Honest Conversation Is Overrated
Actual Human Interactions Witnessed Or Overheard
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
In Twentieth And Twenty-First Century America
There is no sex quite like angry sex.
I was pretty keyed up after being pulled over repeatedly on my way to get Seith some cigarettes. He was horny. Quel surprise.
I spent a good hour and a half ripping into him from every possible angle. When the anger over the police incident cleared, I reminded myself that he had lied to me about his dad dying. When I was no longer angry about that, I remembered how he had laughed at my cock. He wasn't laughing now. He was as into it as I was. It was one of those moments I was grateful not to have a headboard because it would have shattered against the wall.
Mike and Gina were in some far off galaxy. I didn't know whether they were home or not. I didn't care. I wanted to be loud, physical and angry. We're talking spanking, hair pulling, all those French Vanilla sex practices that the violent and uncreative get into. I even did a little nibbling. Grrrrrr.
The next thing I knew it was morning. The Last Morning. Seith was already awake and rifling through one of my closets. "Where's yer discman?"
Sometimes I'm a calculating bastard. He had asked about borrowing my discman as soon as he found out he'd be bussing it home. At the time, my discman was in my car, hooked up to my stereo system. Since that time I had removed it to the safety of the theatre. He was not getting my discman.
He tore up the house looking for it. He even went into the attic. He eventually settled for my $10 walkman and a bunch of crappy tapes I didn't want anyway. We had several hours before I had to drive him to Boston, and not a lot to talk about. He told me that he planned on coming back, so I mockingly suggested he leave his Playstation. He balked. We made sure absolutely everything that was his was in the car (while I was checking to make sure absolutely none of my stuff was in his stuff).
He decided to take a much needed bath before his long bus trip. While he was getting ready to bathe, I was chatting with an online friend. This friend said that Seith had been IMing him and talking about hanging out when Seith returned to Southern State. Online Friend was amused because Seith had been spinning his yarns about the model agency to him. Online Friend was a friend of one of my high school friends and he knew I was neither modeling material, nor a modeling agent. Apparently Seith had also told Online Friend that I was the best lay ever. Not bad for someone with a little cock, then, eh? He'd talked me up so much that Online Friend wanted to come up and visit. That never happened.
While I was talking, Seith came in, naked and not yet wet. He wanted one more romp time. I was no longer angry at the world. I had a sort of detached resentment/lust thing going on. So be it. I rolled my chair around and he climbed on top of me, moaning and grunting like the drunkest frat boy on the Tilt-A-Whirl. After about twenty minutes, we were both spent and messy.
We decided to bookmark our relationship by showering together. This time, the purpose would be to get clean. There was a slight snafu, though. Seith had left the water running during our escapades. Intentional? Maybe. Frustrating? Hell yes. The bathroom had about a half inch of standing water, and the hallway carpeting near the bathroom door was drenched. I used up all the towels, sponges, and paper towels in the house getting it dry.
Seith showered alone for about ten minutes before the thought of angry sex pulled me into the bathroom, him out of the shower and onto the floor, and me into him. This fuck was all about me.
Which brings us to the boundary of angry sex and rape. One that I'm not ready to cross just yet.
In the house that I live in now there is a picture above the computer of a naked man resting his hands on a desk. The woman seated behind the desk is coyly checking out his cock (which you can't see due to angle of the painting). I've been told by a few friends that this picture really creeps them out. I've seen that look before. Seith gave it to me on his final evening in the house. I was changing before I left for the play and Seith suggested an intimate warm up exercise. I declined.
The show was a mess that night. It went over really well, but so many odd things were going on backstage that you would have thought we were performing Noises Off and not The Rocky Horror Show.
There's a point in my solo where I have to run out through the audience, down two sets of stairs, through the lobby, through the dressing room, up two more flights of stairs so I can emerge from the stage again. On my way out through the audience, I got the leather jacket I was wearing caught on a railing causing me to flip down both sets of stairs. With no time to worry about my injuries, I ran the rest of the route, emerged from the stage, finished the song, and collapsed back stage in a Coke machine (as is part of the show). I rather fucked up my ankle. Luckily, the rest of the show I was in a wheelchair, anyway.
After the show was over, all I wanted to do was drive home and collapse. Actually, I would have preferred having someone else drive me home so I could collapse, but that wasn't an option. I had to drive Seith out of my life the next night.
Mike and Gina were asleep. Seith was not in his customary couch position, so I assumed correctly that he'd be naked on my bed with that look on his face.
