{"id":8160,"date":"2014-10-24T10:14:12","date_gmt":"2014-10-24T14:14:12","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.gadflyonline.com\/home\/?p=8160"},"modified":"2014-10-29T09:39:53","modified_gmt":"2014-10-29T13:39:53","slug":"fat-faggots-offer-drugs-for-sex-pt-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/fat-faggots-offer-drugs-for-sex-pt-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Fat Faggots Offer Drugs for Sex Pt. 2"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Fat_585x585\"<\/a><\/p>\n

After another minute of walking, Dewey departed from the pebble-strewn road and lumbered up the steps to a mobile home. He was tempted to glance over his shoulder and make sure Christopher hadn\u2019t bolted. His guest, however, clomped up the stairs behind him. Dewey assured himself this man would allow Dewey to please him. I am not a fr<\/em>eak, he told himself. I can attract a worthy man. Mama\u2019s wrong about me. She\u2019s wrong about everything.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m gonna need to smoke a bowl or two to stay in this shithole,\u201d Christopher announced, following Dewey into the empty mobile home. Surprisingly, it was still decorated with taste and thrift. Little touches of warmth littered the trailer: a crocheted maroon blanket folded neatly atop a sofa, bright yellow kitchen curtains allowing the afternoon sunlight, a beige cloth bag holding outdated housekeeping magazines. Nothing, however, could distract the men from the foul, pungent odor permeating each room. How long had Mrs. Zuckerman lay dead before a random relative removed her?<\/p>\n

\u201cFollow me,\u201d Dewey said with forced mirth. \u201cI\u2019ve got the bedroom all set up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThis place reminds me of Grandma\u2019s house. Man, I hate that bitch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMy grandma sometimes forgets my name.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cActually, I forgot your name, too,\u201d Christopher admitted. \u201cDon\u2019t take it personal. Names aren\u2019t really important, ya know?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey halted at the bedroom doorway. Christopher was at least talking to him. That was more than some of Dewey\u2019s tricks managed. He convinced himself Christopher\u2019s candor was a good thing, an indication of his comfort with his homely, heavy host. The downside of having a trick that spoke, however, was how it obligated one to speak in return.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m Dewey,\u201d he said. \u201cActually, it\u2019s Dwight, but only my dad called me that. He\u2019s dead.\u201d He hadn\u2019t planned to disclose his loss. The mood was already too delicate.<\/p>\n

Christopher grinned and Dewey was reminded of the door greeter he knew from his job at Wal-Mart. He envied people, attractive or not, whose smiles compelled others to trust without reservation. Whenever Dewey smiled, people rarely returned it.<\/p>\n

Christopher still smiled, leaning against the doorframe, his spooky eyes alight with mischief. Men so seldom flirted with Dewey, he was ill-prepared to spot it.<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you can remember my name,\u201d Christopher said, \u201cI might let you do more than suck me off.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey giggled, a spontaneous reaction. \u201cDude, of course I remember your name. I wrote it on my buddy list the first time we chatted.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally? I\u2019m glad someone remembers that.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe chatted over an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen I\u2019m online, all I see are dicks and assholes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYour name is Christopher,\u201d Dewey said quietly. He risked a step toward. His guest did not withdraw in disgust. At all these tiny omens of impending success, Dewey marveled. \u201cI don\u2019t know your last name,\u201d he added, glancing up into the taller man\u2019s face. Perhaps Dewey had learned this classic submissive pose from all those black-and-white movies Margene watched after midnight. He occasionally joined her when pecking on his keyboard grew too depressing. He didn\u2019t feel safe, however, until she passed out from wine coolers or methadone.<\/p>\n

\u201cUnless you\u2019re my probation officer, last names are irrelevant.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMine is Langtree.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDewey Langtree.\u201d Christopher brightened. \u201cMaybe it should be Dwight Langtree.\u201d<\/p>\n

Not knowing how to respond to this oddball kindness, Dewey withdrew into the bedroom, pausing beside the crisply made bed. A quilted comforter with a floral design promised things far more genteel than what Dewey had planned. He slipped the glass pipe from his pocket then fished in the opposite one for the dope. Christopher scurried up to him when he produced the tiny baggie of white crystals.<\/p>\n

