Staying On The Right Side Of The Breakdown Lane

Staying on the right side of the breakdown lane, I pedal. I pedal as though I could overcome stars and cars alike. It's as though reconnecting with Tommy would somehow save either his life or mine. There's nothing quite as invigorating as an unhealthy sense of melodrama.

It's 2:22 AM and I am biking the streets of Cranberry Lake because my car has been impounded and Tommy doesn't have one yet. He's eighteen now, and somehow I think that makes things better.

AOL Chatroom CranberryLakeM4M
Tommyislegal: Hey Insafemode
Insafemode: Tommy! Long time, no talk. How goes it.
Tommyislegal: Pretty good
Insafemode: Cool. Up to anything exciting lately.
Tommyislegal: Nah. Kinda bored. Kinda horny. U UP 4 anything? :-)
Insafemode: I'm definitely up for getting together. Unfortunately, my car's kinda dead. D'you have wheels?
Tommyislegal: I've got a bike. ;)
Insafemode: Up for a ride then?

It's 2:22 AM and I am biking the streets of Cranberry Lake because I have not yet grasped the concept that lust only leaves me feeling empty. I am madly in love with someone who I am fairly sure is incapable of loving me back. So tonight I throw on my jacket and gloves, take my long-ignored bike out of the back yard, and hit the streets. There isn't much distance between my house and Tommy's. There are, however, a lot of twists and turns. We agree to meet at The Generic Mom and Pop Store about halfway between our houses. There we'll buy rolling papers and condoms, then bike back to my place.

I don't smoke anymore. I gave up cigarettes after I finished smoking the pack that ElvisSeith left behind. The last time I smoked pot was with Tommy. I haven't hooked up with anyone since Big Gay Toms's friend, and I haven't gotten laid since ByronElvis left. Why am I getting on my bike at GodAwful O'clock in the morning to meet someone who I'm not in love with, knowing that I will be engaging in at least two activities I should not be doing.

It's 2:22 AM and I don't hear the serve of the approaching van.

Staying on the right side of the breakdown line is tricky. The roads curve too often. Though it's not yet winter, there's black ice glimmering on the slick, black pavement. I'm thinking this may be a metaphor for something. I am wishing I was in better shape. I feel like Ive been kicked in the chest and thrown in a freezer. I will have to stop a little bit before the store to catch my breath. I don't want to look too winded. I've got to focus.

It's 2:22 AM and I am pedaling head over feet over head over feet (and I'm not even in love). The bike is briefly above me, then beside me. The ground is not as frozen as I'd feared. My head is two inches away from a pine tree. The van honks its horn as it speeds off into the night.

It's 2:22 AM. I'm cold. Apart from the chain having come off, it looks like my bike is ok. My legs work fine, my arms appear to be in working order. Apart from a dull pounding, my head's no better or worse than usual. If I hadn't told Tommy I'd meet him, I'd turn around, go home and get some rest. But desperation and lust rule out common sense and well being. I put the chain back on my bike and start pedaling again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/13956.html

Admission (Part 2: Not So Passive, Aggressive Sex)

I've got my hands securely fastened around my favorite guypart, my mouth around my third favorite part, while looking up at my second favorite part. (ass, cock, face) In an ideal world, I'm comfortable. In the real world his massive Lennie hands are cutting of circulation to my brain and are slamming my not incredibly large nose into his mutant outie belly button. I move my left hand from ass cheek to balls and begin to pull in a way that I hope is rather painful. I move my right index finger into No Man's Land and press hard and without warning. He grips harder, slams my head faster and says "Fuck, yeah." I'm not getting my point across at all.

It isn't until I do a little teeth grazing that he moves his hands off my head and moves over to my bed. He stretches out on his stomach, ass in the air. I enjoy the view from where I'm kneeling, but decide I'll be able to appreciate it more from up close. I am correct.

Because I have decided he likes it rough (something I have just about no experience with), I decide to go for the gusto and once my cock is inside, I begin thrusting like a drunken swordfighter in a hall of mirrors. He moans "Oh yes." This is followed by a tremendous crash.

Brett is now wearing my curtains like a wedding veil.

"I was biting down on them." He says after I've pulled out to laugh at him. "They felt really awesome between my teeth. Until the rod fell on my head. Is it a good look for me?"

I answer with a kiss. It's a passionate kiss, but nothing spectacular until he bites my fucken tongue

"What the fuck are you doing, freak?" I ask, checking my tongue for blood, there is none. "Did you learn how to kiss from Freddy Kreuger?"

"You're the one who was pulling my sack like you were ripping the tag off a t-shirt, and grazing my cock with your teeth."

"Well you were slamming my nose into your belly dimmer switch."

"I thought you...dimmer switch?"

"Well it's way too big to be a button, unless it's like The Button that Evil Politicians always have their fingers on." And I press his belly button. "Look how much bigger your belly button is than my finger."

"You have freakishly small hands." He says.

"Yea, and look how much freakishly smaller they look next to your mutant umbilical cord."

He grabs my hands, pushes me back on the bed, and sits so that his ass is rubbing against my cock, and lets out a loud, raunchy fart. Eye wateringly bad. Did I mention his half of the pizza had garlic and anchovies on it?

When I coughed his cock slapped against my stomach which made me want to laugh which made me cough more. I sounded like a cat getting ready to cough up a furball. "Get off me, freak."

"Stop calling me freak." He says, moving his gigantic frog eyes until they are about half a centimeter away from my human-sized ones.