"How'd the show go?"
Seith didn't give a shit about my show. Even before I committed my first Crime Against Seith, he'd made it very apparent that he didn't give a shit about the theatre work I was doing or my job. Both of which were fine by me. I tend to be happier with people who don't moon over what I do. Seith's asking me how my show went meant one thing: he wanted something other than sex. What was it? My car? A kidney? (I'd gladly give him the kidney that had housed the stones in it) The deed to my house? "Can you go get me some smokes?"
Had I not had the previous interior monologue wherein he was asking for a piece of my body, or my material wort, I might have been annoyed by his asking if, after a long day of carting his ass around The Peninsula, and then having to do a show. But a three minute drive didn't seem like an unreasonable request.
So I pulled out of the parking lot, and down to the end of my street. I took a left off my street and saw a cop car flashing its lights. I pulled over and waited for them to pass. They didn't pass.
"License and registration." Check. "Have you been drinking?"
"No. I just got home from work, and I'm going to pick up some groceries."
"At 1:30 AM?"
"Yes. I don't get out of work until 1:00."
"Do you know your left headlight is out?" Oh, right.
"Yes, I have an appointment on Monday to get it fixed."
"And you realize you don't have an inspection sticker."
"Yes, I do. I went to get my car inspected this morning, but because my left headlight was out, they couldn't give me one, so they put the temporary sticker on my car until they can install a new headlight and give me my real sticker."
"Well until then you're driving without an inspection sticker."
"No. I'm driving on a temporary sticker. It's good for 14 days."
"There are no temporary stickers. You either pass your inspection or you fail." At this point, his partner gets out of the car and walke over to the passenger's side. "So you're driving around without an inspection sticker."
Partner: "What are you talking about? He's got a temporary sticker right here." Thank you Good Cop, please get Bad Cop back in the car.
Bad Cop: "There's no such thing as a temporary sticker."
Good Cop: "Sure there is. If you fail your inspection you get fourteen days to fix the problem and get reinspected."
Bad Cop: "How long has it been since you got that sticker?"
"About fourteen hours. I told you, I have an appointment on Monday."
Bad Cop: "I'm going to have to write you a warning." Good Cop shakes his head and walks back to the car.
I toss the warning in my glove compartment and drive very legally down another road and take a right. About a quarter of a mile down the road I see more flashers. I live right around the corner from a police station, so I figure they're on their way to an emergency and I pull over. Wrong again.
"License and registration." Check. I also hand him the warning I received thirty-five seconds previously. He trudges back to his car. Calls in my info, and comes back. "Until you get this fixed, you're going to continue to be pulled over."
"Well, it's Saturday at 1:45 in the morning, I can't get anything done until Monday morning."
He lets me go.
I make it to the 7-11, and notice the cop car in the parking lot. *sigh* I go in, buy the Parliament Lights and some Cherry Coke, and get back in my car. As soon as I turn the key in the ignition, the cop car hits the flashers.
"License and registration." Lather. Rinse. Repeat. He lets me go.
I keep my brights on the whole way home, as the bright portion of my left headlight works fine. Just as I'm pulling back on my street, I see flashers again. It's Fucken Bad Cop again.
"License and registration."
"Again? You just pulled me over ten minutes ago."
"Oh. You. What are you doing back here?"
"I live here. I'm trying to get off the road and go to bed."
Sometimes I wear headphones to block the world out of my head. Other times I wear them to keep the good daydreams in. On the morning of Seith's penultimate day in my life, I was listening to a mix of Matchbox 20 and Third Eye Blind songs. I was directing better videos for them in my head when Seith knocked on the door. I feigned sleep. He went away.
About a half an hour later, Mike knocked on my door. He and Gina were headed out for some more sightseeing. They couldn't stand listening to Seith whine downstairs.
"What is he whining about?"
"Apparently his Mom wants to send him enough money for a bus ticket home, but Seith wants to fly."
"Tragic. I can't wait to see my phone bill."
It wasn't too long after they left that Seith knocked again. This time he would not be fased by my fake coma. "Hey." I did my best statue impersonation. "Hey, insafemode." I rolled over. "I knowwwwwww yer awayik. Wayk uhhhhhhup." I smacked my lips together as if still asleep. This is when the tickling started. I have never been ticklish. I get the tingling sensation that I assume makes other people laugh, but to me it's just a bit of a nuisance. Like a mosquito buzzing in your ear. Seith knew this. After about a minute of failed tickle warfare I felt a rather warm wet sensation near my leg. No, he wasn't peeing on me.
