Baby Doll Part II
Yet
each day there seemed to be even less and less time to preen and
dress and pretend because he’d still have to undress, wash the
perfumes and rouges off, and make it home in time to pretend he’d
been to school all day and had lots of homework to do. So it was in
the mornings that the man took himself out on the boy, and only fully
spent and fully satisfied would he let the boy begin his preening, by
eleven or twelve o’clock, which proved less and less satisfying for
either of them. Because the allurement of getting dressed, for a
woman or a transvestite, is a vital step in self-arousal and
transformation, each article of clothing, each dab of makeup, each
stroke of eyeliner and lipstick and hint of perfume is as arousing
and exciting as a theater-full of men screaming at a stripper to take
itoff. That’s another secret difference between the sexes: whereas
men are aroused by seeing a woman undress, a woman’s arousal begins
with dressing up
Still,
no matter the recent frustrations of the man’s lack of interest in
admiring the boy as a girl, there was an evident difference in the
boy no matter what gender clothes he wore: a greater sense of
certainty and assurance in his manner, something even harder and
sterner in his demeanor. Whether it was the female clothing (taunting
the gender he had been born into) or the daily outlet for his raging
teenage libido (the two definitely stirred up and aided and
complemented by each other) in the previous weeks he had matured into
a seriousness beyond his teenage years, a maturity that, alas, was
just another mimic of someone he looked up to, believed in, lusted
after, loved .It’s the problem with all cross-generational
relationships where one partner is decades older than the other: the
younger will always strive to make up for the gap of years, taking on
a seriousness and maturity that isn’t theirs, as if a decade or two
can be leapt over and ignored and the natural process of emotional
growth (or emotional stagnation and regression) can simply be picked
up and put on like another article of pretty clothes. The young
person and his older lover will never be onequal terms of
competition: the potential for cunning abuse and betrayal is always
inevitably there .IT HAD BEEN TWO WEEKS since the boy last walked in
the park, two weeks since he last masturbated – he now had someone
to do it for him – and two weeks since he stopped thinking of
himself in solitary terms as alone and now viewed himself as a lover,
an important part of someone’s life, if only for six or seven hours
a day. It was his empty evenings that enraged him. The idea that he
had to stay home, in front of a book, doing sham homework
assignments, or before a TV watching sham love scenes (he could’ve
done better), while the man’s apartment, his dress-up clothes, and
the possibility of a body atop and inside him were only a few blocks
away, the idea of its unattainable nearness always smacked him into
explosive tantrums that only masturbation could have allayed. But he
had promised the man he wouldn’t jerk-off at night ,keeping himself
ready and eager and filled for the morning. Only once had he reneged
on his vow and desperately tugged himself into a shuddering release
that instantly soothed and lulled him to sleep with his dick clutched
in his scum-slathered fist
On
Friday evening he went out, as he had done the previous weekend
evenings. He circled the man’s apartment and stared longingly at
the lightened windows. He had been warned never to come up when he
wasn’t expected and never to call: whatever he needed could wait
till the morning. His suggestion that maybe they could talk on the
phone was ridiculed and shrugged off. Yet isn’t that what
girlfriends did with their boyfriends? the boy thought. Talked and
talked and talked.…But what was there to talk about? Did the boy
and the man really have all that much to say to each other beyond the
man’s nervousness if anyone knew about their friendship? No, it’s
a secret, the boy swore, though he wished it weren’t. He didn’t
care if the whole world knew. How enviously he looked at couples on
the street, how they held onto each other by the shoulder, around the
waist, or hand clutching hand, how they laughed, smiled, walked,
talked, belonged to each other. He always pictured it would be like
that: someone treating him as gently and attentively as he assumed
couples treated each other. What he saw as he watched them pass is
that they seemed to want to be with each other, to spend time with
each other, to belong to each other, as if merely being together was
more important than anything else they could be being
Other
couples were so unlike his relationship with the man. Beyond the
frantic morning lust and the mutual blow jobs before he finally left
in the afternoon, he felt himself a nuisance in the man’s day.
