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(by Edward Zeusgany and Alex Anders, © copyright 2000, all rights reserved)
Empty and in heavy shadow, the place of congregation and communion waits. Grand maples stand along the broad street, a major artery between the suburban town and Salem’s city center. If the campus of the College and the professional offices situated in sedate old houses are not counted, the drug store on the corner is the only visible business among stately residences.
Although he knows he is early, still he will be disappointed to find no one there. The boy did not intend so untimely an awakening on a summer morning. Lying in bed, changing positions for greater comfort, stretching his fourteen year old, slender body; not even a cat nap rewarded these luxurious movements. Finally, he rose and dressed himself in black chinos and a black T-shirt that his literate father had given him, the one with the word, PLAYBOY, in white lettering, centered across the front. Both parents had already gone to work, so he could skip breakfast, except for a glass of milk that he drank with relish.
From his home on a side street, it was five blocks to the appointed place. Slowly, this distance was traversed. The sun felt warm on his cheek, no breeze disturbed the orderliness of his hair. A child from the country would have noticed the faint odor of the near, albeit hidden from view, Atlantic. But Stewart was preoccupied with searching out the form of a friend or acquaintance., who could join him on his pilgrimage. Finding none, he continued at his unhurried pace, and solitary.
Upon arrival, feelings of loneliness were assuaged by anticipation of the day to come. Other youngsters would eventually appear, mocking banter exchanged. Stewart liked the cynical talk about the true nature of the world and of human relationships. Theories would be propounded and refuted in democratic debate. Even those most obviously ignorant were allowed to participate. Then someone would suggest going elsewhere: to the park, downtown, the railroad station. He might go or not, depending on which boys were heading off and which remaining.
As his reverie continued and grew richer in the detail of his imagination, Stewart gradually sank deeper into that realm and became less aware of his surroundings and the passing traffic. Some distance off, Red had seen the kid, a singular youth in black, facing away. The man had noticed because he was heading for the drug store to purchase a container of the nasal spray, to which he was addicted. He throttled down as he passed on the right hand side of the thoroughfare, planning to make a U-turn at the further intersection of two main roads and then park right next to his destination. The loud, “pop-pop-pop,” of the backfiring machine reached into Stewart’s mind and startled him back to the illusion of the present.
Out of the corner of his eye, the boy glimpsed the bulky shape hurtling past, on the other side of the street. He looked up and followed its progress, the black motorcycle and rider receding, until it abruptly turned and headed directly for him. His gaze was frozen on the sight and his body to the spot where he stood.
Surely it was Goliath, who abruptly stopped before him, a giant with a wild red beard, thick hair protruding from the perimeter of the black helmet that he wore. And he, David unprepared, slingless and stoneless, watched with widening eyes as the apparition approached him, able merely to keep his expression impassive, not daring to show the fear that was in his heart. It was a silly fear, he quickly told himself, for what could this monstrosity want with him.
Red took in the form confronting him; the dark eyes, abundant black hair cut in bangs, set off by a smooth pale face. Then he read the message emblazoned on the kid’s chest, PLAYBOY. Red would have laughed out loud, if he had not been Red, to see the boy in black, cringing in the spirit.
Forgetting entirely his errand, he instead unhooked the spare helmet at the back of the massive machine. “Put this on,” he instructed the kid and proffered the protective device. Dumbly, as in a trance, Steward obeyed, and knew that he was to climb onto the back of the cycle and behind the monster. He did not have to be ordered. If it had occurred to him to run, he would have.
“Hold on to me,” Red commanded as he kick started the machine and roared into the thoroughfare. The arms of the boy could hardly be felt by Red though his heavy leather jacket, so he picked up speed and began weaving around the slower vehicles and taking corners with a deep lean into the turns. This produced a more satisfying embrace.
Stewart clung to the body of his monster, pressing himself against Red’s back, his head turned left, where he could view close up, with something near to terror, the sides of speeding tractor-trailers going in the other direction. Using his thighs, he tightly squeezed the mechanical beast between his legs. He knew that continued life depended solely upon the whim of the maniac, to whom he was currently attached.
