DRIVE Part 4
"As long as I've known you, your being human has seemed more like a struggle you couldn't or didn't want to win." - Merlyn
Several times in my life I've asked myself: "What have I done and how do I get out of this shit now?" As I stared at the man in my father's doorway, all thought was blocked from me and those questions were consuming. My second male encounter was another black man, but the total opposite of my first. This one was tall, very tall, muscles, dark black skin wearing a wife-beater with navy jogging shorts, carrying a gym bag and was very direct. He didn't speak before entering my father's home, he just walked past me and stopped at the end of the hall once he realized he had no idea where my bedroom was.
"Where you want to do this?" He said in a deep voice I thought reserved for blues singers and Satan.
I didn't even speak, I just lead him to my bedroom, constantly looking at his bag and wondering what could he have possibly brought with him. A depraved imagination can work against you in those situations and when we reached my room I had already begun accepting my impending and seemingly inevitable rape.
He sat on the front edge of my bed, directly in front of my television and video cassette recorder. I stayed in my doorway, watching his hands unzip the gym bag. In the seconds between wonder and certainty, I pictured myself being shoved face first into my own pillow, fighting for air, imagining what the pain of natural order reversed on itself would feel like. And, I liked the idea. How tragic it would be if I were raped, and how could I use that to my advantage?
I've always looked for something, anything, about myself that was special. And these things, some imaginary, were never pretty or clean. I find the most traumatic things imaginable to separate myself from the normals out there and make myself a "somebody." Whether it was telling people my girlfriend committed suicide or that I was part of some suicidal devil cult. Special is synonymous with darkness, evil, and pain for me. Being a rape victim had its appeal.
I was a little disappointed to see him pull out an unmarked video cassette. He felt free enough in another man's house to take out whatever I was watching from the VCR and inject his tape. It was gay porn. He took off his shorts, laid back on my bed, and began masturbating; leaving me to wonder why I was there.
After about five minutes, he asked me to sit down beside him and I questioned exactly where I was. Last I knew, I was home, but now I wasn't so sure. My bed, my room, but everything became his in minutes, and I said nothing when I sat down beside him and began my duties without being asked. When I was done, he got up, put on his shorts, grabbed his tape and walked to my door. Before he exited completely, I remembered to ask a very important question: "Are you HIV negative?" The answer came back quiet and muffled; it always did. Whenever I asked that question, I'd need the reply repeated two or three times before my brain could accept the answer; as if the words were flying by me at a hundred miles and hour and I was trying to snatch them before they got away.
"I'm negative." He didn't even break stride. He hopped the threshold and walked until he was out of sight. I closed the door and stood there for minutes, repeating his answer in my mind, as if I needed to convince myself. I've never understood how I could take solace in asking that question knowing the person could be a liar. But, simply asking them their status made my paranoia much easier to handle afterwards. That, with the questions:
"Did he look sick?"
"Did he look like a drug addict?"
"Did he feel like a liar?"
Made my fear of the viral unknown easier to forget. I'd also discovered something about myself; something quite unexpected. The second man was hung, very hung, and I found that... inciting. I remember being fascinated by it. I even lost control of myself and at one point tried to eat it, literally. The size and toughness allowed me more latitude, I could bite it, pull on it, smother myself in the testicles like they were large breasts. I was so lost that I let go, same as in the club; drunk with a face covered in saliva and a python in my mouth. I didn't know how I felt afterwards. Nothing had prepared me for this; I didn't expect myself to like it, not sexually. But I couldn't hide from the truth that this man's large cock aroused me. And then, that word, it became addictive and took on a whole new meaning. I said it to myself, I repeated it. What was I becoming? I felt like I was transitioning into something and I wasn't sure if I liked it.
Was I straight anymore? How could I be if I enjoyed myself? What am I? Worse, there was no one I could turn to. Years, almost ten, would pass before I'd speak of any of this to anyone. Nothing was the same after that day, and it hasn't been since. Everything changed. Songs like Ice Cube's "Check Yo Self" ("Cause big dicks up yo ass is bad for yo health") caused me pain. Talking about "fags" with a group of guys become stressful. I was always afraid that someone would find out who I was. I was the monster I'd always wanted to be, transforming into this thing I once thought was as mythic as centaurs and unicorns.