There was to be no radio playing, no TV watching, no high-heel
clicking around the apartment, and no fashion shows of How does this
look? Besides the sex there was nothing else. Once his body was used
there was no further use for him. That Friday, after staring at the
lighted windows, if only he had turned in the other direction he’d
have missed the man coming out of the corner store, opening a pack of
cigarettes and shaking one out, coming up to a kid waiting outside
the store
So
that’s why I’m not allowed up at night, the boy realized, not
because the man was busy with his work, as he claimed, but that he
was busy with someone else, a replacement, a rival. The boy glared at
the other kid: older than him, taller, more solidly built, his chest
muscular and molded in his T-shirt under an open leather jacket, his
jeans tight and puffed at one side of the crotch, everything about
him masculine and virile. The man smiled and held out the pack to the
waiting teen, and they continued around the corner to the apartment
building entrance. The boy didn’t need to get closer. Through his
wet disappointed eyes he saw them enter the building. He was
surprised only at his stiff erection, the thought of the two of them
together (while he sat aside, watching and masturbating) more
arousing than anything he’d imagined before. The force of his
untouched ejaculation was like a release of sudden hate and rage and
frustration that came over him. The first response to betrayal is
disbelief. The betrayed person, whose trust has been spat out and
vomited like useless wasted own the toilet, creates all sorts of
scenarios that the betrayal is not what it seems, that the
interpretation of his own eyes and feelings is incorrect, and that
there is a plausible, sensible explanation for what is happening. One
attempts to rewrite the act of betrayal in favor of the betrayer,
refusing to admit that trust and love and unity no longer exist and,
on the betrayer’s side, have probably ceased to exist long before
his actions have been revealed or discovered. What is this
self-debasing need to explain and justify a soul-murder? Because
betrayal is murder, as vicious and unforgivable as the taking of
someone’s life: a betrayed person walks for years in a time-warp of
ignorance and unfeeling, lost in his pain and confusion of what
happened, why it happened, where he went wrong. A betrayed person
always reacts to betrayal as if it’s his fault, endlessly rebuking
himself that he should and could have done better, acted differently,
been someone other than who he was and is. To be betrayed is to
question your very right to existence, because how can you ever trust
and love again when your deepest loves and beliefs, in yourself, in
the other, have been so shabbily scorned and discarded? To be
betrayed is to be killed, and in worse ways than mere death. I’m
not so pretty, the boy first thought, then remembered the other kid’s
physicality. I’m not so handsome. He recalled how he had attracted
the man who two weeks earlier told him, you’re the best of both
worlds. He walked uncertainly up the street the next morning, not
even looking at his reflection in the store windows as he usually did
–smirking at what he saw in the window compared to what he would
become in the next few hours. It had been a fitful night. Each time
he awoke he remembered the other kid, the smile he had smiled at the
man, like the taunting leer of a dethroning usurper. He felt weak
(having masturbated himself back to sleep each time he stirred),
sluggish, uncertain, the adult-like confidence he had assumed
shattered in a moment of adult reality. But he wasn’t an adult.
Neither was he a girl. Was he a boy, a male? He felt himself to be
nothing. And he felt only the man could once again reaffirm his
identity and reality.…
The
man opened the door, scanning the hallway over the boy’s head, then
let him in as he did every morning. (Was the other kid still in bed?
the boy wondered.) As usual, the man was clad only in a bath-towel
around his waist, and the bulge at the front of his crotch was
evidence he was expecting the boy. Because what he liked most was to
keep the boy clothed as much as possible while he showed himself off
and pressed and rubbed his naked body against the boy’s. His
satisfaction always came first. He never cared if the boy ejaculated
or not, merely jerking him off sometimes at the end as an
afterthought to satisfy and placate the boy .This morning was no
different: he flicked aside his towel, pushed the boy to his knees,
and grunted in what seemed like victory as he slid his penis into the
boy’s avid open mouth. The boy’s eyes glistened in love. He
wanted to cry because it was love he felt for the man, love and trust
that he was still a part of him, that he had not been betrayed and
cheated on. If the man accepted and needed him like this, he had
definitely misinterpreted what he witnessed the night before: they
were probably just neighbors, their apartments close to each other,
acting friendly when they met on the street.…Then he saw it, out of
the corner of his eye, a little silver-blue packet sticking out of
the top of a garbage sack, shining obscenely between a crushed milk
carton, a greasy sandwich-meat package, and a crumbled empty pack of
cigarettes.