"Stop being freaky, freak."

He moves back and centers his ass over my cock, slides down, and

"Ewwwww." I yell, pulling my cock out of his ass.

"What?" He laughs.

"Dude, didn't that fart feel a little wet to you?"

He continues laughing. "It's not like you aren't wearing a condom. What do you care if it was wet?" Still, he lifts his body up a little bit, and I see that my cock looks the way it usually looks when it's wrapped in blue latex. No shit.

He moves back to his cowboy position, and reaches his hands behind him. He pulls one of the curtains in front of his face. "Oh, Mr. Mode, I do declare, I have sat my derriere on something pointy. It feels quite wonderful."

I snatch the curtain away from him, whip it at him a couple of times and throw it across the room. I then sit up, pushing him onto his back and kiss him so I won't have to listen to his horrible falsetto.

We go for about five minutes before I pull out, and we both make rather a mess of his chest and chin. We lay spread across each other for a few minutes. I can feel sleep falling over my head like those fucken curtains when Brett starts giggling. "What?" I ask.

"I think I left something in the oven."

"The oven?" I ask.

He pulls the covers over our heads, and lets out the wettest sounding, garliciest fart in the history of gastronomical problems.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/1499747.html

Admission (Part 1: Coarse Choices)

In my mental atlas, I was somewhere south of eviscerating Elvis, a bit northeast of I can't believe that guy got stung by a wasp while we were fucking, and a little to the left of the admissions office, where I was supposed to hand over my check and course choices for the coming semester.

"Mode? Is that you?"

I looked up and saw the sort of hotness you usually only find in the south.

"Brett?" The two of us had met when he moved up from Florida in fourth grade. Because he was new and talked funny, he was relegated to the social outcast circle. In other words, me and my friends. In sixth grade, he started working out and became entirely too pretty to not be popular. In seventh grade, I went away to school and never bothered to keep in touch.

"Wow." he said. "I was just thinking of you the other day."

I was both touched and overly concerned. "You were? Why?"

"Well," and here he paused for about five seconds, grinning at me. He hadn't been thinking of me at all. If he had, he would have known the answer. Why was he stalling? Was someone sneaking up behind me preparing to pants me? "Uh, someone did the Woody Woodpecker laugh that you used to do all the time, and I was like, whatever happened to Mode? You know, one day you were hanging out with us at the beach and the next day you just kinda vanished, but your parents were still around. Weird."

"Yea. I went away to boarding school."

"Rough. Did you kill the family cat or something?" Well, I had sent my cat to live with my Dad after the divorce, and he had left a puddle of antifreeze on the garage floor that P.K. (the cat) had licked, causing him to go to Kitty Heaven. I guess I had rather indirectly killed the family cat, but I failed to see what that had to do with my going away to boarding school.

"Ummmm...no. I just went away to school to get off Cape."

"And now you're back." He said, grinning.

That's right, fucker, I'm back but I'm not too pleased about it.

"Maybe we'll be in the same classes again or something."

We small talked for a bit, exchanged phone numbers, and promised to keep in touch. I don't know which one of us through away the phone number first, but the next time we communicated each other was in an m4m chat room:

ibreak4no1:Mode?
Insafemode:Yes.
ibreak4no1:it's Brett
ibreak4no1:I thought you were looking at me funny the other day
ibreak4no1:what're you doing in this cesspit?

Cruising for ass, naturally. He just happened to be the ass I found. I invited him over to watch X-Files that night. I had stopped being really interested in X-Files when I graduated from high school, but that week, the episode had been written by Stephen King.

At 7:30 Brett came over with pizza and beer, and we talked, watched the first half of the episode, decided it was terrible, and went upstairs to mess around on my computer. We googled old classmates, surfed through Memepool and Somethingawful, and created a troll account to harass the losers in the m4m chat room, what with us no longer being the losers in the m4m chat room.

"It sure is hot in here." Brett said. It was clear from this statement and the things he’d been typing in the m4m room that he had learned how to be suave via poorly written pornos. I mean poorly written FOR porn.

"Uhh...sure." And as I continued typing, I could see his reflection in the monitor taking off his shirt. I decided to be cool and wait thirty seconds before I checked him out. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven. I turned around and came nose to navel with what I can only describe as Cabbage Patch belly: smooth, squishy, but with an obscenely long umbilical cord belly button. How had I not seen it through his shirt? It was….hypnotic.

"That’s not my dick." He said, proving that he thought I was as dumb as I thought he was.

"I should hope not." I said. It wasn’t that big. "I’ve just…" and because I had to do something with my mouth before I said something awful, I pulled his head down and kissed him.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/118997.html

Elvis Rex (Part 16: Epilogue)

The little shit had stolen the limited edition U2 CDs I'd been given in Madison. He didn't even like U2. *breathe* *breathe*

A few days after Seith had gone home I got a call from the lovely people at Bowflex. They wanted to reconfirm that the machine I ordered should now be delivered to Southern State, and not my house.

I explained that they had the wrong person, I did not order a Bowflex, and the other person who lived at this number had moved to Southern State, and I had no way to contact him.

I send Seith an e-mail telling him the Bowflex people are looking for him, and that I want my CDs back.

He informs me that he tried to send my CDs back to me, but he accidentally put his address in the to: portion of the envelope. He'd try again in a few days.

