My room, no mater if it's in Burlington, Boston, Cranberry Lake, or Florida, is always an altar to the God of Dirty Laundry. I never bring food into the room, or allow other public health hazards, but laundry be it clean or dirty, nearly always covers the floor. Laundry, notebooks and papers. I'm thinking of having a scavenger hunt: put together a matching outfit AND organize the papers by poetry/novel/miscellaneous unsent letters, and you'll win an autographed copy of The Long Dark Teatime of My Cock.
Though my room looks like it's in complete chaos, I can always tell when something is out of place, or, as is the case on that weird-ass Burlington night, when there's shit that shouldn't be there; Say, for example, Ernie's clothes, and no Ernie.
I envisioned Ernie running naked through the two feet of snow drifts, his feet frostbite blue. I threw on my blue jeans, and a t-shirt, shirt, turtleneck, and sweater, grabbed Ernie's clothes and jacket and piled them by the door. I went upstairs to take a badly needed piss before I left. The shower was running, so I crept into the third floor bathroom, got rid of the Cherry Coke backlog, and headed outside.
There was no Ernie in the park. No Ernie by the lake. No Ernie downtown. I debated checking out the police station, but if he wasn't there, and he wasn't naked but maybe wearing some of my clothes, I didn't want to have to deal with police officers. The last place I checked was The Loop.
When Zach had first told me about The Loop, I had mistakenly thought it was some sort of drug reference. The Loop was actually the place where the gay guys in Burlington met for anonymous sex. Random guys would wander around the block until a car, van, or red pickup truck would pull over and ask if they wanted a ride somewhere.
As a guy who had invited strangers he'd "met" over The Internet into his house to fuck them, I was horrified at the idea of The Loop. But I could see how it had an appeal for someone like Ernie who was "straight" and without Internet access.
Though The Loop was the logical place to find him, he wasn't there. He'd had more than enough time to have already been picked up.
I went home, tossed Ernie's clothes in my room, checking to see if he was back in either my bed or the living room futon. No.
I went upstairs to run some hot water over my cold ass, but it seemed someone had beaten me to the idea. I went downstairs to think and write for a while. Ten minutes later the person was still showering. I wondered if it was the same person who was showering when I'd left for ErnieQuest 2001 over an hour earlier.
I knocked. "Hey who's using all our hot water?"
No answer. I decided to go in anyway, if one of my crack addict roommates was in their fucking one of their hos, I'd take another piss, and walk out. It wouldn't be the first time. But it wasn't one of my cracked out roommates, it was Ernie curled up in the tub with the shower head washing over him.
When Ernie started showing up at the store where I packed fudge in the literal sense, I knew I was in trouble. Potheads in a candy store are only good for business if they leave every once in a while. Ernie had been standing in the same place for so long that I’d actually varnished his shoes.
Around closing time, while I was sanitizing the knives, and weighing the remaining fudge, Ernie mentioned that he’d missed the last bus to Middleboro. At the time, I was living in a commune type house, three floors, seven bedrooms, living room, dining room, three bathrooms, kitchen, laundry room; a poor man’s mansion. I was the poor man. “Well, we have a pretty comfortable futon in the living room if you don’t mind my roommates coming in and out of the house at all hours.”
“You know,” Ernie said, “There was this sketchy guy in my college who used to tell freshman girls about his comfortable futon in order to entice them over to his dorm room where he’d get the drunk and fuck their brains out.”
“I promise I’m not trying to get you drunk and fuck you. I’m trying to get you high and fuck you.” It’s important to note that I was trying to be funny. I was no more attracted to Ernie than I was to VH1. If I happen to be in the room while “Behind the Music” or “I Love the 90s” is on, I’ll watch it, but I don’t set aside time in my day to sit on the couch and watch “The Surreal Life” marathon. I was trying to be friendly and offer him a place to sleep, nothing more. I thought he was looking for an excuse to stay at my house because I lived with five very generous drug dealers, not because he wanted me to fuck his brains out.
As soon as we got back to my place, Ernie wandered into the dining room where two people who lived in the house, and seven people who probably should have been paying rent where sitting at the table, smoking. I headed into my room to change out of my work clothes.
I had just taken my pants off when Ernie opened the door. I regretted going commando. “Uh, hey.” I said.
“I thought you were supposed to get me high before we came in here. Are you so horny you can’t even wait?” I must have looked as uncomfortable as I felt because he added “Just kidding. I didn’t know you were changing. Sorry.” But he didn’t leave the room or stop staring at me.
Four hours later, he had been baked out of his bean, and his eyes had been properly glazed red. The rest of the crew had headed to the basement and plugged in the various instruments. Tonight’s song to be butchered was “Running With The Devil.” Somewhere in Obscurity, Eddie Van Halen started crying.
I had set up the futon for Ernie, said goodnight and headed into my room. I wasn’t as baked as the rest of the household (I’d only inhaled second hand smoke), so I decided to forego my usualpre-sleep ritual. I didn’t want Ernie to think I was decorating my cake for him.