TROJ
COND
the
packet read, torn in an even sharp line at the letters
J
and
D
.TROJAN
CONDOMS. The boy knew instantly and grimaced. The other kid had
probably demanded they be worn, concerned for his safety, his health,
his life, whereas the boy had never given a thought to the man’s
hacking cough and visible weight loss in the weeks since he first met
him. He hadn’t worried about the numerous medicine bottles and
syringes in the bathroom medicine chest, on the kitchen table and the
bedroom dresser-top. Nor had he considered the possibility that the
threat of contagion and disease might be real and not something the
government made up to keep you from enjoying sex. The man grabbed the
boy’s head and rammed himself even deeper, grunting and buckling
and ejaculating down the boy’s throat. The man clutched him for a
moment, shuddered a final time, then slowly eased himself out as the
boy’s lips clamped shut behind him. The boy darted to the bathroom
– he had been warned about dripping scummy saliva onto the kitchen
floor or sink – and fell to the toilet bowl. As usual it was
unflushed, the acrid stench of fresh urine biting into his nostrils
and eyes as he gagged and spat out the scum and spit. Another dry
heave tore up from the pit of his stomach, but his eyes widened and
focused into the bowl: at the bottom of the urine, almost like a
squiggly limpid tadpole, a used condom stirred in the disturbance of
his spitting and rose to the top of the bowl, showing off its filmy
contents, then sank back down again .The boy stood up and wiped his
face. He wanted to leave, he wanted to walk the streets, he wanted to
go sit in the park. Alone. But the man came into the bathroom, naked,
his limp penis glistening in slow-drying saliva and scum. He looked
at the boy, glanced into the bowl, took a puff of his cigarette, then
reached over and flushed. You can get dressed now, he said firmly,
clutching the boy’s shoulder and leading him out of the bathroom.
In the living room the man sat at his desk and papers – medical
insurance forms, the boy understood – while the boy went to the
bedroom where he kept his clothes and makeup in a closet. Why did the
man have so many small-sized girl-fitting clothes? He had never asked
but now wondered whether it was to entice boys like him. Had the
baby-doll nightie the man presented him with the first time been used
to entice others?… The closet door was open, and his short blonde
wig lay on a nightstand by the unmade bed, his black baby doll
nightie at the foot of the bed.
The
man came in and stood in the doorway, watching. I was thinking about
you last night, he smirked, and bobbed his slightly stiffening penis.
The boy blushed, glancing at the crisp dry semen stains on the
baby-doll. C’mon, get dressed, the man said, and turned away,
leaving him alone. The boy sighed and took off his clothes, but
without the enthusiasm or anticipation of arousal he usually felt
while undressing to put on his female clothes. It was as if the
girl’s clothes were a real person, lovingly caressing and soothing
him and wanting to be as close to him as he wanted to be in them. But
the clothes felt tainted now, mussed and pawed in the closet, some
off their hangers and strewn carelessly about as if someone were
searching for something, unlike the patient and careful wayhe always
folded and hung them up.