\u201cSome nice fat rocks in there,\u201d Christopher said.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s the cool thing about living in the sticks,\u201d Dewey said. \u201cThe dope is so much better.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you ever sell this shit?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know how to be a dealer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you can count cash, there\u2019s not much more to learn.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey gazed dumbly at the baggie he held. He and Margene certainly could use the cash. Dewey, however, possessed so little imagination he couldn\u2019t fathom life if dealing drugs became his second career. He couldn\u2019t imagine anything better than what fate God had coldly tossed in his lap. Margene would want him to walk two miles for more Virginia Slims once Christopher left.<\/p>\n

Impatient, Christopher snatched both the baggie and the pipe. \u201cI told you,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019m on a tight schedule.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe won\u2019t need to smoke it all,\u201d Dewey said too quickly. \u201cIt\u2019s strong stuff. You can take the rest home like I promised.\u201d He paused. \u201cDoes your girlfriend smoke it, too?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you hadn\u2019t tried this.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey\u2019s heart dropped into his stomach. He felt himself sinking onto the bed, his head bowed like a puppy gruffly disciplined for pissing inside the house. Now he knows I\u2019m a liar<\/em>, Dewey thought. Nobody likes liars<\/em>. Dewey summoned the courage to glance at Christopher and was relieved to discover his guest ignoring him, too busy loading the pipe with a fat white crystal.<\/p>\n

Dewey pretended he hadn\u2019t been caught. To his relief, Christopher pocketed the baggie after finishing the bowl and produced a disposable lighter. Dewey watched in rapture as the immense and bright rolls of white smoke escaped his lips. He had always found it deeply erotic to watch men expel crystal meth smoke. He liked to imagine those same mouths ravenous for his own ignored cock. The last man who had sucked him off was so inept that Dewey developed a rash from the irritation.<\/p>\n

Christopher took five hits from the pipe before offering it to Dewey, but Dewey didn\u2019t mind. After all, Christopher was under no obligation to share. One or two of the men Dewey had serviced hadn\u2019t shared at all. Dewey took an enormous hit, sucking on the stem until gasping for breath. He exhaled an endless procession of white smoke, and Christopher chuckled. \u201cDamn impressive, big boy,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI can do a lot of cool shit with my mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLet me see that pipe again.\u201d<\/p>\n

They passed it back in forth, Christopher always taking more hits than Dewey on each rotation. They finished the first bowl and began another. Once that bowl was cashed, Dewey succumbed to the sensation of floating atop a jet stream, fluttering over the continent. For a moment, he forgot Christopher stood before him. The sound of a zipper opening slapped him back to reality. There was the business of the blowjob.<\/p>\n

\u201cGet on your knees, big boy,\u201d Christopher said with surprising softness. \u201cIt\u2019s what you want, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m an expert at getting guys off.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike I said, you fat boys are the best-kept secret on the internet.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey couldn\u2019t understand why no matter how differently his tricks behaved, the experience of sucking their dicks never changed. Soon after beginning, Dewey lost himself in a torrent of silent commands and stern warnings of how devastating it would feel to fail the man in his mouth. There was no ecstasy until Dewey deluded himself into believing, as always, that sexual subservience all alone can bring one joy.<\/p>\n

Christopher actually warned him before he came. Dewey slipped the man\u2019s erect cock from his mouth and let the semen splatter his face. Dewey excused himself and quickly washed his face in the bathroom. He didn\u2019t want to return and find the bedroom empty, as if the encounter had occurred solely in his imagination. When he did return, he found Christopher lying on his back atop the bed. He wasn\u2019t relaxed, though. Dewey noticed the tension in his limbs, his jaw. He dreaded this part of each encounter with a new man.<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much longer do we have?\u201d Dewey asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m too lazy to look at my watch.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo one\u2019s gonna come in. You\u2019re welcome to stay.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cActually, would it be okay if I stayed by myself for a bit? I need to pull my shit together. That was strong dope.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey had never been discarded so gently. Typically, the men couldn\u2019t bolt fast enough. Why did Christopher wish to stay by himself? Mrs. Zuckerman had probably died in that bed. Dewey lacked the courage to ask for an explanation. Instead, he shuffled toward the doorway. Christopher called his name. His true <\/em>name, not Dewey.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIf you suck cock like that every time, no one\u2019s gonna care you\u2019re fat.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey couldn\u2019t remember the last time someone complimented him with conviction. Unsure if he was smiling, his face contorted into a shape he had forgotten. His only clue was Christopher returning a grin. Dewey silently vowed to avoid the website for at least a couple of weeks. This sweet memory would surely sustain him.<\/p>\n