Due to Mike and Gina being in the house, and my playing the part of Asshole Who Won't Give Me Money in "The Sad, Tragic Life of Somebody Hayes," we hadn't had sex in days. I think Seith thought that this was a major factor in why I wouldn't give him money. He was a great lay, and all, but he wasn't that good. The licking of my leg ended up turning into a rather incredible blowjob. My dick, though, was the only part of me that I allowed to flinch. After five minutes or so, the licking stopped. I felt a hand wrap around my cock like a joystick. I made a mental note that if he squeezed even a little too hard, I was going to lift up my leg and slam him right in the nuts. He didn't squeeze. He decided to ride me. I decided this would be a good time to open my eyes and enjoy what I mistakenly figured would be the last time we fucked.
It was an amazingly intense way to spend an hour in the morning. It was the first time I'd ever been with a guy who came without either of us touching his cock. And he came gallons. I'd heard the couch creaking downstairs the past few nights. Just because we hadn't been having sex didn't mean he hadn't been having an intimate affair with his hands.
We took about ten minutes to recover our words, which had been so intimidated by our fucking, they had rushed out the door, eventually catching up to Gina and Mike on their sightseeing adventures.
Mike: "These vintage cars are amazing"
Gina: "Yea, I've never seen a Model A before."
Mike: "It says in this pamphlet that people used to believe that if you drove faster than 35 MPH you'd oh god, I think I'm gonna--"
Gina: "That's fascinating. I've always wondered what cars would look like if please, yes, right there, right--"
Mike "Probably like the Delorean in Back to the Future 3. I have to say you're better than my brother!"
When the words came back to us, they were tired. So was I, but I had a busy Friday ahead of me. It was the last day of August. The last day before the inspection sticker on my car expired. I had an appointment at the gas station at 11 AM. It was 10:30. "Shit. Seith, I've got to shower and take the car down to get a new inspection sticker."
"Ok. How long are you gonna be gone?"
"Ok. We've got to get to a bank at some point. Mom's wiring me money."
My vehicle passed the new emissions test with flying colors. In fact, everything on the car was flawless except the left headlight. I hadn't even noticed that it had gone out. Since they didn't have the type of light I needed in stock (this was the last time I didn't go to my mechanic for an inspection), they told me to come back on Monday. In the meantime, they put a special sticker on my car that was valid for 14 days.
I drove back to the house, picked up Seith, and began MoneyQuest 98. Seith had given his mother the name of the bank where I had my checking account, and, according to him, they were going to issue a bank check to him for the amount his mother wired him.
The people at the bank had no idea what he was talking about. They simply didn't do things like that. Back to the house we went, he called his mother. She was surprised that it hadn't gone through, called the bank, called us back and told us she'd try sending the money to another bank company. Unfortunately, their nearest branch was 45 minutes away. Back in the car, drive drive drive. We get to the bank and are informed that while their particular bank can't do that transaction, the branch down the street a couple of miles can, so we hop in the car and start to drive down the street. There's construction just outside the bank parking lot where a cop is directing traffic. As we drive by him, he motions for me to pull over. I do.
"Where's your inspection sticker?"
"Right there on the windshield."
"It doesn't look like an inspection sticker to me. It says 'temporary sticker good for 14 days.'"
"Fourteen days from when." He asked without a question mark.
There was no date on the sticker. "I just got it done about two hours ago."
"Sure you did. You must have some pretty bad luck then." This was true, but I assumed it was a rhetorical question and didn't answer. "Do you have your insurance, license, and registration?"
I did. I gave them to him. Everything checked out. "I'd advised you to fix whatever is wrong with your car today. If I see you again with that sticker on your car, I'm going to write you a ticket."
We pulled into the parking lot, Seith got out and went into the bank. Ten minutes passed. I got out and went into the bank. Seith was filling out forms, talking to the branch manager. It seemed like an awful lot of work. I interrupted their conversation to ask why it was so complicated just to wire money. He stopped and looked at me. "Wire money? He said he needed a bank check."
"Well, his Mom is wiring him some money. Shouldn't he just have to show his ID or just sign something or --" He had been lying again. There was going to be no money here. He made up some story about a bank check and --
"What's your mother's name?"
"Mother (I forgot her name) Hayes."
Click. Click. Click. Tapping of fingers. "OK, I'll just need you to sign right here, and I can give you the money."
"We could have done that at any bank in the country, couldn't we?"