He
did find his pink panties and put them on – tucking his penis into
and between his legs whether the man liked it or not – found his
bra and donned that, too, inserting two water-filled party balloons
into the bra cups as a mimic of realistic pliant breasts, the tied
knot-ends resembling stiffened nipples. Only once had the balloons
burst open and that was when he first got the idea of water balloons
as breasts. The man had put him into the shower and viciously bit
into one, breaking it all over the boy’s blouse and skirt and
laughing hysterically as he gurgled, Baby hungwy! Baby want mommie
tittie! then bit into the other balloon which also burst open into
his laughing face. Getting soaked didn’t matter as the man turned
on the shower, spun the boy around, and fucked him fully clothed
under the steaming water jets
Continuing
his dressing ritual he sprayed his stomach, crotch and arms with some
cheap perfume and pulled on his favorite top, a tight bright-red
sleeveless turtleneck with the words Baby Doll emblazoned in yellow
over the front. The shirt completely clutched and hugged and outlined
his self-made breasts as realistically as any young girl’s, if a
young girl could develop such bulbous roundness at her age. He wished
he could find the daring T-shirt he had seen a brazen woman wearing
on the street a few weeks ago:
SUCK
ME * FUCK ME
GET
THE FUCK OUT!
That
said it all, didn’t it? He tweaked the knot-nipples and positioned
them to stand out even firmer, then picked up his blonde wig off the
night table
Had
the other kid worn it to bed? With the scum-stained nightie? Had they
laughed when the man told the kid about him? The boy’s face flushed
angrily as he stretched the wig over his head ,imagining the outline
of the other kid on the unmade bed. Why hadn’t he ever stayed over
at night as the man often asked him to? Just tell your parents you’re
sleeping at a friend’s, the man said, but what friend’s name
could he have used? He tried to imagine what sleep would be like in
the arms of a lover. Like married people, the man hinted. But he
never did it, and lost out to another, a replacement who did stay the
night, who slept held and protected, who made love in the morning (in
a condom) and only left sloppy seconds for him to suck on and lick.
Fuck me, suck me, then I’ll be leaving.…The boy looked in the
mirror, blinked his wet eyes, and spread a tawny sheen of liquid
makeup over his face, smoothing the tan fluid into the pores and
crevices around his nostril, eyes and lips. Instantly the familiarity
of disguise swooned over him, and the tension and anxiety he’d been
suffering since the night before abated somewhat at the vision of his
altering image in the mirror While his makeup dried, he pulled on the
nylon thigh-highs, the rubber thigh-bands circling like fingers,
clutching and holding the nylon hose up and around him. It was one of
things he most savored about female attire: its smallness, its
tightness, its clutching restrictiveness: panties, bra, nylons, all
squeezing around his body like a preserving hold to guarantee that
the femininity would not come loose and fall undone. What did a
female look like undressed, unmolded by garments, her breasts upheld,
her torso unclutched? He couldn’t know, as he couldn’t see or
undo it on himself.…The rest of his makeup went on easily, by a
practiced hand now: eyebrow pencil, eyeliner, mascara, eyelashes, and
a few strokes of powder to highlight his cheeks. His favorite, which
he always saved for last, breathing deeply the aroma, was his cherry
red lipstick that matched the color of the Baby Doll T-shirt. He
stepped into a short and tight gray skirt, the hem barely covering
the tops of his thigh-highs, then stepped into a pair of toeless
high-heels – a few seemingly stray straps held the delicate-looking
shoes together. He’d bought them himself for five dollars at a
sidewalk shoe sale on 14 th Street and still hadn’t mastered the
proper balance in them. To finish off his outfit he buckled a wide
black belt around his waist, then glanced in the mirror. Extremely
rapeable and fuckable, the man once told him. He ran his tongue over
his red lips and lifted a can of Aqua Nethairspray to puff up the
sides of his wig just as the man burst into the room. Where’s my
cigarettes?! he shouted, still undressed, a freshly lit cigarette
between the fingers of one hand, his other clutching an almost empty
cigarette pack.
Where’s
my goddamned cigarettes?! he angrily repeated. I’ve only two left!
The
boy grimaced, his face flushing even darker and redder than his ruddy
makeup made him seem. I forgot, he whispered faintly, not even
remembering if he had passed the corner store that morning or not.
What?!
the man erupted, angrily nudging the boy’s shoulder. What do you
mean you forgot? Didn’t I give you money yesterday?
