Boy Crazy: Coming Out Erotica (22 page)

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Authors: Unknown

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The cold air streaming through the open wing window was thinner and drier than Kansas air. I breathed it and seemed to expand. We were a mile high…and climbing!
 
As we neared Denver, Don took over the wheel and switched the radio back on. “Now maybe we can get some decent sounds.” He found a rock station, but it was mainstream bubblegum—Herman’s Hermits. “See if you can get us something better.”
 
I turned the dial and stopped when I heard jazz—a tangle of piano notes lurching through a maze of syncopation spun out by a bass. The two musicians halted, backed, and plunged ahead into a dissonance that was both harsh and delicious. “Hey, that’s good, keep it!” Don said, sitting up alert. “They don’t have anything like that in Kansas City.”
 
Finally the announcer’s voice came on: “We’ve been grooving to the melodious thunk of Thelonius Monk backed up by Charlie Mingus, all coming at you on the Cool Bill Davis Show. Next up, Charlie Parker.”
 
“The Bird! They play the Bird here!” I said. Charlie Parker, the greatest jazz musician ever, was from Kansas City, but hardly any white people there knew his music. To hear it played on the radio now from Denver was proof we’d taken a cultural step up and were headed in the right direction—away from KC. The Bird had left, and so had we, even if it was just for two weeks.
 
Don and I had never quite fit in, had always been weirdos, first in high school, now in college. Alienation, we learned it was called. Except we thought it should be A-Lie-Nation, because of all the lies the government was telling us to justify drug laws and the war on Vietnam.
 
Bird’s alto sax filled the car with the aerial abstractions of bebop, and I settled into a happy nod. Highway 40’s hurtle through the starry mile-high night turned into the neon glare of Colfax Avenue, creeping toward downtown Denver.
 
“I’m sick of pushing this metal box across the country,” Don said. “Let’s have a couple of beers and spend the night here.”
 
“Solid! A few brews…hit the spot.”
 
On the next corner a neon jet announced The Afterburner Beer Bar, and Don pulled into the parking lot. After sitting in the car for so long, we walked unsteadily on solid ground, as if we already had a buzz on.
 
A beefy man at the door checked our IDs. The bar was crowded with thirsty eighteen- to twenty-year-olds guzzling beer with only three-point-two percent alcohol. No one older was there because they could go to the regular bars and drink full-strength beer and whatever else they wanted. This was like a bar with trainer wheels: not quite the real thing but enough to get you in the habit.
 
The brew was watery, but that just meant you had to drink more of it. Looking around, we saw it was mostly an Air Force bar. There was a big base in Denver. Lots of guys wore blue uniforms, and most of the others had short military haircuts. Don and I felt out of place; we both had long hair and weren’t the military type. We were the same age as most of the young men in the bar—but there was a hard edge to the atmosphere. We decided to have one beer and leave.
 
The aluminum wing of a fighter plane hung on a wall, spotted with bullet holes. “Must’ve got shot down in Vietnam,” Don said.
 
I tried to figure why they would send it all the way back here. I looked at the holes closer and saw circular scroll marks where a drill bit had chewed through the aluminum. “It’s fake,” I said, pointing out the drill marks to Don.
 
Don gave a loud, scoffing laugh. “Wouldn’t you know it!”
 
“What’s so funny?” The angry voice came from behind.
 
“Huh?” Don said, startled. We turned to see a heavyset guy with an almost shaved head and a hard, round face glaring at us.
 
“You heard me. You think it’s funny a plane gets shot down, airmen die—that your idea of funny?”
 
Don couldn’t talk; he shrugged and looked away.
 
“This plane didn’t get shot down,” I said. “Look, somebody drilled it.”
 
The guy stared at me and Don, sizing us up. He stepped closer and his voice grew angrier. “That wing there’s a monument… it’s a memorial…to all the planes that did get shot down…are getting shot down right now. Our buddies over in Vietnam are dying so shitbirds like you can stand around and make fun of ’em.”
 