"Well, any branch of our bank, yes."
I watched Elvis sign his signature. Elvis B. Hayes. My future as a registered sex offender trying to defend myself on Oprah faded into oblivion.
To his credit, he apologized about making me drive all over Cranberry Lake and the rest of Cape Cod. A very forgivable offense. I, too, have misunderstood some very simple directions.
I pulled out of the parking lot, and the cop motioned for me to stop and roll down my window.
"I told you if I saw you without that sticker again, I was going to have to write you a ticket."
"But, I had to go into the bank, I didn't even--"
Stupid deadpan motherfucken police officers.
Night fell like a one-legged hooker in high heel shoes. Que Mal was crying. ElvisRex was downstairs whining to his mother. Gina and Mike had come in, tuned out, and got back in their car for more sightseeing. I was trying to make sense of how I'd gotten myself to this point. I blamed Demerol. I blamed kidney stones. I blamed RexElvisSeith. I blamed myself. I blamed my parents for fucking. I blamed Kool & the Gang. Everyone in the entire world was responsible for me sitting upstairs in my room, trying to read a copy of Tom Robbin's Skinny Legs and All while Whateverthefuckhisnamewas sat down stairs whining to his mother about how he wanted to go home. Not a word about a grandfather.
This is when I got the sinking feeling. It was the last weekend in August and Seith was doing everything he could to get home. School. He'd lied to me about his name, his family history, his sex life, he'd even lied about his father dying. What if he'd lied about his age? What if he was some sixteen year old who'd somehow convinced his mother he was going to spend time with...I don't know anyone who raised this kid would either swallow just about anything or else just didn't care about him. For all I knew the ID was his brother's (not the fictional Stepbrother, but maybe a real one). I'd just assumed that since the his mother asked for Byron, and the ID said Elvis B. Hayes that the B stood for Byron. Maybe Elvis Beauragard Hayes was his older brother, and he was Byron Wizwell Hayes.
I envisioned courtroom melodramas, made-for-tv movies, his mother crying on Montel about how her poor innocent boy had been led astray by a 21 year old pervert who'd used his vast financial resources to fly RexSeithByronElvisWhatever up to Cranberry Lake to be a sex slave.
His profile said he was 18. I had a chatlog where he told me he was 18. I'd seen the ID he brought with him which stated he was 18. Until that moment I had never doubted he was 18. I was a moron. But I was a moron who probably hadn't done anything wrong in the eyes of the law. What was I supposed to do? Fingerprint him and take him to the police office? Ok, in retrospect, that would have been a wonderful thing to do.
I decided to go out for a drive to get away from the sound of his voice and his chinchilla's voice. A drive. A drive would clear my head for the moment.
This is the point in the story where the poor narrator goes out to clear his mind and ends up hitting a deer or running over a small child. Wouldn't that make the story great? Or at least interesting?
No dice. A Mormon casino.
I returned home somewhat calmer than I had been when I left. I didn't even talk to Seithvisronex, I just headed straight to bed. The bad car karma would come the next night. It would not be pretty.
I don't believe in prophetic dreams. But even if I did, I knew Seith hadn't had one. He appeared somewhat shaken but something about him didn't sit right. It was as though he was trying to appear rattled. Like an actor who digs his nails into his flesh to make himself cry.
"Well, if you're so concerned that your grandfather is sick, maybe you should call your Dad and find out."
"It's my Mom's Dad. My Dad is dead, remember."
"Oh, yea, right. Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking."
Mike and Gina come in behind me and ask what's wrong. Byron/Seith goes into the story about his grandfather who helped raise him, and how he dreamed he was sick, and yadda yadda yadda. Basically, he's creating a whole new story that conflicts a bit with the story he gave me. If his Grandfather was so heavily involved with his life, where was he when Wicked and Stepbrother were raping him? Supposedly his grandfather lived next door. If that's true, why didn't Seith spend more time over there? Maybe he and Poor Boy could have hung out over there to get away from Poor Boy's Dad.
Mike started asking him loads of questions. The next morning when I got up, Mike was downstairs brewing coffee in my oft-neglected Mr. Coffee.
"I think your boyfriend is a liar."
"I know Seith is a liar. When you and Gina go home, I'm moving him into the guest room. I'll give him a month to find another place to live and then he's ass to curb. Out of curiousity, why do you think he's a liar?"
"Were you paying attention to the story he told last night?" I hadn't been. "I kept asking him questions and his answers would often contradict each other."
"I'm not surprised."
