You were leaning against the brick wall in the back parking lot for only a few minutes when he walked past the muted lamppost. When you realized who he was, your stomach turned, and you wondered if your female classmates felt that way when boys approached them to be their prom dates. It was a small town and you were behind its only gay bar, so it was possible to one day run into someone from school, but you never really thought that it would happen.  At times things happen suddenly.

He was a few steps away when you made eye contact; it had been a week since you last looked into those eyes.  Then, though, it was forced.  Soon after turning in an essay on Death of a Salesman, your English teacher made the two of you step in front of the room and debate your opposing theses.  You argued that, with Willy’s death, Arthur Miller left the reader with a sense of hopelessness regarding the future of his two sons; he argued that the reader was left with a sense of hope and promise for the two boys.  A father’s influence was broken: they had hope for a better tomorrow.

He was known more for bullying kids and his violent outbursts and not his academics, so you were nervous as you took steps to the front of the classroom. The debate turned out to be more awkward than frightening. The class sided with you, not because your argument was so much more convincing, but because he stuttered throughout his. During the debate he came across as passive, no longer a threat. At lunch kids took advantage of his newfound weakness and started to call him a stuttering fag. They said he should move to the city and get AIDS, because that’s what fags do. He used to sit alone at lunch because he’d hit and take advantage of anyone who came near him; this time he was by himself because he was the plague that no one wanted to catch.  You thought about sitting next to him to shield him from the comments, but you were scared the kids would then know that you were a fag, and that wasn’t a risk worth taking. Instead, you stayed seated and made eye contact with him.  You raised your eyebrows to apologize; his eyes, you thought, said that it was okay.        

In the parking lot, he was taking steps toward you. Optimism took over. You hadn’t been that nervous since the first time you went cruising behind that bar two years earlier.  This was a different type of nervous, though.  You smiled and put your sweaty palms in your pockets; you didn’t know what else to do with them.

You opened your mouth, unsure of what to say, but you felt the need to say something.  He made the first move, so it was only fair that you be the one to initiate a discussion.  Before anything came out, you noticed his hand.  It was moving in your direction, and there was something that he was holding.  You couldn’t quite make out what it was, but it was obviously something blunt, because it hurt like fuck when it hit the side of your face.  There was so much force that the other side of your head hit the brick wall and you fell to the pavement.  He was standing over you with his arms raised.  The second blow hit your right collarbone.  It sounded like a branch breaking.  It hurt, of course. You were able to move a few inches to miss the third blow; the sound of metal colliding with concrete echoed in your ear.  The fourth blow hit your forehead; though it didn’t knock you unconscious, it made you lightheaded, and the dull ringing in your ear was accompanied by warm blood flowing down your face. It seemed to be coming from everywhere.  You wondered, just for a moment, if it would stain the pavement.

You brought the wrench to threaten him.  You didn’t intend to hit him with it, but when you saw him smile you lost control.  He thought that you were interested.  He thought that you were going to let him fuck you.

After hitting him four or five times, he finally took his hands out of his pockets.  He was waving his arms.  His face was filled with blood; you wondered if he could see where the next blow was coming from.

Fear started to take over.  You had been in countless fights, but you never hurt someone like this. You didn’t want to kill him, but you didn’t want to let him live.  He’d go to the cops, and you’d go to jail instead of college.  But you did, in a way, want him dead.  He destroyed your life a week earlier; maybe you needed to pay him back by taking his life away.  But there was so much blood.  It was on you; it was taking you over. You didn’t realize how much there would be, how messy things could get. 

He started choking.  He spit up some blood, then let out a soft scream. Though there was no one in the back parking lot, there were people on the other side of the brick wall—drinking, lying to their families, being fags.  Any one of them could hear the screams and head out back.  You grabbed his hair and quickly dragged him to the curb.  His mouth had already caused enough trouble.

Your teeth screeched as they were dragged along the stones that made up the curb. You knew what he was going to do next, and you felt too weak to stop it.  At any moment, his foot was going to come down on the back of your head, full force.  Some teeth were going to stay rooted in your gums, but become crooked like they were before you got braces; some were going to fall to the pavement to be found later.  By a police officer? A garbage man?  No one? Some teeth would simply be swallowed.          