I always believed if I were to fall, go all the way. So, my next experience would go to the next level. Again, like a crack addict, I sought my next fix and stole from someone to do it. Jon-Jon had galloped back in the picture for a one night event and I took the opportunity to grab his Frontiers. A late Friday night, my dad was asleep at the other end of the house. I called a number, a voice answered, and forty-five minutes later a man was at my front door. He was white, old - had to be in his fifties - and nice. Real nice. I opened the door to see a silver-haired man with a big grin. I'd explained the risks involved. My dad slept straight through from 10p to 3a, he'd go to the bathroom, and then he was out again until morning. That gave us two hours to do what we wanted before entering the danger zone. This was a first for me, not just because he was extremely white and extremely old, but he didn't want oral sex at all. His pleasure was anal sex, direct, no foreplay, teasing, or
lube.
This was not what I expected or wanted. First, this was ugly. I know how that reads, but it's the only way to describe it. Second, he was the submissive, forcing me into an aggressive role. He wanted me to talk. He wanted me to mount him and be forceful. I couldn't do that. I wondered why myself. Aren't I a man? Can't I be forceful? I had - or have - all this anger welling up inside me and here, with an opportunity to let it out and I couldn't. It all became so sad and desperate. And then, he bent over. And there, on the rim of his anus, I saw it. A chip-o-shit, light brown like a sliver of peanut butter dangling on the edge of the jar.
That did it. I was gone, but not that far gone, and no matter how "pleasing" I try to be, there was no way I was going through with this. I stopped everything. Told him this wasn't going to work and asked him to leave. If this guy was anything, but white, I wonder how it would have ended. But, he left without incident.
Soon after I bought my first car from a guy named James. It was an 85 Toyota Celica. A real piece of crap he unloaded for $700. I paid $200 and worked at my dad's restaurant for the remaining five. Having transportation took things up a notch. Now, I was mobile. People didn't have to come to me, I could go to them, and I did.
My first road trip was to Long Beach. I'd connected with a cross dresser via 976-WOLF and went to meet him on a Friday night at 2am. He lived in an apartment complex and the first thing I noticed were the black people. Why would someone like that live around some of the most unaccepting and violent people imaginable? That was my thought at the time. Remember, I'd been victimized by my "brothers and sisters". I hated them and I hated myself because I looked like them. I blamed my color for my inability to get a girlfriend. Everyone loved the white boys, they were everywhere; the elite.
The whole thing felt like I was being filmed in some sequel to Silence of the Lambs. It was dark, the neighborhood was a ghetto and this "guy" lived in a dark and draped apartment playing old rhythm & blues. As he walked around me, disappearing into the kitchen, I prepped myself for an attack. He offered me something to drink and I feared it was spiked, but drank it anyway. I tempted fate to being my demise with every choice I made. After all I'd been through by then, no matter how minuscule in retrospect, I felt immortalized against my will.
That night ended quickly, as soon as I knew nothing sexual would happen, I left. But that opened another door for me. I was still attracted to women, but there was this new "thing" I was also drawn to. And, crossdressers weren't what I wanted. I decided to try and make a compromise between the two. I had wheels, and a little money, now that I was working regularly with my father. It was time to do what I'd always wanted, finally. The night began with a drive down the Sunset strip, checking out the hookers as I drove by. Wondering if I had the balls to try and pick one up. But, with my Charlie Brown luck, I knew I'd grab a cop. I stopped at a corner, grabbed an LA Express and flipped through the ads while sitting in my abruptly parked car.
I had a pocket full of change; five dollars in my wallet and my tank; tonight was the night I would call one of these numbers and do something. But I knew I couldn't do it on just five dollars. Too bad; my dad was being stingy with the rest of my week's pay. It was fair, considering what he and I considered work were two different things. I was out to do something exceptional? Could I get one of these girls to take me on for free? Could I get the to be romantically interested in me? I was scraping the barrel. Prowling on those who were in despair just as I was. My efforts had been wasted on the healthy girls, the strong girls, the ones everyone wanted. It was time to lower may standards; find the girls just as pathetic as I was. And, who could be more pathetic than a social abomination.