Talk turned to other things: old friends, the play, Big Gay Tom, work. After about a half hour, Gina woke up and the two of them went out to sightsee.
Byron/Seith woke up around noon. I reminded him to call his family regarding his grandfather. He took the cordless outside. I could see him crying out the window. I think the crying wasn't for my benefit, but for the benefit of his mother on the other end. I think Seith knew he was wearing on me, and he wanted to go home.
"He's in the hospital."
"Is it serious?"
"If it wasn't serious, do you think he'd be in the fucken hospital?"
I picked up the coffee mug Mike had been drinking from and began to dry it with a towel. "Do you know how long he'll be in there for?"
"They think he might die."
"Oh. Are you going to go down and visit him then?"
"Well, yea. He practically raised me. What kind of grandson would I be if I didn't go down and visit him?"
"When are you leaving?"
"How are you getting back?"
"You're going to have to buy me a plane ticket. One way, though, since I don't know how long I'll be down there for."
At this point I'm not just drying the mug, but nearly sanding it. "Well, gosh, Seith, I can't afford to fly you down to Southern State on such short notice. I don't have any money in my checking account, and I don't get another paycheck for almost two weeks."
"So --- what am I supposed to do?"
"Call your Mom back. If they really think your grandfather is going to die, I don't think she'd have a problem flying you home to be with him."
"But you flew me up here. We had a deal."
"A deal? What sort of deal did we have?"
"I mean, if you flew me up here, shouldn't you have saved up some money to fly me home."
"Seith, call your Mom. I can't help you."
While he went to cry to mom, I went upstairs to avoid throwing the mug at his head. I uncalmly checked my e-mail and yelled at the Chinchillas who were either fucking or fighting, I couldn't decide.
It was during my trip to my father's that I realized I was never going to resolve anything with Seith. Ignoring the compulsive lying on his part, I was starting to feel more like Seith's guardian than his boyfriend.
Seith wanted to go the beach and boywatch. Elvis was bored at the beach and wanted to go shopping. Seith didn't have any money left. Elvis wanted me to buy him souvenirs. I said no. Elvis pouted.
Back at the beach, Elvis went swimming with my mother's camera in his pocket. When I relayed the story to Big Gay Tom he theorized that Elvis did it on purpose. I disagreed. I'm pretty sure he'd been planning on stealing it.
I was getting a little frustrated with only having Big Gay Tom to discuss Elvis with. As previously mentioned, Big Gay Tom was not my best friend. In fact, the only reason we hung out was because our mutual friend, Cute Straight Boy had introduced us, and I had inadvertantly gotten Big Gay Tom a part in a play I was working on. My dislike was feuled by the fact that he got the part I had planned on but my bitterness was only part of the reason for not wanting to spend much time with him. Some day Big Gay Tom will have his own entry, but it will not be rated X.
When we got home from my Dad's, there was a message on my machine from a friend I hadn't seen in a couple of years, he and his SO (another friend of mine) were coming to Cranberry Lake for a few days and wanted to hang out for a while. I called them back and invited them to stay in the guest bedroom.
Elvis was less than pleased.
I'm not sure whether he was still self-concious about being out to strangers or whether he just didn't want anyone to know that he had settled for me. Either way he had strict rules about no PDAs, which was no problem for me. I'm not a PDA person. Though I would occasionally invade his physical space in public just to watch him cringe. I tended to restrict my tauntings to the minutes after he would start pouting about how I wasn't going to buy him something.
Mike and Gina (the two friends) arrived on opening night of my play. Neither Seith nor Elvis attended. They met me at my place before the show, and I introduced them to Elvis, who was on the porch smoking.
After the show, while Gina was in the restrooms and Big Gay Tom and the rest of the cast were beaming about how wonderful they all were, Mike asked "Is Seith your boyfriend?" It was easier to just say yes than to explain that Seith was the spoiled child currently taking up residence in my bedroom who I was fucking a couple of times a day but really wanted to kill. "You could do better."
It was like someone slapped me in the face with a wet towel and then kissed the pain away. I could do better than SeithElvisRex.
My plan was to go home and talk to Seith (or Elvis is he was still being pouty about having visitors) about him either getting a job or going home. And if he got the job, he was going to have to move into the guest room for a month, at which time he'd have to find his own place.
I was unprepared for who I met at the door when I got home.