I replied that you couldn't fit my CDs in an envelope, and I didn't understand why he would have to wait a few days. He had no job. He wasn't in school. Blah. I also asked him how his grandfather was, and how long he thought he'd be down there.

That pissed him off.

I got an angry e-mail back about how I treated him like he was stupid, and how he had decided to get back together with Poor Boy because Poor Boy always treated him right. He said he'd send me my CDs after I sent him his chinchilla.

If I could go back in time, I would have sent him Que Mal's corpse. I mean, really, had the chinchilla still been alive, how did he expect me to mail it to him? Also, I paid for the future fur coat, I even named it. I had only referred to it as his because it annoyed me, just like him.

We exchanged nasty e-mails for about a week before I blocked his eddress and tried to banish him from my memory. That was when his Dad called looking for him. We had a nice long chat. I told him that Seith had told me he had gone home. I'd even put him on a bus to Southern State. Seith's Dad informed me that Seith's Mom lived in Southern State, but he lived in An Even Southerner State. Seems he and Seith's Mom had gotten divorced a few months ago, and Seith hadn't taken it well.

I told him that Seith told me his dad had died when he was a kid, and that he lived with his mother and a stepfather who molested him. Seith's Dad was not amused. "Stepfather? Eleanor dumped me for a women, not a man."

That little shit.

A month passed. Bowflex called me back looking for money. I reexplained that the person who ordered the Bowflex didn't live at this number anymore. "Is this insafemode?" "Yes." "You're listed as his credit reference. Should he default payment, it becomes your responsibility."

"I didn't authorize anyone to use me as a credit reference. I think you've made a mistake."

"Is your social security number xxx-xx-xxxx?"

That little piece of fucken shit. "Yes, but I did not agree to be a credit reference for anything. I didn't even know about it until you called to ask me about a change of address. Don't you need my signature or something to use me as a credit reference?"

"No. All we need is your social security number."

"That's bullshit. I didn't sign for anything. I didn't give anyone permission to use me as a reference." I hung up the phone and called Seith's Dad (God bless Caller ID), and began ranting about The Bowflex situation.

He called Bowflex and straightened it out. I made another effort to not let Seith be involved in my life in any manner. I invested myself in school, made some new friends, and began writing again. I tried not to write about Seith, but that was like trying not to inhale during a tour of a sewage treatment plant. You don't want to, but there's not much choice.

Big Gay Tom tried to fix me up with one of his friends, but I was crushing on a friend of my own.

After three months of celibacy, though, I caved. I called Big Gay Tom's Friend and invited him over to watch Good Will Hunting. We met at a nearby bar at around 7:00. He was pretty average looking, kind of shy, out but not proud. We had a few drinks, dinner, and then I gave him directions back to my place. "You live in Cranberry Lake Condos? I've been there before."

"Really? I thought I was the only one there under forty."

He turned rather red. "I've done some things I'm not proud of."

"Yea, me too."

We had a lot in common. Neither of us would ever be on the cover of GQ or Out magazine. We'd both gone through a bit of a whore phase at around the same time. We both knew Big Gay Tom, and we'd both had a huge crush on Cute Gay-Seeming Straight Boy. We had another thing in common.

"Wait. How long have you lived here." he asked when I answered the door (he had stopped to pick up the video on the way).

"Ummm..about two years now."

"So --- you lived here last summer."

"Yea." I was staring at one of those Magic-Eye 3-D pictures. A shape was starting to form, but I couldn't yet make out what it was.

"Do you have a roommate?" That little shit.

"I had a roommate."

"Oh. Seith?"

"Yea. Let's pretend that we didn't have this conversation, though, ok?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/7988.html

The 47th Day

Wake up at noon. Shower. Put appropriate books and work clothes in my backpack. Get dressed. Check e-mail. Eat bagel. Drive to college. Park car. Walk to class. Alternate between paying attention and doing homework. Check e-mail from computer lab. Drive to work. Eat dinner. Throw on uniform. Earn money. When the restaurant closes, drink heavily. Return home. This was the routine for the first forty-five days after I drove Seith out of my life.

On the forty-seventh day, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed, turned, masturbated. Nothing. When seven o’clock rolled around, I conceded defeat, and went into the kitchen to make a bagel. On the way in, I turned on the TV. “Mourners are gathering for Matthew Shepherd who died at 12:53 this morning, nearly a week after...”

Apart from hearing his name mentioned in psychology class, and hearing someone at work mention the tragedy in Wyoming, I had no concept of who Matthew Shepherd was. On October 12th, 1998 that all changed. I didn’t go to class that day. Like most of my "alternative lifestyle" (actor) friends I went about making the tragedy of Matthew Shepherd something tangible. Something we could squeeze in our fists until it bled.

My name is Adam Stone. You might know me as InSafeMode, an all-too openly gay writer/pseudo-political activist. You probably think I can't leave the house without a cock in my mouth. The truth is, until October 12th 1998, only a handful of people knew my sexuality. Ok, a few handfuls if you counted the people I'd hooked-up with over The Internet. Since then I've become outspoken in a way that annoys a number of my Gay colleagues. I do things like use labels like gay and Gay.

I see men who like to love/sleep with men, and women who like to love/sleep with women as being gay. We don't let our sexuality define us anymore than our politics, our diets, our favorite Smurf. On the other side of the equation are people I consider Gay. They wake up in the Gay morning, eat their Gay Cheerios, put on their Gay Diesel jeans, and go about their Gay day, informing everyone who thinks differently than them that they're homophobic. While Gay people annoy the hell out of me, I'm glad they're out their doing what they need to do. There are obviously people in the world who need to hear "We're here, we're queer, don't be a homophobe, buy me a beer." I'm just not one of them.