When I woke up at 3 o’clock I knew something was unusual. It wasn’t that the band had stopped playing. The house was eerily silent, but that wasn’t incredibly unusual. There was the inappropriate ratio of smoke to air, and the house didn’t appear to be flooded or on fire, and yet something was decidedly non-status quo. Ahh, yes, someone was sucking my dick.
“Uh, hey.” Ernie said. I chose to ignore the fact that he was infringing on my copyrighted greeting, and chose to focus on the more important issue.
“Uh.” I added more of a pause than usual, “Hey Ernie.” I took a four second hour to figure out what to say. In the grand scheme of things, waking up to a houseguest sucking your dick is better than waking up to find a houseguest sharpening a knife or aiming a gun at your forehead or taking a shit on your toothbrush. But it’s still a tad unsettling. I made a mental note to start locking my bedroom door.
I distinctly remember Gary Coleman's “Say no. Then go. And tell.” campaign. I remember that incredibly disturbing episode of “Different Strokes” where the bicycle store guy asked Gary’s friend to take his shirt off. I remember “No means no.” But at no point in either my exposure to pop culture or my sex ed classes did anyone ever explain to me what one should say when they wake up with their dick in the mouth of someone unexpected.
Had the cock been in the other mouth, so to speak, I could have done the whole biting thing. But, as it was, I was unprepared. I can’t knee him in the jaw because then he is gonna bite down, and I certainly don’t want that They really should hand out pamphlets about situations like this in Boy Scout camp. Hmmm. Maybe a video or DVD directed at the escort and prospective altar boy markets. Not having any of the resources at my disposal, I was forced to take the completely lame “What are you doing?” approach.
Ernie took my dick out of his mouth, and gave me the velociraptor look. The fucker was infringing on all my copyrights. “You’ve never had a blowjob before?”
Touché velocirapist.“I mean, why are you in my room giving me a blowjob?”
“I thought you wanted it.” I checked to see if I was wearing a short skirt and acting in a Lifetime Television for Victims movie. I was not.
I sat up so that the closest thing to suck on was my toes, and prayed he wasn’t a foot fetishist.
“No. What gave you that idea?”
“Well, you're gay right?”
“Yea.” I’m also a Democrat but I don’t want anybody voting for me while I’m asleep. “But, I’m-- I thought you were straight.”
He flashed me the stupid Guy Who Just Bought Me A Drink And Thinks I Now Owe Him Keys To My Apartment smile. “I’m up for a little experimentation. I’ve never sucked a cock before.”
This was glaringly obvious.
“But I like you. And you know, you said that thing about getting me high and taking advantage of me.”
“That was a joke.” I said.
He stood up at the end of my quasi-bed, his rock hard cock pointing at me accusingly. What it was accusing me of, I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t the one who should have been apologizing.
“Look,” I said, “If you wanted to fool around you should have talked to me about it. You can’t just go around wrapping your mouth around random gay guys’ cocks. This isn’t a rest stop bathroom."
Crickets chirped. Tumbleweeds rolled across my floor. In the distance, a truck passed. As the doppler effect faded into the hum of the heating system, I waited for him to apologize. If not for violating my trust and personal space, then for the horrible way his teeth grazed against my cock, the way his stubble chafed my inner thigh.
Because I’m the most unselfish man in all of creation, I could not stand idly by and let Ernie continue to go around giving terrible blowjobs to unsuspecting gay guys. As a member of "The Gay Community" it was my duty to either educate him or else tattoo "shitty sucker" on hisforehead. I was all out of needles and India Ink, and while I'm sure my drug dealer/artist roommates would have been able to loan me some, I decided to go the sex route. That way, I'd not only be able to tell everyone how I'd molded the subpar sucking "straight" boy into the perfect sex toy, I would also be able to engage in some much needed release of sexual tension get my fuck on.
But, Adam, say those of you with more scruples than I have, you said yourself, he practically raped you. Why would you allow him the satisfaction of having your dick in his mouth/ass/nostril? Had Ernie woke me up with his dick in my ass, or with a knife/gun/copy of Dianetics at my throat/head/asshole, then I would have thrown him to the ground and beat him to death with my shitty futon frame. But, however misguided his attempt, he had been trying to pleasure me, not rape me. So, once I allowed my hormones to overrule my better judgment, I let him return to sucking my dick, giving him appropriate criticism: "teeth bad, tongue good"; even threatening him with a demonstration of why grazing cock with teeth was unacceptable. Not only did he learn better tongue technique, I even convinced him to borrow my razor and shave off his stubble.
After about ten minutes of stubble-free, tonguelicious head, Ernie complained that his jaw was hurting. I started to give the old jerk the guy off into your mouth lesson when he interrupted "I don't want to jerk you off, I want you to fuck me."
What is it with "straight" boys that they're so eager to jump from sucking to getting fucked on their first rape date? I understand the wanting to fuck regardless of orientation, but "straight" boys wanting to get fucked have always fascinated me.
As a person who strives to be both tolerant and unselfish, I felt it would be wrong of me not to fuck him. So I unwrapped a Lifestyles and began the "Getting Fucked 101" tutorial. He got about a B- on the final exam. I fell asleep thinking that I'd diffused a potentially horrific situation.