The
boy nodded. Each afternoon when he left for the day, the man left him
a quarter on the kitchen table, as if payment for their time
together, to put in with the dollar lunch money his mother gave him
each school morning (and the man gave him on the weekends), to get a
pack of cigarettes when he came up the next day. I’m sorry, he said
quietly .Don’t be sorry, the man shrugged. Just go and get them.
The boy frowned, disappointed he’d have to undress
The
man smirked. What’s wrong with going out like that? You’re
dressed just like you always wanted to be, aren’t you?
The
boy’s eyes widened, his red mouth drooping open. The idea of going
out dressed and all alone scared yet thrilled him more than he had
ever been scared or thrilled before. The man picked up the boy’s
jeans and rifled through the pockets till he found a wrinkled dollar
bill wrapped around a quarter.
C’mon,
go, he said, shoving the money at him. Get me more cigarettes .
I
… I can’t go out like this! the boy stammered.
The
man snorted. Why not? Afraid someone might see you? Don’t you think
people already know what you are? Even without those little girlie
clothes? They looked at each other. Was it true? the boy wondered.
Was his difference so evident on him, no matter what his clothes
were? As a ‘boy’ did they recognize a fag? As a ‘girl’ would
they see a boy?
No,
please, you go, the boy sobbed
The
man smiled and held out his arms. Like this? he asked, and looked
himself up and down, his penis slightly jerking. You’re at least
dressed. He draped an arm around the boy’s shoulder, reaching for
his ballooned left breast, and led him out of the bedroom. The boy
tottered only once on his high-heels for it was easier to walk with
someone holding and directing you.
C’mon,
said the man and bent over, kissing the boy’s mouth and slightly
smearing his lipstick. You’ll be back in no time, he smirked,
groping under the boy’s skirt, his lips tightening in anger as he
felt the boy’s smooth tucked-back crotch. He glared.
And
when you get back, he promised, his voice hard and stern, I’ll give
you a deep hard fucking. The kind that makes you scream. You’d like
that, wouldn’t you? To get fucked like a girl? With all your
clothes on?
The
boy shook his head. No, please, he begged. I can’t go out like
this. The man unbolted the front door locks. Listen, you little
fucking whore! he said, grabbing the boy by his throat. You better go
right this minute or you won’t be coming back here! You hear me?
The
boy nodded. The man swung the door open and shoved him into the hall,
the boy’s left heel snagging on a hall tile, but he caught himself
on the stair railing to keep from falling over and heard the door
slam shut behind him.
God,
no! the boy thought. What am I doing here?! He sobbed as he heard the
door locks snap shut. Oh, God! What am I supposed to do?…Go out or
you won’t be let back in.…But he had to get back in. He had to
get his clothes back: his jeans, his shirt, his jacket. And he had to
get out of these clothes, these heels, these nylons, these
water-filled breasts. But if he knocked and banged and pounded and
begged, would the man let him back in? Without cigarettes? Why had he
forgotten them? So he had to go out. Walk to the corner. Enter the
store. Open his mouth.
Walk
out. Come back. Oh, my fucking God!
But it was still early. A Saturday morning. Only about
nine or so. Not that many people out on a Saturday morning. It was a
quiet street anyway, with only the entrance to the building between
the highway and the corner store. He’d probably not even pass
anyone till he got to the store. He sighed and shut his eyes. In all
the images he’d seen of himself in the mirror he was certain he
looked like a girl, but did he really? Was what he saw the same as
what others would see?
Did
clothes always evince a gender? Did makeup? Did a tucked-back penis?
If they did, he had succeeded but gone too far in the self-creation
of himself as a girl. More then just a mimic of one, suddenly he
turned even more real than any attire or even a gender reassignment
operation could have evoked: he was a female under a man’s rule. As
a female he was treated as such by the man, that is, treated like
garbage. Abuse was something he had not expected in playing a girl.