If anyone's read The Dark Tower series by Stephen King, you know the story of Odetta Susannah Holmes a schizophrenic with a mean personality named Detta Susannah Walker. The two women are mostly unaware of the others' existence. When they are forced to confront their duality, they merge into a new person: Susannah Dean. Susannah can control her duality, and easily flip between Detta and Odetta. This was Seith in a nutshell. When he wasnted to be nice he was Seith, when he wanted to be a bitch he was Elvis. The boy I met when Mike, Gina and I arrived home was Rex.
Rex had either just woken up, had been crying or both.
"I had a dream that my grandfather was sick. Last time I had a dream like this it came true."
During a typically boring day during The Elvis Invasion, Elvisseith decided he wanted to see Salem. I had the day off from work, and due to an incredibly well-attended show the night before, I was in good spirits. So we hopped in my Civic for the two hour drive to the city of witches and overpriced beer.
Five minutes after our arrival, Elvisseith decided he wanted to go home. He was tired. His feet hurt. It was too cold. I told him where he could stick his feet.
On the drive home, I started to nod off. I was working on three hours of sleep, and even caffeine wasn't strong enough to keep me functional. I pulled over to the side of the rode and asked Elvisseith to take over.
"Like I'd be caught dead driving a Civic." He said.
"You will be caught dead if you don't switch places with me, I'm about to fall asleep at the wheel."
There was fifteen miles to the next exit. I bit my tongue, sang to the music, dug my fingernails into my knee to keep myself awake. When the exit came, I got off and tried to think of the nearest place I could park and sleep. Sweet sleep. Dreams of a boyfriend with an ass and no..BANG
"The fuck was that?" Elvis asked.
I'd knocked a driver's side mirror off a parked car. I quickly put on my flashers, wrote my name and phone number on a piece of paper, and slipped it through the slightly open driver's side window. A mile down the road I found a parking lot where I pulled over and fell asleep.
I woke up to the familiar sensation of Elvis giving me head. "Cut the shit. I'm tired."
"You've been asleep for three hours. I'm bored." Three hours? I blinked and looked around. Dusk was beginning to settle. The parking lot, nearly full when I'd pulled in was now empty. "Want to fuck?"
Why yes I did. But have you ever tried to have sex in a Civic? Sure, if you want to be intimate, The Black Bee is ok, but I didn't want intimate, I wanted to cause pain. Short of standing outside the car and pushing his ass down over the gear shift, I didn't see how I was going to get my violent fuck on without getting violent cramps.
We ended up leaning the passenger side seat back. He moved back so far his head was touching the back windshield. I kneeled down on the seat behind him. I pushed into him. Thrusted once. His head hit the windshield. "Ow." Thrusted twice. His head hit the windsheild. "Ow." Thrusted three times. His cum splattered on the seat.
This was unusual in many ways. First off, one of Elvis's few positive attributes was his endurance. Secondly, since when is a bottom a three-pump-chump? I debated continuing fucking him/smashing his head against the windshield (the two ideas were not mutually exclusive) but that wasn't the kind of pain I was willing to dole out.
"What are you stopping for? You can't be done already."
"No, but I'm awake now and I want to go home." I pulled my pants up, waited for him to get situated, and turned the key in the ignition.
Inane lies that could only ever lead to the two of us breaking up:
1.) He overheard me having a discussion about how most pop divas aren't very good singers. I mentioned that artists like Whitney Houston have pretty good voices, but that their engineers up the volume on their high notes, and have the ability to correct notes that waiver a bit off key. Elvis (I don't call him Seith when he lies to me) says that he and Poor Boy were once part of a by-invitation only Whitney Houston show in The Southern State Which He Is From, and that her voice literally shattered glass.
2.) When visiting my Dad's we heard a top forty song called "Crush." Elvis informed me that he wrote that song. I suggest we go to a record store and buy it so that I can see his name in the liner notes. He says that he wrote it under an ssumed name, and can't remember what that assumed name was.
3.) During a conversation about one of my freind's bizzaire sexual fetishes I mention how I can respect people with golden shower and poo fetishes, but I just can't relate to them. Elvis tells me that during one of the two times he topped that he peed in me. As if I simply wouldn't notice someone peeing in my ass.
4.) When I finally confront him about his phone conversation
"Seriously I have the smallest cock here." Ummmm. "We all sleep in the same room. Four bunkbeds. No, no, it's really comfortable. Unfortunately, the cutest one is straight. I know, I know. Aren't they all? Anyway, I should probably go, we've got a shoot in the park in a few hours and I have to get ready."
he tells me that he was trying to make Poor Boy jealous. I ask how Poor Boy reacted when he told him the truth. He claims not to have told him the truth. In a later conversation with Poor Boy, I hear him mention my name, what we did that day, and how bored he is being trapped in the house all the time. I ask him, again, how Poor Boy reacted when he told him the truth. He tells me that he had told him the truth from the very beginning.