You were wondering what was taking so long. Why hadn’t his sneaker made contact with your head?  Maybe he changed his mind.  Maybe he ran away. You felt encouraged and were ready to use your last bit of strength to push yourself off the curb, to crawl to the bar, to save your life.  The pain from your shoulder and head no longer felt overwhelming; it felt manageable. 

You put your hands on the curb, ready to thrust yourself off.  The sneaker came down; the curb was swallowed; your nose broke; the pain consumed; your mind escaped to the last time a man had touched you.

A week earlier you were standing in your usual spot when a man approached.  Late 30s, brown hair, round face, warm smile, husky, khaki pants, polo shirt, chest hair. You had to change your stance to hide your hard on.  

He told you that he was single and invited you to come to his place, that he rented a garage and the apartment above it, that he was straight but liked to fuck guys. He wanted to fuck you, he told you with a smile.  You knew that he was lying about being single, because you saw him take off a wedding ring and place it in his pocket as he approached.  It was also close to midnight, and you should have been home because your father was overprotective and freaked out when it was past ten and you were not in your room.  You got in his car, though.  He was hot, and you wanted to be fucked.  Besides, anything was better than hearing your father yell and remind you that being a son meant following rules, not making them.

On the drive to his place, he told you that when he was your age, he decided to be straight because being gay meant getting AIDS, and he didn’t want to die because he was a fag. Maybe if he were a kid today he’d do things differently. At least it was something like that; you didn’t really pay that much attention to what he was saying because you had your hand on his lap and were playing with his cock.  Based on your past cruising experience, guys seemed to like it when you did this.

His garage was in the back of a private house.  He had to drive through an alley to get there. You got nervous, for a moment, but that was normal for right before a hookup. As he pulled into the garage, you noticed that the house was dark, except for a light coming from a second floor window.  You wondered if that was his wife’s room.

The garage was dimly lit, because of a lamppost in the back alley.  You could see stairs leading to a door, which you assumed was the apartment. There was a table with tools next to the stairs. You got out of the car and made your way toward the first step. He told you to wait, that he wanted to fuck you on his car.  He threw in the word boy at the end of his statement.

You took off your clothes; he took off his.  You were both around the same height, but you were rail thin. You had some pubic hair and a slight trail that made its way to your navel, but smooth otherwise.  You only shaved every other week. You were sure that you looked weak compared to him.

He was a good thirty or forty pounds heavier. He wasn’t fat; he carried the weight well. He had hairy legs, crotch, stomach and chest.  He was clean-shaven, but it was obvious that he had to shave daily.  He was a man. 

Your cock was stiff, balls tight.  He told you to get on your knees and to make him hard.  He called you boy again.  You took him in your mouth.  His balls were big, but they didn’t sag.  You inhaled the musky scent and he grew in your mouth.

You saw him reach for his pants and pull out a condom and some lubricant.  He placed them on the hood of his car.  You wondered what was going to happen next.  After sucking him off and getting him harder, would he turn you around and leave your ass exposed?  Maybe lick your ass, finger it, or both?  Or would he just put the condom on and fuck you?  And finally: how would he like to cum?  A previous guy liked shooting on your ass, another on your chest, and the first guy you were with unloaded on your face. 

He put his hands behind your head and started to thrust his cock deeper down your throat. He was pumping faster, and you wondered when it would be your turn.  How much longer would you have to do this before you were able to do the fucking?  How would you cum? When would you become him?

He was moaning, telling you that you sucked a good cock, that you knew how to work your mouth, to keep it up.  He told you that you knew just how to work daddy’s cock.  Then, instead of boy he called you son, and at that moment you couldn’t wait to move into the city for college.  To go away and meet guys your own age.  To be far away from that cruising spot and the people it attracted. You didn’t want him as your future.

You took his cock out of your mouth and stood.  You told him to turn around.

You feel asleep at your desk, waiting for him to get home.  The sound of the engine woke you up.   You looked at your alarm clock, and 12:17AM was lit up in red. You looked out of the window, and you saw the back of his car as it entered the garage.  You grabbed your essay—the one that forced you into a debate with your classmate that day—and walked out of your room.