I found the ad, it had a feeling about it. I called. She answered. I delivered a phony story I'd practiced ten minutes before. It began with honesty, admitting to not having any cash, then fell from there into an aberration. It worked, she wanted me to come over. I was shaking violently as I left the payphone and started my heep.
She lived off Wilshire, in a tenement; a re-worked hotel with the old school fire escapes that always made me feel like LA was at one time trying to emulated New York before it found it's own vibe. Finding parking wasn't easy and I was afraid my car would get stolen. James had shown me how to disconnect the starter plug and that was my "club". Of course, with constant use, the connection weakened. Now, starting my car was an embarrassing crap shoot, not made better by parking on a dark street under a tree where I forced myself to turn my back as I dug under my hood. I followed the directions I'd written on my palm, but she didn’t tell me it was a secured building. Still, it wasn’t hard to find her. I was about to read the directory for the apartment number when my eyes caught a white tape among black labels with the word “WHORE” written on it. Had she done this? Her neighbors? How many men does it take, walking through the halls at three in the morning, all to the same apartment, before people get the idea?
I found her apartment; knocked; the door opened like in a haunted mansion as she hid behind it, looking at me through a mop of long permed hair and speaking what I leaned was a Brazilian accent. She was tall, buff; just like my last "lover", but she wore panties, gartered stockings and didn't have a bra. Her long hair fell over two huge man-made breasts on either side of her chest. The shortage of skin left no
imagination to the shape of the silicon so they couldn't pretend to be anything but what they were. Two chemical bags attached to a man's chest.
She asked me to sit. I did. She sat next to me and we stared in uncomfortable silence. She asked me if I liked shemales. I never learned why, but they all asked me that same question. It was always their first. The answer was obvious, and I picked up where we left off on the phone. I was a lonely guy who liked shemales. I loved them. They were "the last bastion of true femininity left in a world where men are becoming more like women." She smiled. She was interested. And, then she told me she'd been to prison for murder. Sorry, I mean “manslaughter.”
"I hurt myself today... To see if I could feel." - Trent Reznor
TO BE CONTINUED
Several times in my life I've asked myself: "What have I done and how do I get out of this shit now?" As I stared at the man in my father's doorway, all thought was blocked from me and those questions were consuming. My second male encounter was another black man, but the total opposite of my first. This one was tall, very tall, muscles, dark black skin wearing a wife-beater with navy jogging shorts, carrying a gym bag and was very direct. He didn't speak before entering my father's home, he just walked past me and stopped at the end of the hall once he realized he had no idea where my bedroom was.
"Where you want to do this?" He said in a deep voice I thought reserved for blues singers and Satan.
I didn't even speak, I just lead him to my bedroom, constantly looking at his bag and wondering what could he have possibly brought with him. A depraved imagination can work against you in those situations and when we reached my room I had already begun accepting my impending and seemingly inevitable rape.
He sat on the front edge of my bed, directly in front of my television and video cassette recorder. I stayed in my doorway, watching his hands unzip the gym bag. In the seconds between wonder and certainty, I pictured myself being shoved face first into my own pillow, fighting for air, imagining what the pain of natural order reversed on itself would feel like. And, I liked the idea. How tragic it would be if I were raped, and how could I use that to my advantage?
I've always looked for something, anything, about myself that was special. And these things, some imaginary, were never pretty or clean. I find the most traumatic things imaginable to separate myself from the normals out there and make myself a "somebody." Whether it was telling people my girlfriend committed suicide or that I was part of some suicidal devil cult. Special is synonymous with darkness, evil, and pain for me. Being a rape victim had its appeal.
I was a little disappointed to see him pull out an unmarked video cassette. He felt free enough in another man's house to take out whatever I was watching from the VCR and inject his tape. It was gay porn. He took off his shorts, laid back on my bed, and began masturbating; leaving me to wonder why I was there.
