”
“You mean, like boyfriends.”
“Not the normal, boring kind of boyfriends. I mean, because I’m in love with David, you know? I just mean … not like a sugar daddy or anything. Maybe sort of like a father-figure type who’ll beat the shit out of me when I’m feeling fucked up. That’s sort of a huge fantasy.”
“It’s possible.” I guess it is, although very remotely. Anyway, we’re home. “That’s the place.” And I point.
My apartment is more like a very small one-story house, with bread-box ceilings and pink window shades, set among five almost identical units in a small tree-lined court. Sniffles immediately gives himself a tour. I pour him a large glass of scotch on the rocks, at his request. He stops at my CD collection, chooses Television’s Adventure, and slips it into the player just about the time I return with his drink and all the drugs I have stashed in the house. A few hits of Ecstasy, some tranquilizers, a gram of crystal meth. I’ve been saving them up on the off chance some weird situation would arise. This is definitely that. See, if I really go wild like I do in my day dreams, Sniffles will need some chemical interference. And I half explain this to him, in so many words. For better or worse, he’s already stoned insensible by the prospect of five hundred dollars and/or the effect of his slight crush on me. So he washes down the three hits of Ecstasy, fakes a satisfied burp, and relaxes back into the couch, shooting me these debauched little looks. I settle into an armchair, snort a few lines of crystal, volley his increasingly disoriented blather, and wait for the drugs to distort me. It takes about twenty-five minutes.
It’s ninety minutes later. I’m sitting on the foot of the bed, jittering in the feeble last rays of the crystal. Sniffles is sprawled out behind me, still jerking off. He can’t seem to find the right moment. His face is elongated over a daydream, presumably violent. I don’t know where he is, but I guess I’m involved. My come’s caking up on his stomach and chest. His lips are twice their old size, slightly crooked, smeared with blood, and sort of starry with bits of saliva. One eye’s purplish and swelling shut as I watch. If I could see his ass, I’m positive it would look thrashed. If Sniffles hadn’t just stopped me, I don’t know what would have happened. His face was so blurred by my slaps that I didn’t even notice the blood. Then he grabbed my wrist. That woke me up. “Blood,” he said. He could hardly pronounce that. I.e., if there was a virus in him, it was loose. Still, that didn’t scare me as much as my thoughts. I really wanted to kill him. I really thought that he’d let me. So I threw myself here. I’d come twice, but I guess I was thinking of going for three. He keeps saying, “Amazing,” just under his breath. It is and it isn’t, obviously. That could be the Ecstasy talking. I’m waiting for him to come back to reality, so we can communicate. And a few seconds later, he comes. When Sniffles comes, he yells—I mean, loudly—like his dick is a band that has just started playing his favorite song. It’s a good thing my neighbors are never around.
“My mind works like this,” David is saying. We’re standing in the narrow hallway outside Dora’s apartment. She’s inside, shooting up. Sniffles is at the corner store, stealing us a six-pack. “Usually, I don’t think about having AIDS. I mean about having HIV. I always forget that it’s not technically AIDS yet. But then when I do remember, this is what happens. It’s usually right after I’ve had sex with somebody—not Dora, so much, but with men who pay me. I think, I have HIV, okay, but it’ll be fine. The doctor says I have maybe ten years from the time I got infected before I die if I take care of myself. But then I think, Well, I could’ve gotten infected seven years ago, because I’ve been letting guys fuck me since I was twelve, as weird as that sounds. Then I think how many drugs I’ve done, and what that’s probably done to my immune system. And I start to get really scared, and I think, Fuck it. I’m going to kill myself now before I get sick. Because it’s too much, you know? Then I think, I hate everybody. Somebody gave this to me. You can’t trust anyone. And I get so tense that I want to kill people, and my friends get shit from me because they’re there. And then I get really guilty about treating my friends shitty, so I apologize to them, and they’re usually okay about it. And that’s a relief. So I feel better, and I’ve sort of forgotten about the AIDS. So my mind’s made this weird journey to get me away from thinking I have AIDS—I mean, HIV. Do you think it does that consciously? Do you know what I mean?”
David always asks these impossible questions. Luckily, his attention span sucks, and he immediately slugs Dora’s door. “Wake up, you fucking pincushion!”
Minutes later, the rest of the Rambo Dolls show. Warren is a tall, polite African American in his early twenties. Six months ago, a friend bought him an hour of David’s services as a joke birthday gift, and the two became friends. A bass player, he’s the only Rambo Doll with a smidgen of technical prowess. Brett, guitarist, is a hippie-esque sixteen-year-old, newly off drugs, and a born-again Christian. He doesn’t say much. He’s brought along a crappy little amp, which he shares with Warren. David, drummer, can’t afford a kit, so he perches on the edge of Dora’s bed with a coffee-table art book in his lap and a pencil in each fist.