His images were softness and perfumes, of being desired and wanted,
but a female’s daily reality of abjection and abuse was a certainty
whenever she put herself under the sway of a man. It was the same
with him: dressed as a girl he would have to act as one, that is,
obey a man, if only to survive and live.…He sighed, swallowed
painfully – his throat hurt where the man had clutched him – and
wove his jaw back and forth. He stared at the shut door, then tugged
up his nylon thigh-highs and smoothed his skirt over them. He hoped
the nylon tops didn’t show too provocatively under the short skirt
hem. He adjusted and aligned his bosom, regretting the nipple-knots
which stood out so stiffly: that only proved a girl was horny and
wanted to get fucked, didn’t it? He glanced again at the shut door,
grimaced, and went down the stairs, his heels clicking in the empty
hall and against each stair like the fear clicking in his empty
heart.
Just
get the cigarettes, he mumbled over and over.…
Just get the cigarettes.…
Once
he got the cigarettes and made it back for his clothes, he’d never
take them off again.…
Keep
walking, was his constant thought. Keep walking. Keep walking. Keep
walking. Don’t even look at that man. God, but my tits are
jiggling, up and down, up and down. He’s looking at them. That’s
all he’s looking at. Can a fourteen-year-old girl have tits this
big? Do I look fourteen? I am fourteen! Jailbait. Rapeable and
fuckable. By who? Just keep walking. God, what if a tit breaks?
He’s
looking at my legs. Don’t trip. What if my dick falls out? What if
it shows under my skirt? But the skirt’s not that short. It’s not
that tight to show a bulge. But it’s rising up. Rising up
my
thigh, over my nylons, oh God, my thighs are showing!
He’s
looking! Is my panty showing? Pull the skirt down! Quick, before he
rapes me, before he fucks me!
He’s
still looking. He has a hard-on. I can see it. Do I have a hard-on? I
can’t even feel it.
He’s
looking all over me, all over my body, but not once at my face or
eyes. What does he see in my body that he’d want to do to it? I’m
only fourteen. And he’s too old. Older than the man in the
apartment.
He’s
staring at my nipples. Keep walking. Keep walking. No, please, I
don’t want to get fucked. I made it all up. It’s all in my head.
I don’t really look like this. My nipples aren’t really that
stiff.
Please don’t rape me. Walk walk walk walk
Now
he’s looking at me from behind. Is my skirt all the way down? Are
my nylon tops still showing?
He
sure gave me a strange look. What was he thinking?
Did
he suspect I was too good to be true? Did he hope this would be his
lucky day?
Keep
walking. Keep walking. Don’t even turn around. That’s one down.
And it wasn’t bad at all. I even got horny, that’s for sure. But
what if he follows me? What if he’s still there when I come
back?
And follows me into the building? Feels me up? Squeezes my tits,
gropes my pussy? I’m rapeable and fuckable, and look it, too.
Oh,
my God, keep walking! Don’t even look across the street.
It’s
him! The kid from last night! So what that he’s stopped? So what
he’s staring? He can’t recognize me. He doesn’t know me. Does
he recognize my wig? My blonde hair? So what that he’s whistling at
me? I deserve to be whistled at. I am pretty! Like a girl. Rapeable
and fuckable. Oh, God, stop jiggling!
But
if I walk slower he’ll think I want to get picked up. He’ll think
I want to get fucked. I do want to get fucked. But where is he going?
To the apartment. To get fucked? No, I want to get
fucked!
Hurry up!
Keep
walking. Yellow bodega sign. Like the yellow “Baby Doll” on my
jiggling bouncing chest. Up and down. Jiggle, jiggle. Oh, Jesus! He’s
following me!
Keep
walking. Keep walking. Get fucked. Hard and deep. Like a girl. Almost
there. Just get the cigarettes. A few more feet. He’s right behind
me.
I
shouldn’t have smiled! Oh, Christ! Just open the door. Just get the
cigarettes
An
elderly but heavily made-up Puerto Rican woman stared incredulously
as he shut the door and approached the counter covered with boxes of
candy bars. His feet and ankles ached, his
back
and shoulders were sore, his strangely stiffening penis was straining
to push out from between his legs. The woman glared, appraising him
warily – his nervousness, his unsteadiness on his heels, his
strange round bosom (it was too round), suspended on his chest but
stemming from nothing, simply puffed and bloated, silicone-like,
definitely phony. She sneered in disgust.