Then they were on Interstate 95, traveling north. There was less congestion and Stewart relaxed a little, realizing that the driver had skill enough not to kill them so far. He hoped the creature desired to exist as much as he. Presently, they caught up with a group of five motorcyclists and slowly passed them. Stewart turned his head to look and saw small signs of recognition from the drivers, a slight nod or the faintest wave of a hand, lifted briefly from a handlebar. Most had passengers on the back. Except for one, these cohabitants were comparatively smaller persons. Then Stewart felt the guided missile, himself playing the part of the reluctant experimental animal, slow. He watched as, element by element, the caravan passed them. When they were again at the end of the line, the behemoth joined the formation.
Once in a while, another cycle would catch up with the file and the ritual of passing, being passed, attaching to the rear, was repeated. Of the ten vehicles then traveling together, eight had two creatures on them. The drivers were all big, but Stewart’s was the biggest. Some of the companions seemed to be women, judged by streaming lengths of hair, but most were thin like himself, and he could not be sure. One passenger was clearly a man, because he was nearly as tall as his associate and Stewart could see a stubble of beard on his face.
Just before some toll booths in New Hampshire, the line of motorcycles left the Interstate and continued north on ever smaller roads. They passed through the centers of little towns, each less imposing than the one before, until they arrived at a wooden, roadside building with a gravel parking lot. It was already crowded with bikes, a few pickup trucks and one filthy, eight wheeler, carrying a load of very dirty, scrap metal.
The gang parked in a cluster. Red got off and removed his head gear. Stewart gazed upon pock marked, ruddy cheeks and puffy nose, as he threw his leg over and slid to the ground. Red unsnapped the chin strap from the boy’s helmet and stowed both. Then he put his paw on the back of Stewart’s neck and, without speaking to anyone from the pack, steered Stewart to the side and a cluster of large trees growing in sandy soil. The real woods began beyond. Here, the thick trunks were spread out and the ground was clear of undergrowth.
Red sat down against one of these and leaned back. “Sit yourself down,” he decreed, patting the ground next to him with the flat of his hand. The teenager complied, keeping a small distance between himself and the man, but Red immediately shifted his body into the youngster, so it did no good. A short while later, Red asked, “D’you need to pee?” Mute, Stewart nodded. “Over here,” Red indicated.
They walked a short way into the woods and stood side by side. Stewart averted his eyes, but could not avoid the sight of the mighty, hissing stream flowing next to his own little trickle and wondering if Red was looking at his penis. He had always thought his member superior to males his own age, but knew it must be insignificant compared to the giant.
Red finished first, but waited as the youngster went on and on from having held it so long and being nervous. “Christ, won’t it ever stop?” the teenager asked himself. He felt stupid, standing there on display. But eventually his bladder emptied and Red guided him back to their place, where they resumed their positions. Stewart did not bother, this time, to try and establish any physical distance between them.
There they remained for a span, quietly, for Red did not often experience the urge to speak. On occasion, another man would approach, stand about ten feet away and address words of greeting to Red, who would acknowledge them with a nod or a grunt or a single word, sometimes spoken clearly enough for Stewart to comprehend it. There were other couples near by, sitting as they were, but conversing more, specially where one was a woman.
One of these, Stewart saw, gave him a nasty look that distressed him. He could not fathom the basis for animosity from someone he had never met, never mind ever done anything to, to warrant such apparent disdain. Slightly alarmed, he looked up and caught a split second glance of hate from Red, but directed to the man who was with the woman who had looked at him disapprovingly. Suddenly the woman was flat on her back, her legs splayed out. She sat up, howling, with blood and snot running from her nose and mixing with tears, before dripping into her mouth and staining her front teeth. She buried her face into the shoulder of the man, who had struck her a flash of a blow. A moment later, he leaned over and whispered something into her ear and she quieted. Red nodded his head once to the other man and turned his gaze elsewhere.