5.) His Dad leaves a message on my answering machine. His Dad. His Died when I was twelve years old Dad. I leave the message on the machine, and don't even mention it until the bitter end. And the end was very very bitter.
By the end of the first week, Seith had made it out of the house. We hit a few touristy "historical sites," some trendy "urban clothing" stores, and a hair salon where he had his hair meticulously styled into something that resembled my very much unstructured hair. I made a mental note to watch Single, White Female to see if there were any other warning signs that your roommate is trying to take over your life.
On the way home we drove by quite a few car dealerships. "Pull into this one." he said at one of the used dealerships near the end of my street. "Why?" "To look at that car, dumbass. It's cute."
The car was cute: a white 1994 Camaro. I could see myself blasting Billy Joel tunes in it as I drove to the nearest NASCAR show. It was an incredible bargain at $6000. Of course, I already had a car, and had no desire to get rid of it. "You should buy it for me."
Saying no was one of my first Crimes Against Seith. Further crimes included not buying him a cat, not buying a 52" widescreen television for the Playstation, and not taking a day off from work to drive him into Big City so he could shop.
Crimes Against Seith were punished by withholding sex. An empty threat. To me, withholding sex is when the person who wants to fuck says "Let's fuck" and their partner says "No, we shall not fuck." Seith was hornier than I was, which was no mean feat at the time. His idea of withholding sex was sleeping on the couch at night, but waking me up in the morning to fuck. I was beyond traumatized.
I soon began bugging Seith about getting a job. I helped him write a resume, and called a bunch of my friends who had the power to hire people at their perspective jobs. None of them were skilled labor. They were mostly retail, a few restaurant jobs, and some landscaping. Seith failed to follow up on all of them. Getting a job was too hard.
Seith was also getting too hard. My six hours of work everyday was sexually frustrating to him. I'd come home to find my computer chock full of pornography. I have nothing against good porn. I don't even dislike bad porn. In fact, there's a little bit of both on my computer right now. But he was a pornaholic. He'd have Realplayer and Quicktime movies playing simultaneously on the computer, while watching boy band videos (the 1998 MTV equivalent to gay porn). "I thought you'd never come home." And then he'd wrestle me on the bed, get my clothes off and perform calisthenics on my cock. Crimes Against Seith be damned.
It was during one of these sessions that the doorbell rang. I'm not accustomed to getting many unexpected visitors at my house. Especially not when I'm balls deep in a boy with no ass. I pulled out, yelled a "Be right there" down the stairs, ran to the bathroom for a quick body rinse and cologne spray, threw some shorts and a shirt on, and ran downstairs.
Big Gay Tom was at the door. Big Gay Tom was Big (about 6'4"), Gay (about 11.5 on a scale of 1-10) and Tom (at least according to the couple who named him). Tom was a 21 year old Senior in high school. By the end of the next month he "dropped into college" after getting his GED.
Tom wanted to run lines for a show we were doing. I wanted to return to my bedroom. I was about to tell Tom it wasn't a good time when Seith came trouncing down the stairs in jeans and one of my shirts, a cigarette dangling from his pout.
This is where Seith discovers that a week ago I commited The Ultimate Crime Against Seith. I slept with Big Gay Tom. No, wait, I hated Big Gay Tom, and Seith had no desire for monogamy. But what could be a bigger crime than sleeping with another guy? I told Tom Seith's real name. See, one night when Seith was on the couch punishing me for not buying him something, he left his wallet, keys, and driver's license on my desk. It is then that I learned that Seith's real name was Elvis B. (insert last name here). The day after the discovery a woman with a thick southern drawl called and asked to speak to Byron. When I told her there wasn't a Byron at the number she said "Well his real name is Elvis, but I can't imagine he's going by the name his Daddy gave him."
Elvis Byron. How could I not tell someone?
So when Seith came trouncing down the stairs, Tom said "You must be Elvis, Insafemode has told me so much about you."
While Tom and I ran lines, Seith smoked about half a pack of Parliament Lites. He was clearly upset. As we were wrapping things up, Seith came in from the porch. "I need more smokes."