Drawn by the hostility, several other GIs gathered around. “Fuckin’ draft dodgers,” one of them called out, but it was a half-joking taunt.
 
The big guy was in earnest, though; he had found a target and pressed the attack. He moved so close that I could smell beer and cigarettes on his breath. “Military’s better off without pussies like you. Chickenshit bastards get your buddies killed in combat.”
 
They’re going to beat us up,
I thought. A bar fight…gouge us with broken beer bottles. My breath cut to a wisp as if a wire were crimping my throat. My stomach contracted to a hard lump and my chest clenched. My upper arms were rigid but my hands shook.
 
A tall rangy guy with a jutting Adam’s apple, dark stubbly hair, and anthracite eyes gestured at me. “Look, his hands are shaking. You scared, punk? No wonder you’re dodging the draft.” He turned to his comrades with a predatory smile. “This guy is scared shitless.”
 
Our first tormentor reached out and undid the top button of Don’s shirt. Don flinched but was too frightened to block him. The guy sensed that instantly, and his small gray eyes almost disappeared in his grinning cheeks. He smirked at the others and pointed to Don’s immobility. I folded my arms across my chest, hoping I wouldn’t be next, knowing I would be, dreading it. Pork Chop returned to unbuttoning Don’s shirt. With each button Don cringed with deeper humiliation. When he reached the belt, the guy stopped, breathing hard, his face red. “Fuckin’ cherries…wouldn’t fight if you killed ’em. Let’s give ’em the bum’s rush.” He turned to his buddies, eyes glistening. “Should we give ’em the bum’s rush?”
 
“Yeah,” the tall guy said with a cackle.
 
They lunged at us in a crouch and thrust one hand between each of our legs to grab our belts from behind, then seized our shirt collars in their other hands and stood straight, lifting us off the ground until we were hanging parallel to the floor. I screamed helplessly as the onlookers cheered. They ran with us toward the back door, which they opened using Don’s head as a battering ram.
 
Out in the parking lot, two guys who came with them opened the back of a van. One of them stood in front of the license plate so we couldn’t read it. They tossed us in like sacks of potatoes and got in after us.
 
“We’re gonna give you two cherries a lesson in military justice,” said Pork Chop as the van pulled away. “Scream for help and you’re dead.” He pulled a knife from a sheath on the side of his high-top boots and pressed the cold blade against my throat. “You’re both prisoners of war. You’re gonna see what that’s like. First we shake you down for weapons. Spread-eagle!” He prodded my arms and legs with the knife point until I spread them.
 
The tall guy was sitting on Don. He reached down with his hand like a claw and grabbed my friend’s crotch. Don screamed but stifled it. “Found a suspicious object, sergeant!” the guy crowed.
 
“Strip search ’em then, both of ’em,” the fat guy said. He stuck his knife into the end of my jeans and with a grunting effort slit the denim up the leg. The blade scratched my skin all the way up until it jabbed my rear end. As I jerked and squealed with pain, he pressed a heavy hand against my back to hold me down. He cut across the bottom to the other leg, slicing me in the process, then slit that leg too down to the cuff. He groped my jockey shorts off. I thought he was going to castrate me with the knife.
 
Instead he pulled his own pants down to the tops of his boots.
 
The other guy said to Don, “You take ’em off or I cut ’em off.” With trembling fingers Don unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them down to his knees. “You can’t spread ’em that way,” the guy said. “All the way off.” Don took off his shoes and pulled the jeans all the way off. The guy slapped him across the face. “Drawers too.” Don took off his underpants, then rolled onto his stomach to hide his genitals. “You got it, bare-ass.”
 
By now the van had stopped. I couldn’t see any streetlights or cars out the windshield. The two guys in front had turned around to watch us.
 
Pork Chop leaned over me. “On your hands and knees, bitch. You’re gonna get fucked doggy-style.” His grin showed cigarette stains on his teeth.
 