Stewart wondered why his mind was not racing with thoughts, but it was otherwise. It seemed to function in slow motion, along with time, and the general inactivity of the people outside the building. The shape of the shade where they were sitting had passed circular to elliptical, when Red stirred himself for the second time. “Time to eat,” he commented and indicated with a movement of his arm, that Stewart was to accompany him.
Red stuck his hand into the back of the boy’s pants, gripping the waistband. Stewart dared not protest this familiarity of thick fingers, the thinnest cotton remaining as a barrier to further intrusion. In unison, they walked to the building and entering, proceeded to the counter where food and drink could be obtained. “How many hot dogs d’you want?” the man asked. Stewart raised one finger. Red bought a half dozen and a six pack of domestic beer.
He pushed the cardboard box of frankfurters toward Stewart and said, “I want onion, mustard and relish on mine.” Looking about, Stewart saw the condiment table and approached it. When he was finished, he brought the lunch to Red, who was seated alone at a long wooden picnic table. Stewart sat across from him. The man popped a beer can and placed it in front of the boy.
In one bite, Red ate a third of his sausage and bun, in one gulp drank a third of a can of beer. He continued until he had consumed his meal. “Throw the trash away,” he ordered. They stayed inside for a time, in silence. Stewart did not know where to look, so much of his view was blocked by the bulk of Red. Red uttered one word, “playboy,” and a grunting noise that substituted for a chuckle.
Then they went outside and remounted the black whirlwind. The return trip was made, without benefit of escort. Although it felt to Stewart, that they traveled at reduced speed; it seemed to take less time. When they reached Salem, the route was altered, taking them to a different, more crowded section of the city. Red turned into an alleyway next to a fish store and parked in the back.
He lifted Stewart off the bike and pointed to a set of outside stairs that went to the second floor of the building. The boy ascended slowly, with trepidation. Inside, the appearance of Red’s three room apartment, demonstrated his lack of housekeeping skills. The floor was strewn with motorcycle magazines and not a few spare parts, some soaking in a large container of oil, placed under the street side window.
Red slumped into the only upholstered arm chair and sweeping a pile of newspapers and food wrappers from a foot stool, said, “Sit there,” to Stewart. Again the youngster was facing his personal monster, this time without a heavy table between them. “Gimmie y’r foot,” Red commanded. The boy complied and Red removed his sneaker and sock. “Th’other one,” he commanded. Then, “Stand up.” Red lowered Stewart’s pants to mid-calf. “Sit.” He drew them off the youth’s feet.
“Up here,” the man directed. Stewart understood, from his molester’s hand signals that he was to climb up and straddle Red’s legs, one knee on each side. Red placed his hand on the kid’s rump and drew him closer. “Playboy,” he said again, touching the lettering of Stewart’s T-shirt with the tips of his fingers.
Red petted the lad, as a child would do with a new stuffed toy. The T-shirt was raised to Stewart’s armpits and his master touched the exposed body, front and back. He pulled the shirt back down, then lowered the boy’s briefs. The giant felt Stewart’s bottom and gave it a pinch. Then he examined the youngster’s genitals.
Holding the boy’s penis with one hand he inserted the tip of his index finger under the foreskin and circled around the head several times. Stewart got hard and the beast seemed to smile. Red pushed the foreskin back then forward a moment later. Using his thumb and forefinger he grasped one edge of the foreskin and stretched it forward as far as it would go. His other hand fondled the teenager’s testicles as he continued to stretch the foreskin, over and over, moving his fingers from one perch to another.
For the next several hours the man used Stewart like a doll, dressing and undressing him, in various parts and combinations of his outfit: socks only, unzipped pants only, T-shirt and unlaced sneakers. The youth’s erection rose and fell repeatedly with this handling.
*****
When Red announced that he was going downstairs to the fish store to purchase something for supper, Stewart thought about escaping. What if he catches me going out, he wondered, and this gave him pause. The longer he waited to act, he realized, the smaller became the chances of getting away. Paralyzed by the fear of discovery he did nothing, did not even get dressed for departure. When Red returned Stewart was in the same spot where he had been left, as Red had known he would be.