Over the next, oh, hour and a half, David thwacks the book so violently that he spars with the general din. As far as I can tell from the Rambo Dolls’ lurching sketch of a sound, the music’s parochial hardcore. Sort of like if the Shaggs had grown up listening to the Melvins. Sniffles, fat-lipped and black-eyed from my beating, limps around the room singing/yelling some punkified lyrics re misogyny, racism, drug use, et cetera. Studying these Little Rascals–esque antics, I feel kind of sad, truth be told. Fortunately, they’re oblivious. It’s only after Brett and Warren have left, and Sniffles is napping, that David nervously asks what I thought, by which time I’m mentally ready to lie. “Very cool,” I say.
“Thanks,” David says happily. Dora’s sprawled in his lap, nodding out. “Yeah, I think in a year we’ll be famous. That’s my goal.”
“How famous?”
“As famous as … and as good as … Sandy Duncan’s Eye.”
“But they’re not very famous,” I say. I’m beginning to see what Dora meant. In the sharp window light, David’s face does reveal a bit too much skull.
“They’re famous enough,” he says.
“Why not as famous as U2?”
David goggles at me. “Because they suck.”
“Okay, but why not be in a great band that happens to be really famous?”
He looks horrified. “Impossible, man.”
“Then what else? Other life goals, I mean.”
“To not die. Not for a long time.” He glances at Dora, then smiles conspiratorially at me. “And … have a great girlfriend,” he half whispers, then checks to see if she’s awake. Nope. “And be rich … somehow.” Now he’s crowing again. “And never see my parents again. Uh … be a great drummer.”
“Do you have a favorite drummer?”
“Adam Pfahler.”
“Who’s in …”
“Jawbreaker. Fuck, they’re great. Okay, I want my band to be as famous as Jawbreaker. And as good as them.”
“Jawbreaker’s more famous than Sandy Duncan’s Eye? I guess they are.”
“Well, Jawbreaker’s known for being brilliant. But Sandy Duncan’s Eye is more known for their weird name. So it would be better to be like Jawbreaker.” He shoots me a grin that makes him look about seven years old. Suddenly it decays into a grimace, and he punches the air. “But I’m going to die soon anyway, so … who cares?” He glares into space for a second, then shoves Dora off him. She hits the floor, thwack, not too far away from Sniffles, rolls slowly onto her side, and winces up at David with this deep if very foggy concern.
“Shit,” she slurs. “Are you … crying, David?”
And, yeah, fuck, he is.
I’m sitting on the bed, hugging David. His face is smashed into my neck, just below the right ear. Occasionally he sobs, and we jolt. I’ve been stroking his hair for a couple of minutes. Dora is struggling to stay in the world, but the heroin’s swallowing her, eyelids first. Sniffles is a log.
“David,” I say. “Come on, let’s go for a walk.”
“Fuck,” he says, voice all screechy. “Fuck, fuck …” And he struggles to his feet.
I follow him out the door, down the hall, into the stairwell, up a few flights, then through a metal door that puts us out on the roof. Too bad downtown Los Angeles is such a total pit, because you can see for miles.
“I just don’t know anymore,” David says. He’s racing around on the roof. “What do you think I should do?”
“About what?” I ask. Because I’m not sure. I mean, he has so many problems.
“About AIDS,” he says. Actually, he yells. “I have AIDS. It’s not just HIV. I’ve fucking got it. Shit’s happening to me.”
“All you can do is take care of yourself.” It sounds facile, but really, what else can you say?
“It’s not helping,” he says. “I’ve fucked up my body too much. It can’t do anything by itself. And I can’t … can’t stay with Dora. She makes me too tense, and that isn’t …” He shuts up and wanders around for a while. When David walks, he stomps the ground—or, in this case, the roof—as if every step were important to him, and his long, messy hair flaps around his handsome head in slow, rickety motion like the wings of some huge, sloppy bird. “So,” he mumbles. “You did it with Sniffles.”
“Yeah.”
“You really fucked him. How much did it cost you?”
For whatever reason, I fudge. I guess I don’t want to seem too unprofessional and/or pathetic. “Two hundred and fifty dollars.”
He stops walking and gawps at me. “You’re fucking joking.”
“Nope.”
“Two hundred and fifty dollars?” And his eyes jet all over the place. Sky, roof, me. Then I think he tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite focus. “Shit, I’d even do you for two hundred and fifty dollars.” I don’t have a clue what that does to my face, but assuming it shows what I feel, which is “Uh-oh,” David can’t seem to translate. “That’s an offer,” he adds. “You can’t hit me, but anything else is okay.”
I’m weird, okay? I don’t know if I’m a saint, or if I’m scared of confrontation, or if I’m incredibly fucked-up and selfish. Hence, my going back through this encounter and recounting it in as faithful a manner as possible. I know I don’t want to fuck David, not just because he has AIDS. Maybe if he wasn’t infected, or if I was high, I could get into, say, tying him up and all that. You know, taming the wild beast, et cetera. Anyway, I can’t explain my response.