What?!
she snapped, before he could open his mouth.
He
winced, certain his voice would betray him. A pack of Marlboros, he
softly lisped
A
pack of Marlboros! the
old woman sniggered, her voice high-pitched, also lisping, one hand
on her hip, the other held limp-wristed at her chest. She despised
his kind.
A
pack of Marlboros! she mimicked again.
The
boy’s entire body slumped. He knew she knew his pretense was over.
Nothing mattered but to get back to the apartment and put on his
clothes and run away forever. Did he think he could
feel
like a woman? A real woman? One with a real cunt and tits? He heard
the door open behind him.
How
old are you? the woman snapped.
Eighteen,
he lied, knowing he looked nowhere near the legal age to purchase
cigarettes – he’d never had this problem as a boy.
Eighteen,
huh? the woman grunted. And how old are those tits, half an hour?
She
reached over the counter and almost grabbed the boy’s left breast
but he tottered back and fell against someone behind him – a hand
on his waist, another clutching his wrist. His penis fell
free
of his panty. He looked up at the kid from the street.
Gotcha!
the kid smiled, showing off his even white teeth.
They
stared at each other, the kid’s eyes narrowing, puzzling. The kid
steadied the boy up as he tugged down the front of his skirt, his
penis a stiff bulge. Behind them the front door opened
again.
Get
outta here, you fairies! the old woman erupted, waving her arms. I
don’t want no maricon diseases in my store!
Yo!
the kid snapped back, angrily. You talkin’ to me? Don’t go around
dissing anyone, mama!
Hey!
a voice behind him shouted. Quit it!
The
kid and the boy instantly recognized the man’s voice. They quickly
broke from each other and the kid let go of the boy’s waist.
She
started it, the kid tried to explain.
Quiet,
said the man, and went to the boy. He held out his hand and the boy
gave him the dollar bill and quarter he had clutched all along. The
kid stared at them in surprise.
Oh,
shit, I get it! he finally mumbled.
The
boy glared at him.
A
package of Marlboros, the man told the woman, setting the money on
the counter. And make it snappy.
The
kid darted to a soda case. And a Coke, he said, taking out a can
The
man scowled. Okay, he finally said, but get me one too, a Diet Coke,
and reached into his pocket for more money.
And
me! the boy wanted to say, me too, I want a Coke! But he kept quiet,
hoping one of them asked, like they should with a girl. They didn’t,
and he lowered his head, disappointed,
knowing
no matter what he looked like he was not the center of their
attentions.
He
turned around, away from the counter, and in a quick instant, as if
with a well-practiced hand, reached under his skirt and flicked his
stiff penis back into the panty, sighing in pleasure as it soothed
and rose up his belly. He wasn’t the man’s favorite, he knew that
now, but perhaps the kid’s?… He blushed at the thought.…
They
left the store, the man and kid smoking and sipping sodas, the boy
walking contritely between them. Should he put his arm in theirs, one
on each of their elbows?
So
you know each other? the man asked, looking at the two of them.
The
kid sipped his soda and suddenly gulped.
This
is Blondie? he asked incredulously. With her clothes in the closet?
He
looked the boy up and down, leering at his breasts, his knees, the
slight bulge at the front of his skirt. Wow! Not bad, not bad at all!
The
man scowled. Who did you think she was? A real girl? His eyes
narrowed and he looked angrily at the kid. And why would you be
interested in a girl?
I
knew what she was, a fake, the kid protested, and blushed, hiding his
face behind the can of Coke. I could tell right away
Sure
you could, the man said. Looks even better than the real thing, eh?
He reached for the boy’s tit.
Can
we just go?! the boy snapped, pushing the man’s hand off.