“Come here,” Red commanded. He put Stewart in a food stained, white apron, that hung behind his neck and was tied in the back. He was otherwise naked and his pert bottom stuck out the back. Red reached down and gave it a squeeze. Then he set two large frying pans on the stove before showing the youngster how to slice the onions. Sautéed onions and haddock were cooked separately and then eaten with great hunks of bread. Stewart was surprised to find that he had a good appetite.
After this repast, Red dressed Stewart in all of his clothing. “Time to take you home,” he said. Once outside, they mounted the motorcycle for the last time and Red drove slowly to their meeting place. From there, Stewart gave directions as Red and taught him, by tapping on his arm to indicate a turn and on both arms to stop. When they arrived, Steward jumped off the bike and ran into the house, without saying good bye or looking back.
His parents did not take notice of the noise of the cycle, that Red had kept fairly quiet. In any case, they would not have associated this sound with the arrival of their son. So the only voice that the boy heard,. as he directly climbed the stairs, was his mother’s, saying without conviction, “You’re to let me know when you wont be home for dinner.”
The youth, exhausted from his adventure, went straight to bed, pausing only to disrobe. But he did not fall asleep at once, as he had expected. His hands kept him awake. Wherever he put them, they reminded him of what had happened that day. As a result, the youngster remembered it all again, and knew there was only one way to the rest he craved. When the teenager was thoroughly drained, he drifted off into a deep undisturbed slumber, that lasted ten hours and well into the next morning.
*****
Stewart thought he was hearing the rumble in a dream, but then he was fully awake and saw bright sunshine in his room. When the sound ceased, he rushed out of bed, over to the open window and looked down to the street outside. There below was the specter, sitting astride the wild machine, one leg stretched out to the curb, propping up the unstable vehicle. Stewart watched as Red removed his helmet, uncovering the bright bushiness of his great head, and looking uncertainly about. They boy’s heart raced and his body was flooded with energy. “I’ll be right down!” he yelled, threw on some clothes and ran to encounter his fate.
One day, a few months later, while he was riding Red’s study shaft, when the last of the scabbing had fallen from his first tattoo, the one entirely covering his right shoulder, a gift from the giant; Stewart thought about how gentle Red really was and how, not so long ago, he had been afraid of being harmed by the man. He gave voice to these thoughts. “But you’d never do anything wrong,” Red countered. And this was true. Stewart was a good boy, never intentionally unkind to anyone and willing to be helpful, when he could.
Three years passed and Stewart grew taller. The youth was too big for Red to dandle on his knee any longer, but he didn’t mind. They just used the bed more. Stewart completed high school, because Red wanted him to. The behemoth was a graduate himself and considered an education to be important, even though the modest trust fund, granted him by his elderly, professional parents, provided gas and parts for his motorcycle, plenty of food, his apartment over the fish store and a little more. Red did not want much.
Stewart’s moving in was a gradual transition. He had begun staying over occasionally, during the first weeks of their association. When his mother asked where he had been, the youth told her. His father threatened to fight the man, who he thought was corrupting his son. So Stewart arranged for Red to pick him up early one morning so his father would get a view of his potential opponent. Once look was enough to discourage that intention. His parents considered calling in the police, but had no evidence of molestation and knew that Stewart would not provide it. Only placing Stewart in detention would keep him from Red, they believed. That seemed worse to them, than the way things were.
At nineteen, Stewart was as tall as Red, but terribly thin. In two years more, his features coarsened, his beard came in heavy and black. Encased within a gaunt appearance, the same sweet boy struggled for survival. Red was one of the few to know this and he was sad, because try as he did, although his affection remained, lust departed. Red moved in a second bed.