“Well, I’d have to hit an ATM.”
“Later,” he says. Unlike Sniffles, he doesn’t look happy at all. His eyes are scouring the roof. “We can do it in there,” he says, and heads toward the metal door. “What are you into?”
I’m following. “I don’t know.” Actually I do, just not with him.
“Bullshit, “ David says. He hurls open the door.
We’re standing on a landing, maybe five feet by eight. The floor’s very scummy and slick. A dusty red lightbulb pops out of one wall, casting this pornoesque glow. Stairs plunge to my immediate left, to David’s right. David has whipped off his T-shirt and is shoving his jeans to his ankles. He has the sort of body that must have been perfect the day he was born—broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, completely smooth, with a lengthy, fat dick and a small, boxy ass. If AIDS is destroying him, he’s holding his own pretty well. Of course, the lack of light helps.
“Come on,” he says impatiently. He’s naked now. One hand is working violently on his dick. The other is pointing for me to undress.
“You’re beautiful,” I say, just to say something.
“Oh, shit. Don’t say that.” David looks down the stairs and kind of winces.
“But I really don’t know what to do.”
“Anything you want,” he yells. “Shit.” He looks down at his dick, which isn’t the slightest bit hard, and pumps faster, his eyes sort of begging it.
“Let’s not, okay? I’ll just give you some money.”
“I know you’re into me.”
“I’m not.” I’m really not.
“Okay,” he says. I’ve just noticed the crooked little teardrop on his cheek. “But do you mind if I come? I promise I won’t get any on you.”
“No, no. I don’t mind.”
“Thanks. You don’t have to pay me.” He takes a step back and leans against the wall, then jerks off, looking at me very intently. Maybe it’s a trick of the teardrops, but I can see some desire in his eyes. I don’t know what’s going on in his head, obviously, and I doubt I’m directly involved, but my proximity’s making a difference, I guess. Anyway, he’s hard.
“What are you thinking about?”
“I don’t know.” He looks startled, and checks the stairs. “About not being alone.”
“Do you mind if I jerk off too?” I guess his beauty’s affecting me. That and my sympathy for him. And my weird imagination.
“No, that’d be good,” he says.
†
In my fantasy, David is jerking off in my bed. I’ve made him very gentle and stoned. We’re picking up from where I left off with Sniffles. First I bash in his face. Then I pick up a knife, pry his hand off his dick, take ahold of his genitals, give them a yank, slice them free at the root, and drop them into his mouth. Now I’m stabbing him in the stomach and chest. Blood is spraying all over the place. I’ll get HIV, but that’s karma. My sacrifice makes David’s death seem so intense, I can’t tell you. He’s ready, I’m just about ready. I bend his legs back, slide my dick up what’s left of his ass, put the tip of the knife to the centermost point of his throat, then fuck him hard and slowly bury the blade.
I notice it first. A solid, wobbling patch of … something, I’m not exactly sure what, in the dark at the foot of the stairs. “David,” I say, and stuff my hard-on back into my pants.
David unscrunches his eyes. They’re dazed. It’s nice. “Did you come?” He studies the floor by my shoes. “Just a second. I’m … almost …”
“Someone’s watching.” I recheck the patch.
David squints down the staircase. “Oh, shit.” He immediately bends down and grabs at his clothes.
Sniffles runs up the stairs. “What are you guys doing?” he shouts. “As if I didn’t fucking know.” He stops short on the top step, coughing and rubbing his eyes very gently. “Oh, man, head rush.”
David has already stepped into his jeans and is dragging them up over his thighs. “Fuck off,” he mumbles.
Sniffles grins and points. “I saw your cock, I saw your cock.” He turns to me. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to see his cock?” He turns to David. “I bet he’s not paying you as much as he paid me.”
“Where’s Dora?” David has his T-shirt back on and is untangling the flannels.
“Losing her shit down there.”
“Cool,” David says.
“Yeah, totally.” Sniffles’s eyes leave David’s body and smash into mine. I expect to see jealousy, maybe even betrayal, but all I can read is lovesickness. It looks like pain. And I guess I must care about him, or feel some delayed guilt, at least, because my throat starts to ache very slightly.
“David,” I say, but I’m looking at Sniffles, whose reaction is paramount. “If I paid you five hundred dollars, would you do it with Sniffles?”
Sniffles’s eyes do that explosion thing, like his pupils are the bottoms of rockets blasting off into his irises.
David slams his back against the wall and looks up at the ceiling. “You mean, to watch us?” He lets out a big, smelly breath. “Or do you mean you want to fuck us both?”
I check in with Sniffles. His face has this scared, back-pedaling, faraway sort of post-slap expression. So I take a guess. “To do whatever Sniffles wants you to do.”