The stairs in your home creaked, so you were careful as you descended the steps.  You didn’t want to wake up your mother.  She would ask why you were up that late, and it would lead to one of your usual fights that always seemed to end with her tears.  You made it safely downstairs, and as you opened your door and stepped into the backyard, your palms started to sweat.  You wondered what you were going to say. Of course you would brag about getting the first A of your life and ask him to read the essay, but you worried that he would say congratulations and send you off to bed.  What if he didn’t read into the fact that the essay was about how a father’s actions and influence can lead to a hopeful or hopeless future for his sons? What if your father read the essay but decided not to move back into the house, back into your mother’s bed?  If he didn’t get it, you’d have to be blunt.  You’d tell him to move back home.  After all the trouble you’ve gotten into over the years, you still knew that though he never gave your mother what she wanted, he wasn’t capable of saying no to his son.

You got to the door of the garage and heard faint voices.  You were curious, so you snuck behind the bushes where there was a window.  You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but there was no denying your eyes.  You’d seen your father topless many times, and once in his underwear, but you never saw him naked.  There he was, standing, getting his cock sucked.

You knew it was your father, but you didn’t really recognize his face.  Of course there were his eyes, nose and mouth that were familiar, but he looked aggressive: eyes crunched, mouth tight and biting his lower lip, hands clutching the scrawny guy’s head, ass clenched. 

Suddenly the scrawny guy stopped sucking your father’s cock, stood, and your father turned around.  Your father was leaning over the hood of the car.  The scrawny guy started to lick your father’s ass. You covered your mouth with your hands, unsure of what else to do.  You were afraid to make a noise, to let out a breath.

The scrawny guy reached for a bottle on the hood of the car.  He squeezed something onto his fingers, then stood.  He put his finger inside your father. The scrawny put on a condom, and as he pushed his cock up your father’s ass, you saw, for the first time, your classmate’s face.

Your father moaned loud enough for you to hear.  He liked what was happening.  They both did.  When your classmate pulled his cock out, your father got on his knees.  Your classmate took off the condom and started stroking his cock; your father did the same to his. Your classmate came all over your father’s face; your father came onto the floor of the garage, his cum landing on your classmate’s feet and the oil stain on the cement.

You sat in the dirt behind the bush and cried as you leaned against the garage.  After a few minutes your classmate walked out.  You wanted to hurt him.  To kill him.  You twisted the essay that was in your hands, pretending it was his neck.  He must have heard the paper crumbling.  He stopped, looked around, then kept walking as he shrugged his shoulders.

The door opened again, and your father stood at the entrance, smoking.  He had on a t-shirt, nothing else.  You could see his cock and balls: he was still semi-hard.  With one hand he smoked his cigarette; with the other he scratched his balls and stroked his cock a bit.  Part of you was angry with him, and you twisted the essay a bit more.  Another part of you, however, still wanted him to read it.  You wanted him to move back home and pretend that this never happened. He turned to face the back of your house.  You saw his ass.  His crack was hairy, but the cheeks were smooth, and some of the light from the lamppost reflected off the lubricant that was smeared over part of it.  You wondered if your ass was going to look like that when you got older.   

The light was still on in your bedroom.  When your father noticed it, he took a quick step back into the garage.  His hand extended out of the door and he flicked his cigarette.  The door closed, and you heard the creaking from the steps as he ascended them and made his way to his room upstairs.

The blood is going to drown you.  Put your finger in your mouth to scoop some out.  Two teeth, not much else.  No focus.  Drifting.  Blood everywhere.  Eye almost swollen shut.  Blood in the other.  His wrench is raised.  One more blow. Can’t take.  Drifting. Fight drifting.  Raise arm.  Try to grab him. Eye contact.  Clutch his knee.  Fight drifting.  Hope to live.

He is trying to crawl away.  Blood all over the pavement.  It will stain the ground, you too. Handful of teeth.  Grab his ankle. Turn him around. He looks into your eyes.  Like in the school cafeteria.  You wish he were your father.  You lower the wrench to your side.  Too much blood. Blood changes everything. He touches your knee.  Raise wrench.  Eye contact.  Tears fall.  Hope for the strength to not go through with the final blow.

 

© 2009 Ed McCarthy

Ed McCarthy formerly taught high school English in New York City. Currently, he is completing his MFA in Creative Writing at American University in Washington, D.C.  “Hope” is his first publication.