I saw Shepherd's death as a time for reflection, and horror. Some people saw his death as an opportunity for rebellion against homophobic archetypes. Still others, like that demon "reverend" Phelps, saw it as an opportunity to spread a hateful agenda. He was as entitled to picket Matthew Shepherd's funeral, as I am to picket his when Satan finally comes to collect the withered prune that was once his soul. I'm all about freedom of choice.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/65552.html

Elvis Rex (Part 15: Que Mal)

I came home to an empty house. No Seith. No Elvis. No Byron. No Mike. No Gina.

There was note on the counter from Mike:

Hey Insafemode,

Gina and I figured you might need some time to yourself, what with ElvisSeith being gone. We're going to spend the night at one of Gina's aunts' house in Nothingtodohere.

You forgot to leave the door unlocked when you left, so Gina and I had to break in through the downstairs window. Don't think we did any damage but let me know if we did. You can call us at xxx-xxxx tomorrow morning. If we don't hear from you then, we'll see you at the show tomorrow night. It was so great the other night that we've decided to go again. Also, Big Gay Tom owes us a drink.

Thanks so much for letting us crash at your house for the past few days. It's been great spending time with you.

See you tomorrow night,
Mike & Gina

I sat at the piano and played for about an hour. It was three-thirty AM. I must have woken up a neighbor or two but nobody complained, which was a rarity in my neighboorhood. When I didn't want to play piano anymore I flipped through the TV stations. Nothing I wanted to watch. I went upstairs.

The carpet was beginning to smell. I went into the bathroom, got some carpet cleaner and powdered it up. Then I went into the bedroom.

This is the part of the story that seems contrived. I know this. It's true, though. When I got into my room I walked over to the chinchilla cage and pulled out Spider. The chichillas looked nearly identical, but could easily be told apart by the fact that Que Mal bleated almost constantly when he wasn't sleeping while Spider was hyper, but quiet. I played with Spider for a couple of minutes, letting him freak out and run around the room, and then decided to let Que Mal out.

Que Mal was asleep inside the little hutch thing that they slept in. I almost turned away to just let him sleep when I noticed the blood. Que Mal was not sleeping.

I've told various stories about how/why Que Mal died. They're all true to an extent. I'm just not sure which is the real truth. A couple of days after we I bought the chinchillas, Seith and I noticed them fighting. I was going to go separate them when I noticed that they weren't fighting at all. They were fucking.

Spider and Que Mal were both boys. We were assured of this when we bought them. After we noticed the fucking, I brought them to the pet store to make absolutely sure I hadn't accidentally purchased a chinchilla farm. They were both boys.

"Awwwww." Seith said, "They take after us."

Que Mal was always the fucker in the relationship. Spider, the fuckee. One of the ways I explain Que Mal's death is that he'd been raping Spider, and then on the night Seith left, Spider decided not to take it anymore, and --

It could be true.

There are other things, though. A day or so before Seith left/Que Mal died, I found the cord to my terrarium heater had been chewed almost all the way through. I figured Seith had been playing with the chinchillas, and one of them had chewed through it. It's possible that little Que Mal fried his brain on electricity and had a slow painful death (or a quick one, neither of us paid much attention to them the last two days), and Spider had either finished him off for reasons known only to him, or else -- I don't know. There was blood, something violent happened.

I really thought the Spider/Que Mal relationship was a metaphor for our own. I just don't know how.

In the sexual sense, I guess I was Que Mal the Fucker and Seith was Spider the Fuckee. Maybe this meant that Seith had succeeded in killing the dominant part of my sex life.

But Que Mal was definitely Seith's chinchilla, bratty, noisy, and pushing Spider (me) to his breaking point. I drove Seith out of my life while Spider put an end to Que Mal's.

I suppose it could be that Seith's playing with my temper/Que Mal chewing the cord did them both in.

I just don't know.

A couple of weeks after Seith left I gave Spider to a friend of mine who worked at an animal shelter. I was getting restless. Aching to move out of the house. Everywhere I went I saw Seith. He was in the bed. In the shower. In the fibers of the carpet. My life was every bad made-for-TV movie where the main character sees The One That Left Them's reflection in every surface. It wasn't until I started classes a few weeks later that I met someone who took the ElvisSeithByronRex weight off my mind.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/6542.html

Elvis Rex (Part 14: UnDead)

There were officers everywhere. Hundreds of them.

Sleep ebbed away.

Maybe not hundreds. In fact, there were only six. Four cars, six officers. Seith was still passed out in the passenger's seat. I opened the door. Slowly.

"Hello?"

If one were to take a picture of me at this point, I'd guess that my eyes comprised about 85% of my face. Until this weekend I had never had a run in with a police officer and now...Well, shit.

"Are you ok, son?" Officer #1 asks.

"Yes. Is something wrong?"

"They're trying to sweep the parking lot." Officer #1 points to a street sweeper vehicle. Officers #5 & 6 sigh and go back to their car and drive off. "They said they tried knocking on your windows but that neither of you would wake up. They thought you were dead."

"No. Definitely not dead. Tired. I was driving to the bus station and I started to fall asleep so I pulled in here to rest."

