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Kim, was printed
as a work-in-progress in the the zine, Porn Free. The completed version was published in Best Gay Erotica 2000, (Cleis,
2000).
KIM;
Little Friend of All the World
"I'm not good at this," I think through the graceless minutes between the exchange of cash and the nakedness.
Reared by a Black Baptist mother, I want to offer him tea or a soft drink. I do offer a choice of music, although he
doesn't seem too impressed by my selections.
"Hey man, this is your scene; you be in charge, OK?"
Sure, sure. I put on a CD that I hope will be neutral enough that he won't think I'm totally pathetic. Something
hip but retro with queer references but not obviously faggy. He looks bored and we've only just begun. "That
the bedroom through there?" Why yes, so it is.
I see his face and I don't know what to make of it.
It seems so predigested and predictable. A cliche from movies or magazines or pop songs. In reality I am more
focused on his moods and their tiny shifts within such a minuscule range. As I said, he starts off bored. More
than bored. Annoyed by this apparent waste of his very precious time. I catch him sneaking glances at the clock
on the VCR. Once the clothes come off, which takes about 27 seconds, he switches into something like that fake
TV sitcom acting. You know, when one character is trying to keep something from another while a third, who is in on
the caper, is present.
That is, he pretends to be hot for what's about to come in a way that is sure to
let me know that he really is not. Too much lip licking and pouting.
"Nice bed." Yes,
it is, I guess. He stretches out both bare skinny arms in a totally inauthentic gesture to welcome me into his embrace.
I accept fully and fall into him; close my eyes; wait.
"There, there. Now, now." He's doing
the maternal thing. Rubbing a circle on my back with a palm that barely touches me. He smells like Cuervo Gold
and Marlboro Mediums. I still have on my underwear. Now it's me who's eyeing the clock. Monday 11:07 P.M.
Better get started.
He makes it clear that he doesn't want to be kissed on the mouth. I make it clear that
I want to kiss him. It's a buyer's market as I tongue among the teeth and loose crumbs of corn chips. I bite his
neck and he butts me away with his head. "Watch it. No marks, remember?" I don't remember. That
is, I don't remember that being part of our contract, but, whatever. I grab his wrists with more force than I need to
raise his arms above his head. He pretends to resist. I burrow my nose and mouth into one, then the other of his sparsely
haired armpits. He wriggles and quivers as I tickle him there with my tongue; as I pull and suck loose strands of pit
hair. Thankfully he doesn't wear deodorant but is reasonably clean anyway. I suck on his nipples, which gets less
of a reaction than I expected, so I move on down.
I continue the theme of burying my face into his other damp hairy
crevices. And yes, I kiss his long bony feet and the backs of his knees. Sometimes he's with me; sometimes not.
Most often he watches. From far away. I feel too active and frenetic. He has become the embodiment of stillness;
almost Zen. I can jockey him around like some nude GI Joe doll. Reorganize limbs any way I want them. But
like the toy soldier, his face always stays the same. It's the one thing about him that I need to change. The
phrase "by any means necessary" pops into my head and I shudder at the implications -- physical, sexual, political,
criminal.
I had a perverted sub-letter earlier this year who left behind in a bag of toys, among other stuff, a
bottle of poppers and a 12 pack of surgical gloves. I haven't been into amyl since the mid-seventies and I've never
worn hand rubbers, but right now I'm super conscious that I might be boring my naked hireling and I think "maybe this
will entertain the little shit." I snap a glove onto my right hand and begin to glide it over his back and butt.
It's frictionless. "Hmmm, that feels good." I slap his ass, "So does that." I
lift his passive little behind up from the mattress and spank him again and again and again 'til I begin to get bored and
his buns have reddened. I reach for a tube of Super-lube that the perv left behind and bathe my gloved hand with it.
I slather a liberal amount in his ass crack and still I get no reaction. So I probe with my middle finger. I'm
reminded of the yearly embarrassment when during my prostate exam my young doctor nervously performs this exact act with the
shy apology "you may experience some discomfort." I always involuntarily smirk and chuckle a bit which makes
Dr. Mike even more tense. Here in my own bedroom I could be poking a rolled medallion of raw veal for all the response
I'm getting. I twizzle my finger around feeling the wrinkled walls of his insides. Occasionally my fingertip comes
across unmoored bits of stuff. Curious. I withdraw part way then add one, then two more fingers. His head
turns quickly to look at me, then looks away. He gathers some pillows and clutches them to his chest. Is this
the reaction I was waiting for? I'm not sure, but for now it will have to do. I braid and unbraid and rebraid
my three fingers inside him. I hear a change in his breathing. Or is it mine? I think that I should say
something so I place my ungloved left hand on the small of his back, which is now beaded with sweat. "You OK?"