The
man shrugged and looked at his watch. Shit! It’s getting late. He
looked up and down the street. Listen, he said to the kid. I got an
appointment. I’ll see you … and her … later, okay?
What?!
the boy erupted. What do mean later? I need my clothes back now!
You’ll
get them, don’t worry, the man waved him off. He’ll take care of
you, he gestured toward the kid.
Yeah,
don’t worry about a thing. The kid put an arm around the boy’s
shoulder The boy tried to shake him off but the kid held him hard
and steady. He winked at the man. Give us the keys to your place, he
suggested.
The
man scowled. I won’t be that long. Why don’t you wait for me in
the park, next to the men’s room?
I’m
not going to no park! the boy snapped, succeeding in shaking the
kid’s arm off.
The
kid looked at him as if waiting for him to stamp his high-heeled
foot, which he almost did,but he knew it was expected, and simply
crossed his arms over his chest, careful not to clutch
them
too tightly.
Yeah,
the park! the kid suddenly beamed at the boy. Hey! he said, and
tweaked the boy’s bare upper arm. We could probably even make some
money there!
Huh?
the boy stared at him.
Yeah,
it’s Saturday, the kid explained. They got all these baseball games
on Saturday. And those Puerto Rican guys get so drunk they wouldn’t
know what they were fucking. Hell, we could be millionaires by
tonight. What d’ya say? and he tweaked the boy again.
No!
the boy squealed. You’re crazy! I’m not going to no park! I’m
not going to fuck no drunken PR’s! I want my clothes back!
The
man slapped him, not hard, but hard enough to shut him up. He grabbed
the boy under the jaw. You’re going to the park, he said sternly.
You’re gonna do what you’re told. You’re gonna
screw
whoever has the money. Understood?
The
boy barely nodded, ready to do anything to get the man’s cinching
fingers off his throat. The man shoved him at the kid. I’ll meet
you in a few hours, he said to the kid. Get whatever you
can
for … the whore. He turned and walked away.
The
boy sniffled and the kid again put his arm around him. Don’t worry,
the kid said, gently tugging down one side of the boy’s wig that
had shifted from the man’s slap. It won’t be so bad. If they
wanna fuck you they’ll have to wear condoms, okay? Blowjobs are
fine; you don’t need condoms for that.
The
boy kept quiet. He didn’t say a thing about his not having any
condoms. His eyes welled with tears, but he held them in, not wanting
to smear his makeup. He didn’t know what he
looked
like anymore: queer, whore, boy, girl, did it matter?
The
kid leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. I’ll let you suck me
off first, he smiled, to see how much we can get away with. With the
way you look, I’m sure we can get ten dollars a
blowjob.
Do you have any money?
The
boy shook his head.
The
kid shrugged. Too bad, because we gotta get you some fingernails.
Fingernails and nail polish. Guys go crazy for that. Long red
fingernails around their cocks, shit, that’s probably
even
worth an extra five dollars right there. But we’ll start with ten,
okay?
The
boy sighed and looked at the kid. Ten dollars a blowjob. Like a
whore, he thought, the word spinning backwards and forwards and in
and out of his mind. Whore whore whore. The word had never been a
part of his feminine vocabulary but now it would be. He sighed and
put his arm around the kid’s waist, tottering against him toward
the already crowded Saturday morning park. It wasn’t all that hard
to walk in heels.
But
first a blowjob. Then more blowjobs. Ten dollars a blowjob. Wow! Ten
fucking dollars! He looked at the kid. This is how he always knew it
should be: a couple together, in love, a part of
each
other.
Jesus
Christ! Ten dollars a blowjob! And he’d been giving it out for
free.
Like
a silly stupid teenage girl. Free? Ha! What a laugh! Paying a dollar
a day in cigarette money! What a rip-off! But no more. It was time he
got treated and pampered the way he should be.
Like
a real girl. Hell, at ten dollars a blowjob they could get nail
polish and fingernails right after the first one and start making
some real money. He looked dreamily at the kid, and wondered
what
his name was.…
C’mon,
Baby Doll, the kid said. Cheer up