"Ok. Well, as long as you move the car to the side of the lot that they've already swept, you're welcome to go back to sleep."

"I don't think that's going to be possible for a while."

Officer #2 asked "What's wrong with your friend there? He hasn't moved since we got here."

"Seith?" No answer. "Seith." I leaned in to the car and shook him, sneaking in a pinch that I hope the officers didn't see.

"What the fuck? I'm tired!"

"These officers thought we were dead."

"Dead? What" He finally looked up, and around. "God, where are we? Were we in an accident?"

Officers three and four are now gone.

"No." I thank the officers, answer a few more questions, and fill in Seith as they drive away. Then I start the car and drive the rest of the way to the Big City Bus Station.

I don't remember whether or not I stayed until his bus showed up. I don't think I said or did anything captivating as he left. One moment he was in my car. The next I was on my way home.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/6317.html

Elvis Rex (Part 13: Driving Seith Out Of My Life)

I was born a child of rape. Never knew my parents, though I had a close encounter involving phone calls from my biological father when I was fourteen. It's not the sort of thing I think about every day of my life, but when it digs its way out of my subconscious and into my life, it colors every thought I have.

I'm balls deep in a boy who has caused me nothing but frustration for weeks. I don't love him. I don't even like him. At this very moment, I hate him more than I hate anyone else in the world. Is this rape?

Rewind.

While we're fucking in a chair, he has the tub running. Noah is in the bathroom putting two of every type of medication in a candy dish ark when I turn the faucet off. I mop up the floor with assorted types of towels and washcloths. Seith never apologizes. Doesn't help. When everything's dry again he gets in the shower. I have loaded the washing machine, and am in my room actively being frustrated. If I'd had any fingernails left, I'd be biting them. Seith starts "singing" something 'NSyncish. I mockingly yell at him to shut up. He starts "singing" louder. I rush into the bathroom and --

Somewhere between my bedroom and the bathroom, roughly ten feet, I have gone from mock angry to actually seething. Everything I let go of last night is back with a "He flooded the bathroom" cherry on top. I remember how good last night felt. I want that feeling back. Seith is the onlyone who can give that feeling back to me. In a few hours I will be literally driving him away from me. It's now or never. Is this rape?

No.

Rape is "No. No. Oh, God, no." or silent tears or violence or someone not active in the sex. Fucking Seith is "Yes. Yes. Oh, God, yes." with bad porn line commands, his body pushing into mine. This is rough bathroom floor, I can't grip his body because he's soaked from the shower, water is beating against the wall of the empty tub, my heart is playing pinball and the ball is trying to bust out of my skull sex. Five minutes into it Seith says "Don't --" Everything freezes. This is where the camera pans around Matrix-style I see this moment from every possible angle and he says "Don't -- Slow down." But is it Don't. Slow down. or is it Don't slow down? "Don't -- Slow down -- I'm going to cum."

Reality is restored we both explode. The bathroom floor is a mess again, but this time I'll only need one towel.

This isn't Waterloo, but I've sent my personal demons to Elba for a while.

Time speeds up. Seith's bus is at ridiculous o'clock in the morning. Rather than leave it to chance that we'll miss it, I decide to drive us there early. It's roughly an hour from my house to the bus station.

I'm a speeder. I try and keep within ten miles of the speed limit when I think there's cops around, but when I feel safe, and the highway is straight enough, 85 seems like a reasonable speed. That's about how fast I was going when I noticed the flashers. Shit.

"License and registration." While the officer walks back to his car I realize that Seith and seethe are nearly homophonous. Four minutes pass in silence. Seith looks at his nails.

The officer comes back. Laughing.

"Rough night last night?"

I wasn't sure how to respond.

"I think you suffered enough for your sins last night. I'm going to let you off with a little advice: slow down, and get that headlight fixed first thing Monday morning." And he walked away.

Seith looked at me like Jesus had just stopped over the house for some cookies on the way to his second coming. "What was that about?"

"It's a long story."

We drove for about forty-five minutes when I realized I was falling asleep. Seith had been asleep since about five minutes after I was pulled over. I got off on the next exit ramp, pulled into a supermarket parking lot and fell asleep. When I woke up my car was surrounded by police officers.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/6004.html

Elvis Rex (Part 12: The Rubicon)

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.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/5845.html

Elvis Rex (Part 11: I Am A Magic Donut)

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."

"Carry on."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/5263.html

Elvis Rex (Part 10: On Closer Inspection)

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?"

"Half hourish."

"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.'"

"Right."

"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."

"Ok."

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 Nowheresville and Nothingtodohere. 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--"

"Got ya."

Stupid deadpan motherfucken police officers.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/5119.html

Elvis Rex (Part 9: An Age Old Question)

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.

Ridiculous thoughts.

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.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/4750.html

Elvis Rex (Part 8: The Grandfather Clause)

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?"

"Tomorrow."

"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.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/4552.html

Elvis Rex (Part 7: Rex)

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."

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/3882.html

Elvis Rex (Part 6.5: Civic Lesson)

During ta 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."

"No."

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.

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/854855.html

Elvis Rex (Part 6: Wickeder Lies)

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.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/3807.html

Elvis Rex (Part 5: Crimes Against Seith)

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.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/3355.html

Elvis Rex (Part 4: Wicked Lies)

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.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2971.html

Elvis Rex (Part 3: Prisms)

When I was seven or so my grandmother gave me a prism to hang in my window so I could watch the colors bounce around my room. A little green off the television set, some rainbow action on the handles of my dresser drawer, some red off the naked boy's back.