\u201cNow beat it, big boy,\u201d Christopher said, chuckling. \u201cYou\u2019re killing my buzz.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey trotted home, sick with possibility. All the sad, despairing homesteads didn\u2019t deter his merriment. He felt he should hum a song, something life-affirming, but he never listened to music. Dewey\u2019s life was a silent one, excluding Margene\u2019s inescapable television.<\/p>\n

His jolly mood curdled when he spotted Professor Pete glaring out his window. Typically, Dewey would\u2019ve bowed his head and shuffled away\u2026unless he needed dope. Today, however, a surge of guile overtook him. He stood firm, glared at his dealer and shot him the bird. Professor Pete narrowed his gaze. A moment later, the window was empty. The ease of his victory over that odious man stunned Dewey. The vindication mingled with the remnants of his romantic bliss. He couldn\u2019t remember the last time entering his home hadn\u2019t crushed him like a cigarette butt beneath a steel-toed boot.<\/p>\n

He didn\u2019t check on Margene before sauntering toward his bedroom. When he heard her voice ricochet through their home, it shocked him. The world had not stopped after all. It never had stopped spinning, desperate Dewey hoping enough gravity remained to anchor him.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou fat bastard,\u201d she brayed. \u201cI know where you were. I know every fucking thing.\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey considered slamming his door until something on television distracted her, but he couldn\u2019t respect himself if he let that vile woman berate him for the next ten minutes. He wanted to respect himself. Maybe if he did, others would follow suit. He wanted to smile at the shoppers in Wal-Mart and smile wider still when they returned it. \u201cIt\u2019s none of your goddamn business where I was,\u201d he cried. He crossed to the end of the couch opposite Margene. She puffed a Virginia Slim, television remote clutched in her hand. On the screen, a portly weatherman warned about severe weather tomorrow.<\/p>\n

\u201cI went back to your room, boy,\u201d she said. \u201cI got on that damn computer you can\u2019t live without. What pervert lets the whole world see pictures like that?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t come in my room,\u201d he said. \u201cWe had a deal.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou do things with men that Jesus don\u2019t allow.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou haven\u2019t been to church since Daddy died.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t speak to me about that fine man. We both know what should\u2019ve happened that day. It should\u2019ve been your <\/em>fat ass we put in the ground.\u201d<\/p>\n

Professor Pete was a scarecrow easily toppled compared to Margene. Dewey knew she would wear him down until his treasured moments with Christopher were too painful to recall. The horrible woman did nothing but squat on her cushioned throne and demand the world obey. Dewey was the only soul in that world. Margene opened her mouth to speak once more, hot pink lipstick staining her teeth.<\/p>\n

\u201cShut your fucking pie hole, you dumb bitch!\u201d<\/p>\n

Margene froze, her gaze turning nervous like a predator who had targeted a superior creature in error. \u201cWhat did you say, boy?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI said shut up, Mama.\u201d On the television, the weatherman flirted with the pretty lead anchor. Dewey glimpsed the screen. The weatherman was nearly as big as him, and he was on fucking television. People watched and trusted him.<\/p>\n

Margene hurled the remote at Dewey\u2019s head, smacking him at his eyebrow. He wailed and grabbed his head. The remote clattered to the floor. He couldn\u2019t remember the last time Margene had struck him. She was so small, so puny, she had to rely on words to smother his hope. Dewey knew what he must do. He had heard his late father mutter Dwight<\/em> as they pulled out of the pharmacy, neither of them seeing the big rig headed toward them that awful day.<\/p>\n