After about five minutes, he asked me to sit down beside him and I questioned exactly where I was. Last I knew, I was home, but now I wasn't so sure. My bed, my room, but everything became his in minutes, and I said nothing when I sat down beside him and began my duties without being asked. When I was done, he got up, put on his shorts, grabbed his tape and walked to my door. Before he exited completely, I remembered to ask a very important question: "Are you HIV negative?" The answer came back quiet and muffled; it always did. Whenever I asked that question, I'd need the reply repeated two or three times before my brain could accept the answer; as if the words were flying by me at a hundred miles and hour and I was trying to snatch them before they got away.
"I'm negative." He didn't even break stride. He hopped the threshold and walked until he was out of sight. I closed the door and stood there for minutes, repeating his answer in my mind, as if I needed to convince myself. I've never understood how I could take solace in asking that question knowing the person could be a liar. But, simply asking them their status made my paranoia much easier to handle afterwards. That, with the questions:
"Did he look sick?"
"Did he look like a drug addict?"
"Did he feel like a liar?"
Made my fear of the viral unknown easier to forget. I'd also discovered something about myself; something quite unexpected. The second man was hung, very hung, and I found that... inciting. I remember being fascinated by it. I even lost control of myself and at one point tried to eat it, literally. The size and toughness allowed me more latitude, I could bite it, pull on it, smother myself in the testicles like they were large breasts. I was so lost that I let go, same as in the club; drunk with a face covered in saliva and a python in my mouth. I didn't know how I felt afterwards. Nothing had prepared me for this; I didn't expect myself to like it, not sexually. But I couldn't hide from the truth that this man's large cock aroused me. And then, that word, it became addictive and took on a whole new meaning. I said it to myself, I repeated it. What was I becoming? I felt like I was transitioning into something and I wasn't sure if I liked it.
Was I straight anymore? How could I be if I enjoyed myself? What am I? Worse, there was no one I could turn to. Years, almost ten, would pass before I'd speak of any of this to anyone. Nothing was the same after that day, and it hasn't been since. Everything changed. Songs like Ice Cube's "Check Yo Self" ("Cause big dicks up yo ass is bad for yo health") caused me pain. Talking about "fags" with a group of guys become stressful. I was always afraid that someone would find out who I was. I was the monster I'd always wanted to be, transforming into this thing I once thought was as mythic as centaurs and unicorns.
I always believed if I were to fall, go all the way. So, my next experience would go to the next level. Again, like a crack addict, I sought my next fix and stole from someone to do it. Jon-Jon had galloped back in the picture for a one night event and I took the opportunity to grab his Frontiers. A late Friday night, my dad was asleep at the other end of the house. I called a number, a voice answered, and forty-five minutes later a man was at my front door. He was white, old - had to be in his fifties - and nice. Real nice. I opened the door to see a silver-haired man with a big grin. I'd explained the risks involved. My dad slept straight through from 10p to 3a, he'd go to the bathroom, and then he was out again until morning. That gave us two hours to do what we wanted before entering the danger zone. This was a first for me, not just because he was extremely white and extremely old, but he didn't want oral sex at all. His pleasure was anal sex, direct, no foreplay, teasing, or
lube.
This was not what I expected or wanted. First, this was ugly. I know how that reads, but it's the only way to describe it. Second, he was the submissive, forcing me into an aggressive role. He wanted me to talk. He wanted me to mount him and be forceful. I couldn't do that. I wondered why myself. Aren't I a man? Can't I be forceful? I had - or have - all this anger welling up inside me and here, with an opportunity to let it out and I couldn't. It all became so sad and desperate. And then, he bent over. And there, on the rim of his anus, I saw it. A chip-o-shit, light brown like a sliver of peanut butter dangling on the edge of the jar.
That did it. I was gone, but not that far gone, and no matter how "pleasing" I try to be, there was no way I was going through with this. I stopped everything. Told him this wasn't going to work and asked him to leave. If this guy was anything, but white, I wonder how it would have ended. But, he left without incident.
Soon after I bought my first car from a guy named James. It was an 85 Toyota Celica. A real piece of crap he unloaded for $700. I paid $200 and worked at my dad's restaurant for the remaining five. Having transportation took things up a notch. Now, I was mobile. People didn't have to come to me, I could go to them, and I did.