He responds with a grunt that sounds like it could be a "yes" so I continue. I've never done this
before; I'm a little apprehensive. I'm also spellbound by the act and I need to keep it going. I glance at the
VCR clock and see that contractually there are 25 minutes to go. I pull back my three fingers and prepare to squeeze
in the fourth. I rummage left-handed in the bag and gather five or six wooden clothespins. I slowly, meticulously
decorate his dainty dick and scrotum. He silently flinches as each pin is added. Good. Good.
I uncap the vial of poppers with my left hand and my teeth and place it under his nose. "Breathe in."
He does and in slide my four fingers, my thumb tucked into the fold. I'm in as far as the last knuckles which surprises
and scares me. I pause. He says nothing. He's breathing loudly. He's clutching those pillows as he
would a flotation device after a water landing. I push the vial under his nose again, though no more forward
progress seems possible. I think, "I want to feel his bleeding heart beating in my hand." Then I think
"what for?" He takes the poppers from me and inhales once, once more, then again. I've been twisting
my hand around and back, around and back. He adjusts his spine, snakelike, supple. Slowly my hand is sucked in
beyond its hump. His asshole is braceletting my wrist. I feel lightheaded and woozy. I'm not sure what to
do now. Again I ask how he's doing. Again I get a grunt in reply.
That I'm aware that the CD
has changed, that there's a drip in the kitchen and that a car alarm just went off troubles me. Those extraneous sounds
should be banished from my brain by the feat of reaching up inside a man's belly and being shackled there by his anus.
But no, I remember that my American Express is overdue; Mother's birthday is next month. The room smells like a giant
fart. He told me his name was "Kim" which I'm sure is a lie. Clumsily with my free hand, I reach for
a disposable camera on the night stand and take a picture of him from the waist down. I wonder if I'll have the guts
to get it developed at the corner Fotomat. The clock says we have 11 more minutes. I prepare to liberate myself.
I smear my naked left hand up and down in the pool of sweat caught in a deep furrow of his back. Slowly, slowly, slowly.
Then suddenly I'm out. He makes an even more guttural sound than before. "Are you all right?"
The greasy glove is flecked with his shit. Now he's whimpering, but he hasn't moved. "Are you all right?"
He rolls to his side facing away from me and chokes "just let me lie here and talk to myself for a minute."
I get up to dispose of the glove; smelling it first, of course. There is no blood so I feel confident that
I haven't caused any permanent damage. Physically at least. There's an opened 40 ounce of Budweiser in the fridge.
I take a long swig then get a roll of toilet paper that I bring back to the bed. He's still murmuring to himself, folded
tightly around my pillows. I put the 40 and the TP on the mattress in front of him. He takes the bottle of beer
and nurses it as if he were its baby. He won't look at me. I look at the VCR. "Uh, officially we're
off the clock now, right?" He nods in my direction. I'm still in my underwear. I change the music and
go to my desk and begin to write this:
* * *
"'I'm not good at this,' I thought
through the silence in the minutes before his clothes came off. Reared by a Southern Baptist mother, I wanted to offer
tea or a soft drink..."
I smoke two American Spirit Lights, make a cup of coffee, smell my pits and play
some Solitaire before I finish with:
"...I changed the music and went to my desk and wrote."
It's been an hour and twenty minutes. I've been so wrapped up in the chronicling of the night's events that I've forgotten
that there's an actual person lying in my bed. He's still cocooning around my pillows, holding the empty beer bottle.
He's motionless which spooks me. I touch his shoulder. His skin is icy cool. I flash on two words -- "Man/One."
Then there's a slight rise and fall in his rib cage. I shake him lightly, then some more. His body mini-spasms.
"Hey Kim, time to go." His head and eyes drift toward me. Hazy but alive. He unravels a winding
string of words that includes questions concerning the time and whether he can stay just a little while longer. He curls
away from me again, closing his eyes. I take the empty from him, "I'll get you something to drink."
He shrugs his whole body. In the kitchen, I drop the bottle into my recycling box and pour him some filtered water.
Back in the bedroom I sit next to him, "Here." He's snoring softly. He defines calm. Peace.
I rub the cool sweaty glass between his shoulder blades. He shudders away. "Kim ... Kim." Since
I'm convinced that that's not his real name, it's me who's doing the bad acting now -- World War II British army nurse
to wounded American soldier. "Kim, you must wake up now." No, he's a giant contented baby, snoozing
serenely, with big feet and a greasy butt.
It's late. I'm tired. I'm seduced by his apparent tranquillity.
There's dancing under his eyelids as his lips suckle mutely. I begin gathering the detritus of our debauchery. I put the
vial of poppers, opened package of gloves, tube of lube back into the toy bag. Gingerly defusing a bomb, I unclip each
clothespin from his puny genitalia. There is no explosion. I cover him with Aunt Bonnie's crazy quilt. I stuff
an extra twenty into his sleeping fist, take one pillow away from him, a blanket from the floor and go to the sofa and crash.
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