He grabbed the remote and smacked Margene across the face, the device making a cracking sound as it struck her jaw. The batteries popped out and fell to the floor. She raised her hand in fury and horror. \u201cBoy,\u201d she muttered, \u201cI got good reason to get off this couch\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re gonna die in front of that TV,\u201d Dewey snapped.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need a doctor,\u201d Margene mumbled, absently smearing blood across her forehead.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need a life,\u201d her son replied. He didn\u2019t need the excuse of answering the door after an unexpected knock to leave her in pain. It was a trio of knocks, actually. What greeted Dewey was yet another surprise in an afternoon abundant with them.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou busy?\u201d Christopher asked. He leaned upon the doorframe, the pose eerily similar to a classic James Dean photograph. A man of typical sexual experience would\u2019ve recognized instantly Christopher\u2019s intent, but Dewey was not such a man.<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought you had to leave,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy girlfriend called. Typical bullshit. Don\u2019t worry about her.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d Dewey asked weakly. He was terrified whatever happened next would sour their wonderful moment before he left Mrs. Zuckerman\u2019s bedroom. He desired Christopher, but he knew desire led to disappointment. Always.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m horny again, dude. I was wondering if\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

From the living room, both young men heard Margene moan. Christopher\u2019s gaze sharpened and he turned but didn\u2019t step closer. Dewey cherished the revelation this home was now his to control. \u201cAre you alone right now?\u201d Christopher asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cEverything\u2019s fine,\u201d Dewey assured him. \u201cI can handle it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou haven\u2019t got another stud waiting, do ya?\u201d<\/p>\n

Dewey gazed directly into Christopher\u2019s odd, shimmering eyes. One hazel and one blue, like birthstones. \u201cIf you want me to suck you off again, spit it out.\u201d He paused, grinned like a guilty schoolboy. \u201cSorry, bad choice of words.\u201d<\/p>\n

Christopher swallowed, his face twitching. Dewey lacked the experience to know most men lose their bearings when forced from hunter to the hunted. \u201cYou suck cock like a champ,\u201d Christopher finally said.<\/p>\n

Margene moaned again. Christopher\u2019s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Dewey calmly followed him after he drifted outside and down the steps. Dewey left both doors wide open. A neighbor might help if Margene whimpered long enough, he guessed. Christopher required Dewey\u2019s mouth. It was possible he would require it fairly often in the future. As they returned to Mrs. Zuckerman\u2019s trailer, Dwight Langtree had faith Christopher would call him whatever name he desired.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Thomas Kearnes holds an MA in Screenwriting from the University of Texas at Austin. His two collections are “Pretend I’m Not Here” (Musa Publishing) and “Promiscuous” (JMS Publishing). His fiction has appeared in Litro, The Adroit Journal, The Ampersand Review, PANK, Word Riot, Eclectica, SmokeLong Quarterly, Johnny America, Five Quarterly, wigleaf, Storyglossia, Sundog Lit, A cappella Zoo, Spork, The Pedestal, Digital Americana Magazine and elsewhere. His work has also appeared in several LGBT venues. He is studying to become a drug dependency counselor. He lives near Houston.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

After another minute of walking, Dewey departed from the pebble-strewn road and lumbered up the steps to a mobile home. He was tempted to glance over his shoulder and make sure Christopher hadn\u2019t bolted. His guest, however, clomped up the stairs behind him. Dewey assured himself this man would allow Dewey to please him. I am not a freak, he told himself. I can attract a worthy man. Mama\u2019s wrong about me. She\u2019s wrong about everything. <\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m gonna need to smoke a bowl or two to stay in this shithole,\u201d Christopher announced, following Dewey into the empty mobile home. <\/p>\n

READ MORE.<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":233,"featured_media":8267,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,200,219,217],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8160"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/233"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8160"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8160\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8273,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8160\/revisions\/8273"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/8267"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8160"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8160"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/gadflyonline.com\/home\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8160"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}