One afternoon Red presented Stewart with a brand new motorcycle for his very own. It was smaller than the huge and ancient Indian he rode, but an entirely adequate street machine. Stewart understood the tactful message, a tribute to their love and his new manhood, but the signal that his friend expected him to make a new life, with someone else, somewhere else. The young man decided to take a trip around the country, explaining to Red that he had never been far from Salem and he wanted to see what there was. Red told Stewart that he was sorry he could not go along, but wished him well and gave him two hundred dollars to get him started.
Not having any reserve of funds, Stewart frequently had to pause in his travels to replenish his finances. He knew all about repairing motorbikes, but so did thousands of other young men. These jobs were always filled, he found. But there was work to be had at discount tire retailers, if not in one town then in the next. The pay was so poor that employees moved on quickly, creating openings, and a man’s appearance was not a part of the job description. As long as the applicant could dismount, mount and balance tires, and not insult the customers or start fights with coworkers, he was acceptable.
In this fashion, Stewart worked his way from state to state. He never stayed longer than a month in any one city, not having discovered any reason to linger. He was lonely, but did not let it bother him, until he came to San Diego for the second time. Although he had met a lot of men on the road; he had not found a special friend, someone who he could respect and care for as he had Red. Not that he required a person exactly like his old friend, he knew that was impossible, and would not do in any case. He wanted a man as compelling, but in his own way.
So Stewart decided to stay awhile in the city and take a good look for such a person. He had heard about gay, leather bars, and he went to several. It seemed to him that the men there were mostly fakes; middle aged, middle class gentlemen, playing dress up. But it was at one of these clubs that he ran into a fellow biker, whom he had worked with for a few weeks outside of St. Louis. This man told him about S&M and where the devotees assembled.
Things started off all right. Since he kept aloof and did not approach anyone, the other patrons assumed that he was a bottom looking for a top. But when he was asked, “What’s your scene, man?” he couldn’t form an understandable answer. Stewart did not want to be whipped, tied up, humiliated or urinated on. One customer, who called himself Rex. Thinking that the young man required proof of his abilities as a master, behaved in a belligerent manner. When Stewart resisted, Rex felt his masculinity was being questioned. That was quite an insult, since he considered himself to be one of the most dominate males to frequent this particular barroom.
He told Stewart that he was going to beat him into submission. Stewart replied that he did not want to fight, but would, if Rex insisted. He did, so Stewart used his considerable reach advantage to thrash the fellow so efficiently that it left no doubt that he had not been merely lucky. This discouraged other would be tops and both confused and raised the hopes of bottoms without partners.
About two weeks later, a man in another place, called The Dungeon, bought Stewart a beer. He had seen the fight, he said. Stewart explained that he was sorry to have hurt Rex but he did not see what choice he had. The stranger, as tall as Stewart, but a good deal heavier, introduced himself as Jack. He commiserated with Stewart and agreed that he had been forced into the engagement. Jack said that he admired how Stewart had handled himself. There was no talk of “scenes,” but they conversed quietly for several hours and agreed to meet again the next night.
This went on for nine days. Then Jack invited Stewart to come home with him. Jack turned out to own the biggest motorcycle dealership in the county. As soon as there was an opening, Stewart was hired, and a few weeks after that, they started living together. It was not like being with Red, because Jack worked all day and most evenings, until nine or ten. But they did not have to go to the bars anymore and Stewart learned to get by with less sleep.
One weekend a month they would take off and ride with a group of bikers whom Jack liked. It was on one of those weekends, on a Saturday night at a small motel, that Stewart woke from his slumber and for a while thought of Red and wondered how he was doing. Then he turned over and went back to sleep, to the sound of Jack’s deep snoring.
It was at the same time when Stewart had woken, that Red began to feel nauseous. An ulcer, that had begun around the time that Stewart he left, had eaten gradually into the wall of an artery supplying blood to the stomach. Now it had burst and filled the cavity.
Red got up and went to the kitchen sink to vomit. The blood surprised him. What’s this, he wondered, while the fluid flowed unseen, until it reached capacity, and the giant brought it up a second time. And just before he lost consciousness and slipped to the floor, he thought how interesting it was, the whiteness of the porcelain streaked with red.
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