Big Gay Tom shouted "Road trip!" as though it were hundreds of miles to the nearest 7-11 instead of about a mile and a half. The three of us piled into my Not-A-Camaro and drove to the 7-11. Seith decided to stay in the car with Big Gay Tom, while I went in to buy his cigarettes.
When I came back in the two of them were sitting in awkward silence. The next day, at work, Big Gay Tom stopped in and told me that Seith had tried to talk Tom into joining us for a threesome. "A threesome? Me? Imagine. I'm a princess. Besides, he smells like nicotine and cum."
When I got home that day, Seith was on the phone to Poor Boy. "I smell. I smell bad." he was saying as I walked in. "There are two showers in the house." I reminded him. After he was done talking on the phone, Seith plodded up the stairs, where I was checking my e-mail. "Wanna fuck?"
Sign off. Log out. Remove clothes.
He did smell like niccotine and cum. Even moreso by the time we were finished. "Have you ever noticed my fetish?" he asked as I was slipping the condom on. "Your fetish?" "I always wear my socks when I'm fucking." "Wow. You're really unique." "I also like to jerk off when someone's dick is inside me."
That was the longest and most in-depth sex conversation we had.
After about an hour or so of sub-par sex, Seith took his second shower in my house (the first being our co-shower when he moved in). We then went to the movies where we saw something so dumb, I can't even remember it. I've even looked over the complete list of movies released in 1998 to see if something would ring a bell. I remember sitting through Patch Adams, and enduring Baseketball, but I can't remember which movie Seith and I saw.
After the movie Seith started whining about pets. He needed company while I was at work. I argued that he only ever slept or watched MTV when I worked anyway, besides I already had a lizard. "But that's your lizard. I want us to have a pet.
We headed over to a local pet store that sold everything from feeder fish and crickets to dogs and ferrets. We settled on a pair of Chinchillas. They were pretty moderately priced, and I figured that if Seith and I broke up, or if I just didn't like them, I could at least get a nice fur trim for my coat out of the deal.
After a few hours of watching them play in the cage, I decided to name mine Spider. He was always climbing the cage trying to get away from the other chinchilla. The other chinchilla had no name yet. It spent a great deal of time climbing around the cage after Spider and crying. The crying prompted Seith, in his most obnoxious baby-talk voice to ask "Whatsamatter? Is you ok? Whatsamatterbaybee?" The next day I named his chinchilla for him: Qué mal.
These chinchillas would prove to be the barometer for the rest of our relationship.
I think if we'd been able to just fuck for the rest of our lives without having to actually get to know each other, Seith and I would still be together today. Unfortunately, there comes a time in every relationship when you zip up your fly and start talking. Usually, those are the moments I cherish. Sexual being I may be, but I do like spending time with my clothes on getting to know people.
Our first conversation, real conversation was full of more uncomfortable pauses than when Hitler seig heiled The Grim Reaper. I can't remember it word for word, but here's a brief synopsis of Seith's Alleged Autobiography:
Seith was born in a southern state to a Southern Family. His father died when he was twelve, and as in most fairy tales his mother remarried a Wicked. Wicked molested Seith from Day One. On Day Two Wicked's son, Stepbrother began molesting fucking Seith.
Seith was thirteen. His Wicked and Stepbrother had turned them into their own living sex doll. Of course, situation dictates that Seith couldn't tell Mother because his mother loved Wicked, and Wicked financed the hair salon that Mother owned. If Seith told his world would fall down around him.
At fifteen Seith dropped out of school and started working at the salon as a bookkeeper. He fell in love with Poor Boy and spent a full year escaping the clutches of Wicked and Stepbrother by staying overnight with Poor Boy. Then Poor Boy's Father found out, and he too began using Seith as a sperm recepticle.
Age sixteen and seventeen fly by under the bodies of one lover, and three rapists. Over time Seith falls in love with Stepbrother, and tells him about Wicked. Wicked and Stepbrother get into a huge argument that eventually leads to Stepbrother being kicked out.
Seith falls into a six month depression when lo, and behold a savior emerges. A guy who he's been talking to online buys him a plane ticket Away From Home.
Before he leaves, he breaks the news about his sexuality to his mother. He doesn't say a word about Wicked or Stepbrother, but suspects she knows anyway. He tells her that he's "not gay for the dick, but for the money." He "just want(s) a man to take care of him." That's where I come in.
Little does he know it was The Demerol that bought him his plane ticket. I can't afford to take care of a dog let alone an eighteen year old gay kid who's trying to make me his Happily Ever After.
Real life isn't a fairy tale. His story was.