Naked boy?

Right, Seith.

The sun seemed almost abusively bright. Like it was trying to remind me of something.

Right, work!

I threw on some clothes, wrote a quick note for Seith, and went to work. Of course, it was actually my day off, so I pretended I had just come in to hang out. I talked with some of my coworkers for a few minutes, hit the grocery store and went home.

Seith and I had been up until about eight in the morning playing Breath of Fire 3. I was actually getting quite good at it.

I figured he would still be asleep when I got home so I opened the door very quietly. I placed the groceries in the kitchen and started to head up the stairs when I heard him talking.

Let's not even pretend that I'm not an eavesdropper on an average day. If you're in my presence and you need to have a private conversation, tell me and I'll go away for a while. Otherwise, I'm listening, and I'm taking notes.

"--absolutely beautiful. We showered together the other night and it was so hot. Seriously, it was some of the best sex I've ever had."

I rock. This beautiful boy is on the phone with (please don't let it be his brother) someone, and he's talking about how beautiful I am and what amazing sex we've has and--

"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. Love you, too. Bye"

I am relatively sure I wasn't supposed to hear that conversation. I live alone. No bunkbeds, no other roommates and as previously mentioned my cock is not bigger than his. I begin to rationalize: he broke up with his boyfriend, and I'm the rebound guy and he's trying to make the ex jealous. No, it was his brother on the phone and he's trying to make him jealous. Or--

I get up and walk quietly back down the stairs where I loudly open, then close the door. "I'm home." "That was fast." "Yea, just did a little grocery shopping. Turned out I wasn't supposed to work today." "Cool."

"So it's your first day here, did you want to do some sightseeing or anything?" "Sure. Want to fuck first?"

I can't think of an occasion where I've turned down sex in favor of sightseeing. I hope that day never comes.

So up the stairs we go. Clothes fly off like monkeys in Oz. I throw him playfully on the bed, get my face real close to his and almost say "so which one of us is hottest?" but being a true male, I don't want to give up a chance for sex, so I decide to fuck first, accuse later.

The sex was amazing. There were a few times that I thought there really might be six of us in the room, and I just hadn't noticed. An extra arm would be kneading my back, I'd swear there'd be a tongue in my mouth, and on one of my nipples. I mean, we were bending each other into positions that the Kama Sutra knew about but didn't have the balls to write down. By the time we were finished it was too dark to sightsee. I was ok with that.

The prism was flashing streetlight patterns over the wall. The moon was hovering above the skylight, and I swear it was saying "Damn!"

All suspicions were forgotten. I don't think I would have been able to tell anyone what my name was by the time we were through. All I could remember was nibble, nibble, suck, lick, twist, thrust, thrust, wow. The questions would have to wait for another day.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2787.html

Elvis Rex (Part 2: Breath of Fire, Ass of Smoke)

There is little in life as agonizing as the anticipation of knowing your mother is about to walk in on you having sex with a boy when she doesn't know you're gay. I suppose it could be worse. I could have been being gang banged by the football team when my dad walked in, but I've never had much of an affinity for jocks, and my Dad lived over an hour away. He also had a sense of personal space. Something my mother lacks to this day.

There is no way to make this look innocent. We're two guys in a bed who reek of long amazing sex (you can barely smell the "you're better than my brother" at this point), and Mr. NoAss's Gila Monster is still visible through the sheets.

The tension is mounting on me, and I'm pretty sure it will hurt worse than Seith's cock when I hear the door open and-- It's not my door. It's the door to the spare bedroom.

This is where the sobbing begins to waft under the doorway. I'd been so focused on my pulse moving north from cock to inner ear, that I hadn't noticed it.

I threw on some baggy clothes and knocked on the door. "Mom?"

"Insafemode, you're awake? Of course you're awake. It's only ten. Insafemode, I did it, I broke up with my boyfriend."

Now my blood drains back down from my inner ear, into my feet, and escapes through my toes and on to the carpet. My Mom is breaking up with her boyfriend. My Mom, who owns my house is breaking up with her boyfriend with whom she's been living. My Mom is totally going to kill my fuck factor.

Then my blood comes back with resounding force into my brain and kicks my ego's narcissistic ass. "Are you ok?"

"Yea, Insafemode, I think--" her phone rings, it's her boyfriend. I do the wiggle-your-feet-while-your-mom-is-on-th

e-phone-dance while she sobs, then steels, then says. "Oh--Why didn't you tell me that it--Ok--Well that changes everything. I'll be right over."

I never did find out what the fight was about.

"I'm so foolish sometimes." My mother said as she picked up her purse, and yanked her jacket off the floor. "I just get so emotiona--Insafemode who's in your bedroom?"

I turn slowly. Each crisis has been thus far averted, so this must be the point where Seith and his serpent wave at her from my bad. But Seith is no longer in my bed. He's fully dressed and playing PlayStation.

"Oh, Mom, this is Seith, he's a friend of mine. He'll probably be staying here for a while."

"Well, lucky thing I won't be needing the spare bedroom then. Goodnight Insafemode. Goodnight Seith." "Night. Good to almost meet you."

And my mother, The White Tornado, spun down the stairs and back over to her boyfriend's. The whole ordeal took about five minutes tops.

"I figured if we had been playing video games it could have accounted for any noises she would have heard."