My first road trip was to Long Beach. I'd connected with a cross dresser via 976-WOLF and went to meet him on a Friday night at 2am. He lived in an apartment complex and the first thing I noticed were the black people. Why would someone like that live around some of the most unaccepting and violent people imaginable? That was my thought at the time. Remember, I'd been victimized by my "brothers and sisters". I hated them and I hated myself because I looked like them. I blamed my color for my inability to get a girlfriend. Everyone loved the white boys, they were everywhere; the elite.
The whole thing felt like I was being filmed in some sequel to Silence of the Lambs. It was dark, the neighborhood was a ghetto and this "guy" lived in a dark and draped apartment playing old rhythm & blues. As he walked around me, disappearing into the kitchen, I prepped myself for an attack. He offered me something to drink and I feared it was spiked, but drank it anyway. I tempted fate to being my demise with every choice I made. After all I'd been through by then, no matter how minuscule in retrospect, I felt immortalized against my will.
That night ended quickly, as soon as I knew nothing sexual would happen, I left. But that opened another door for me. I was still attracted to women, but there was this new "thing" I was also drawn to. And, crossdressers weren't what I wanted. I decided to try and make a compromise between the two. I had wheels, and a little money, now that I was working regularly with my father. It was time to do what I'd always wanted, finally. The night began with a drive down the Sunset strip, checking out the hookers as I drove by. Wondering if I had the balls to try and pick one up. But, with my Charlie Brown luck, I knew I'd grab a cop. I stopped at a corner, grabbed an LA Express and flipped through the ads while sitting in my abruptly parked car.
I had a pocket full of change; five dollars in my wallet and my tank; tonight was the night I would call one of these numbers and do something. But I knew I couldn't do it on just five dollars. Too bad; my dad was being stingy with the rest of my week's pay. It was fair, considering what he and I considered work were two different things. I was out to do something exceptional? Could I get one of these girls to take me on for free? Could I get the to be romantically interested in me? I was scraping the barrel. Prowling on those who were in despair just as I was. My efforts had been wasted on the healthy girls, the strong girls, the ones everyone wanted. It was time to lower may standards; find the girls just as pathetic as I was. And, who could be more pathetic than a social abomination.
I found the ad, it had a feeling about it. I called. She answered. I delivered a phony story I'd practiced ten minutes before. It began with honesty, admitting to not having any cash, then fell from there into an aberration. It worked, she wanted me to come over. I was shaking violently as I left the payphone and started my heep.
She lived off Wilshire, in a tenement; a re-worked hotel with the old school fire escapes that always made me feel like LA was at one time trying to emulated New York before it found it's own vibe. Finding parking wasn't easy and I was afraid my car would get stolen. James had shown me how to disconnect the starter plug and that was my "club". Of course, with constant use, the connection weakened. Now, starting my car was an embarrassing crap shoot, not made better by parking on a dark street under a tree where I forced myself to turn my back as I dug under my hood. I followed the directions I'd written on my palm, but she didn’t tell me it was a secured building. Still, it wasn’t hard to find her. I was about to read the directory for the apartment number when my eyes caught a white tape among black labels with the word “WHORE” written on it. Had she done this? Her neighbors? How many men does it take, walking through the halls at three in the morning, all to the same apartment, before people get the idea?
I found her apartment; knocked; the door opened like in a haunted mansion as she hid behind it, looking at me through a mop of long permed hair and speaking what I leaned was a Brazilian accent. She was tall, buff; just like my last "lover", but she wore panties, gartered stockings and didn't have a bra. Her long hair fell over two huge man-made breasts on either side of her chest. The shortage of skin left no
imagination to the shape of the silicon so they couldn't pretend to be anything but what they were. Two chemical bags attached to a man's chest.
She asked me to sit. I did. She sat next to me and we stared in uncomfortable silence. She asked me if I liked shemales. I never learned why, but they all asked me that same question. It was always their first. The answer was obvious, and I picked up where we left off on the phone. I was a lonely guy who liked shemales. I loved them. They were "the last bastion of true femininity left in a world where men are becoming more like women." She smiled. She was interested. And, then she told me she'd been to prison for murder. Sorry, I mean “manslaughter.”
"I hurt myself today... To see if I could feel." - Trent Reznor
TO BE CONTINUED
posted by QABBAL at 4:17 AM
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