What was left of my pants was hanging down like a skirt in front of me with the back open, so as I crouched down, my rump was fully exposed. Pork Chop’s privates hung limp below his belly. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to do it to me. But what would he do instead?
 
He took the point of his knife and poked my rump, and kept doing it, just breaking the skin, watching my winces of pain. He slid the knife over my testicles, smiling at the terror on my face. “You want to keep these, you do what I say. Got it?”
 
I nodded.
 
He poked one ball with the blade. “Got it?” he asked louder.
 
“Yes!”
 
“Yes, what?”
 
“Yes, sir!”
 
“You learn fast, college boy.” He was panting and his organ was getting harder. “Kiss me, bitch.” I kissed him. He tasted like a beer bottle full of cigarette butts. He put his tongue in my mouth, then hefted his body up. “Now kiss this.” He shoved his cock in my face. “You bite it, you die.” I kissed it. “Now suck it.” I sucked it. It tasted like sour sweat. It was hard now.
 
The other guy was bent over Don’s rear end, thrusting his cock into him, twisting and grunting while Don bit his lip to keep from screaming.
 
Pork Chop pulled his cock out of my mouth and got behind me. He spread my cheeks and started ramming it against me. He grabbed my hips in his fat hands and pulled me back. He bent and grunted as he rammed, and finally with a sharp pain it slid into me. “Ha!” he moaned with pleasure and pushed all the way in. I could feel my skin tearing. He loomed over me, grabbed my chest, and bit my shoulder. “Fuckin’ cherries…fuckin’ cherries,” he chanted with each thrust. It hurt. I was bleeding. Tears streamed down my face. He brushed them away almost tenderly and pinched my cheek. “You’re cute when you cry, you know?”
 
The two guys in front climbed in the back with us and pulled their pants down. One of them knelt in front of me and stuck his penis in my face. “Suck it, sucker. Suck it good. Or else!” He clinched both hands around my throat. “Is that clear?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“Yes, what?”
 
“Yes, sir.”
 
“Now do it to it.” He shoved it into my mouth.
 
I knew they’d kill us when they were done, but I thought if we obeyed and didn’t make them too mad, they’d just shoot us or stab us and not torture us to death. Knowing I was soon going to die, I clung to every moment of life. The sensation of hard throbbing flesh filling my face and my butt were the last things I’d ever feel, so I clung to them. They were all I had left. My own cock snaked out of the tatters of my jeans.
 
Pork Chop was thrusting faster now, groaning and pumping me hard, his thighs banging against my butt; then he went frantic, bellowing and pistoning as his load spurted into me.
 
I looked over at Don, who was also on his hands and knees being worked over by two guys, one at his ass and another at his face. His eyes were shut and he was crying and his cock was now hard, like mine.
 
With a blend of humiliation and pleasure I came, semen jetting out of my cock. I was ashamed but couldn’t help it. Maybe Don sensed it—he opened his eyes right then to look at me. Our eyes met, and a beam of love and helpless compassion poured between us, stronger than the terror. Then Don orgasmed, spouting cum in long arcs while he moaned. He was beautiful, and I wanted to hold his image as I died.
 
The guy at my face grabbed my hair and pronged his prick down my throat as he came in surges. Finally he pulled it out. “You better swallow, dickhead.”
 
I swallowed.
 
How would they kill us?
 
The two butt guys wiped their dicks on our clothes and pulled up their pants. The two face guys pulled up their pants and climbed into the front of the van. They started driving. Pork Chop opened the back of the van and yelled, “Bum’s rush!” He and his companion pushed Don and me half naked out the back. We hit the road on our hands and knees, then each rolled into a ball to protect our middles as we slid across the pavement, tearing off skin. The van sped up, with Pork Chop holding the door open so we couldn’t read the license plate, and the other guy kicking our shoes and pants out.

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