"Good thinking. Certainly the 'Oh God, you're better than my brother' comment would have been in a better context."

"Yea, sorry about that. Are you any good at Breath of Fire 3?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2455.html

Elvis Rex (Part 1: Airport?)

Three days after The Brian Incident, I woke up sick. I believed it was karma. All I wanted to do was puke. So I puked. Repeatedly.

After about an hour of my bulimia impersonation, I drove to the doctor's office where my mom used to work. The receptionist was as frigid as my Dad’s joke about her lack-of-sex-life had led me to believe. Her armchair diagnosis was appendicitis and she recommended driving to the hospital instead of “wasting the doctor’s time.” I made sure to puke on the bathroom floor before I left.

I drove the five miles or so between the doctor’s office and the hospital with my head out the window, howling like Ludo from Labyrinth. It felt like there was a small raccoon trying to dig its way out of my stomach.

"Kidney stones" said the hospital receptionist as she wheeled me into the ER. I harassed Passing Doctor #1 until he gave me an IV full of weak-ass pain reliever. I then became “the lost patient.” Despite the fact that my breathing was slightly louder and more annoying than Darth Vader’s, the doctors managed to misplace me in several small rooms until Passing Doctor #4 pumped my IV full of Demerol. I liked Doctor #4.

The next thing I remember my mother is shaking me awake. She asks me where I've been for the last 24 hours. Beside my bed are a bottle of pills, a reminder that I have a urologist appointment, and a pee strainer. I have a hazy recollection of a hospital. Apparently the doctors of Malpractice Med allowed me to drive home when I was out of my mind on Demerol.

A few minutes after my mother left, I went downstairs to check my messages. Seith called to remind me to pick him up at the airport. Seith…I didn’t recall…

My brain clicked. Seith was Prittib0i, the guy I'd been talking to on AOL recently. I wondered how he got my phone number. Airport?

I rushed upstairs and checked my computer. I always saved the really important IM/chatroom conversations as word files. Sure enough, I had invited Seith to come up and stay in Boston for a few days. Not only that, I had purchased a plane ticket for him with my credit card. Fuck.

I arrived at The Airport about ten minutes after his flight did. As I wandered toward baggage claim, I saw him on a pay phone. We made small talk on the way out to the car. It’s hard for me to recall the details of our first few hours together, as all I could think was “whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.” He was exhausted when I got home, so I let him set up shop in my room while I went to work.

When I came home, he was sitting in my beanbag. Naked. Aroused. He was watching a Backstreet Boys video on MTV. Had the sound been off, I might have been able to understand what he was doing. As it was all I could think of was “thank God my mother didn’t drop in to see how I was doing.”

Then something sank in. There was a hot, naked, aroused boy sitting in my beanbag, smiling at me. He stood up and asked if I needed a shower after my long day at work. I stammered a yes, and we headed upstairs. On the way up the stairs I noticed his one physical flaw. The boy had no ass. None. He was very slim, and had a back that was completely flat between shoulder blades and whatever you call the reverse side of kneecaps. It looked like he had been ironed.

I undressed as he tried to figure out the shower. When he bent over, I could almost make out his butt cheeks. If I squinted real hard. When he turned around he took one look at my naked body and laughed. “Awww it’s so leeetle and kyoot.”

I had never had my cock belittled before. I’ve got the lovely average thing going on. Nothing spectacular, but hardly a microphallus. He may have been nine inches long, but a boy without an ass should never criticize anyone else’s body.

Only twice in my life have I ever showered with another guy. The second time was awful but mercifully short. The first time was with Seith, and it was long and wonderful. As long as I kept my hands away from the place where his ass should have been, I was in heaven. Our mouths fit together perfectly. We had each seen enough porn to know where all the erogenous zones were, and we made full use of them.

After about a half an hour we turned the shower off and headed into what had once been my bedroom. I could now see it was our bedroom. All the furniture had been moved around, there was a Playstation hooked up to my TV, and my computer background was a naked picture of Seith. This made me point and laugh.

“What?” “That picture!” He tilted his head to the side like a Velociraptor, “What about it?” “You look like a total skank.”

In the picture, Seith was wearing a club boy shirt and Adidas sweat pants, which were pulled down to show off his huge cock. It was his facial expression that was hysterical. The sort of face you only see in cheap pornography and Abercrombie & Fitch ads. Maybe in Zoolander if you know when to look.

He pushed me on the bed. “I thought you liked skank.” “Uhhhh-” and then his tongue was tickling the roof of my mouth.

After another ten minutes of foreplay, he lay on his back and spread his legs. Looking back, I’m grateful he didn’t assume the doggystyle position. I can’t imagine maintaining my erection while looking for his ass.

Condom on? Check. Proper application of lubrication? Check. And off we go. The first fifteen minutes were amazing. Perfect rhythm. Position changes. Everything was perfect until he said “Oh, God, you’re better than my brother.”

Five years later a friend and I used to play a game where we tried to think of the most awful things to say to someone in bed. Not surprisingly “you’re better than my brother” was near the top of the list. I believe it was between “I thought you said this wasn’t your first time” and “excuse me.”

Needless to say, I stopped, completely stunned. “Don’t stop.” “But--” “Don’t stop.”

So I started up again, trying to push what he said out of my mind. After about twenty minutes, we were both spent. I propped myself on my elbow, meaning to ask him about the brother comment when he shushed me. That’s when I heard my mother coming up the stairs.

original posts: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/2063.html,
http://community.livejournal.com/bad_sex/393128.html

On More Than One Occasion

Sometimes I feel like I am a blank slate. I can go from place to place, person to person, and need no adjustment. I also have an extremely high pain tolerance. Not enough to join some super spy network or anything but enough that I don't get hurt a lot. As a result, I sometimes have a problem identifying when a normal person would need some adjustment.

On one occasion Usually, I'd be sitting at home doing homework with AOL open. Sometimes I'd be in an m4m room. On one occasion I used to get lots of IMs from boys around my own age looking to hook up. I'm not hot or anything. I don't even consider myself attractive. But where I'm from, it's hard to find other gay boys in the general populace. There were some boys who wore gay pride like a pair of their favorite jeans, but the boys who were looking for me weren't looking for them. They wanted anonymity.

Brian wanted to bottom for someone. He had never been with another guy before, and claimed to be in the closet. He was also a drama student, chorus member, and AIDS activist. But he was in the closet.

He showed up at my house with a case of Zima around 3 in the afternoon. We put MTV in the background and talked a lot. Around three hours and eleven Zimas later he wanted to kiss me.

Brian was beautiful. Nineteen years old, short messy blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth. I was twenty-one and knew that if he was comfortable with his sexuality he would not be meeting guys like me over The Internet. I said as much to him. As much as I wanted him, and as much as I knew he would probably regret losing his gay virginity this way, I didn't want him to feel that I pressured him.

We talked some more, and we made out. Around 8 o'clock he started taking his clothes off. He had been working out. I suggested that we move upstairs as I had a sliding glass door with no blinds on it, and a community of nosy neighbors. We moved upstairs into my bedroom. He immediately went down on me, listening very carefully to my suggestions on technique. After about fifteen minutes he climbed up on the bed and said "Penetrate me."

Even the most clinical unromantic come on line in the history of bad sex talk failed to break the moment. I giggled. Quietly. I also started with the appropriate kissing and fingering of the butt. Then I entered. Not very clinically. Very passionately in fact. He responded with first an "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh" and then an "Ohhhhhhhhh god, I think I'm going to" and then he puked. Everywhere. Mirror over the dresser? Splattered with puke. Quilt that my grandmother made me? Covered in puke. I was, however, still clean.

That's not the part of the story that bothers me. That's the bad_sex story. What bothers me is this: I never comforted him. Here was this physically beautiful, intellectually beautiful, sweet boy living through what was probably the most challenging day of his life to begin with. He was finally confronting his sexual identity, and one of the most embarrassing possible things that could happen to a guy, happened to him. Sure, I asked how he was, but I didn't touch him. I cleaned up the mess, but I didn't rub his back when he continued vomiting ins the bathroom. Sure I told him not to worry about it, but I don't think I sounded very sincere.

He asked me if he could still stay the night. I may be an emotionless robot sometimes, but I'm not an asshole. I asked if he wanted to share my bed or sleep in the guest bedroom which was closer to the bathroom. he chose the guest bedroom. All night long I heard him alternate between crying and vomiting. And I did nothing.

He got up the next morning before I did. I never heard from him again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1240.html

Drowning Pedophilia

So what do you do when you find out the stranger you picked up in a grocery store is underage? You fuck him.

Maybe it was the pot mumbling, or maybe I was just an unethical hornball. Whatever the lame excuse, once I processed the fact that I couldn't actually be arrested for being a twenty-one year old fooling around with a seventeen year old, all my reservations about how his family could kill me anyway flew right out the window. Perhaps they were trying to catch up with the pot smoke.

Tommy wanted to blow me again, and how could I say no to more head from the best barely legal fallater to ever walk the earth?

We're on the bed doing some 69 and, as I'm wont to do when there's ass to be played with, I let my fingers do the walking. A little squishy squish, some slappy slap, and some pokey poke (I'm gonna stoppy stop now). I'll confess it right here, publicly, for all the cringing world to see that yes, I have an ass fetish. Tommy's ass, while not ideally round, was at least present. So I slide my index finger in and out a few times before upgrading to the middle finger. Next up is the thumb of doom which, while it obviously can't get in as deep as it's better hung companions, has better girth, and is much easier to make eccentric ellipses with.

Tommy is bucking and thrashing and SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Moan. SPLAT. Drizzle. Yelp. SPLAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Screech. SPLAAAAAAAAAT. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drizzle. Drip. Drip. SPLAT. Drip.

Damn.

"Fuck me. Please."

I was taken a bit aback. Not that Tommy wanted to be fucked, but that he was so enthusiastic about it. He had been a typical mellow stoner up to this point. Monotonous voice, Garfield shaded eyelids, and slouch.

It would be nice to think I had some sort of internal dialog about whether or not this was a good idea, but the only thing my dick could think of to say to my brain was "Thank God you keep your condoms within reach of the bed, now move my damned arm."

And in we go, doggy style. This boy was tighter than spandex on David Lee Roth. The only word that accurately describes sex with Tommy is "Damn."

When we were finished, we passed out draped across each other. When I woke up it was dark outside. I kept staring at Tommy, thinking he was bathed in moonlight, but it was actually a streetlight. Eventually we got up, and I drove him over to a friend's house, where he'd decided to stay the night.

This was the start of something a tad more meaningful than just whoring around. You know that cliché about how there are other fish in the sea? I kept thinking Tommy would be the keeper. Turns out I had throw him back. He was too small.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/17452.html