I spent Saturday morning looking over Danny's band notes. He had left them with me before he left last night, right after Tom. The notes weren't anything spectacular. I'd seen them before: lyrics, band names and a genius doodle here and there. One of my favorite doodles was a new one Danny had drawn right before he left. I was there, sleeping face-down on my bed while Danny was behind me, shoving both his arms up my ass to nearly his shoulders. But that wasn't my favorite part. My favorite part included Tom, a distance away on the page, sitting somewhat sideways so that he could fuck himself with his guitar. The most amusing part of Tom, however, had two parts that only solidified my trust in Danny's genius. In the picture, tom was not ugly. Still unmistakably Tom, Danny had downsized his ugly traits and upsized his hot traits so that Tom seemed antithetical to himself, but the exact paradigm of, well, Tom. There was a paper bag covering his penis instead of his face. I wanted to make love to the picture.
Instead, I scanned it. Since it was largely due to boredom that I woke up, it was likely to due to bored that I resisted the urge to go back to bed. With the scanned picture, I made what I thought to be a fairly decent overlap of the picture and the obscurely long name of our band. I wanted it to be our CD cover. I printed it out and colored it in - with crayons, like a fucking four year old. See, it was then that I first had these stupid conflicting plans. Simultaneously, I wanted to both show the colored-in picture to Danny, so that he could tell me how fucking retarded it was, and I wanted to phone Danny's dad, telling him his son just fucked two guys up the ass willingly. What struck me wasn't the very notion that two wants could seem to interfere, rather, that thought they interfered at all. Just as I could easily do neither, I could do both: it would be easy enough to phone Mr. Z at any time, and it would be easy enough to show Danny the picture at anytime. Even the order of such actions mattered little.
But I still couldn't shake the feeling that I could either do one or the other. I stuffed the colored-in print-out in Danny's assignment book, and then forgot about the issue entirely.
To make sure my parents knew I had had an orgy last night, I was sure to leave plenty of clues - like unwashed dishes in the sink, dirt crusted off someone's shoes near the door, Danny's sock in the living room. I wished someone had brought condoms so I could dispense of them or something in the kitchen garbage- you know, make it real fucking obvious. As things were, I was left to do all these stupid little hints.
I called Tom and invited him over. Unfortunately, he was busy and had to decline. Something about church. Fucking fruitcase.
The boredom now inside me was so intense it began to feel like physical entity, bearing down inside me - somewhere between my stomach and my cock, making the thought of doing anything but complain about being bored seem unbearable. And fucking boring.
Eventually, my parents did come home. They were upset, naturally, at the obvious signs of teenage presence in the house other than my own - especially since I was being kept under strict watch or something and having people over when the parents were gone was like, punishable by lecture. Or excessive dirty looks, whatever was the most accessible at the moment.
As it turns out, I got a lecture - a fucking long one, too. Something about being continuously disobedient and insensitive to anyone's feelings but my own - and that this whole 'gay son' thing was a huge adjustment, that having orgies in the house was completely inexcusable and inappropriate, as was also my out-of-control lying and taunting of the insecurities of others. I didn't exactly see how this last part applied to the current situation.
Either way, I gave them the same lines I had decided that I would say last night: I had been pressured into it by Danny, that I had told him I wasn't ready to give him my virginity, but he practically raped me anyway. That it wasn't really an orgy, because the third boy was actually there to protect me, but he had turned up too late to save my innocence. Oh - and I also condemned them for trying to make me feel sorry for them when I was the one going through such a tremendous mental and social transition into being openly gay, not to mention being randomly ass-raped in my own home, by my own boyfriend. I'm also pretty sure I said something about school-related stress and about how my diabetes suck ass.
While I'm not entirely sure my parents fell for it one-hundred-percent, they did seem to believe it enough to take heed to my suggestion to call up Danny's dad and have a chat with him. I couldn't fucking wait to see the look on my parent's face when they learn that they had indirectly caused a brutal beating of their son's rapist-boyfriend.
It wasn't a long chat. I timed it: from the time Mr. Z picked up to the time my parents got hung up on, only twenty-two seconds had passed. Alas, for all I was concerned, the conversation needed only to last ten: Danny's dad knew about his son's gayscapades, and soon all hell would break loose for my lover.
My parents, a little unnerved, set me off to my room. I was glad to go, actually. It gave me time to sit on my bed, close my eyes, and imagine the moment Danny knew that his dad knew about what he had done last night: the look of pure horror on his face, the thoughts of pure hate in his mind, the tenseness of his hot fucking muscles. I wanted so fucking badly to see all of that, feel all of that - I even wanted to actually be Danny, even if only for a moment.
I wanted to know if Danny would fight back, or if he would just stand there and try to helplessly block. In my fantasy, Danny fought back - but only at first. After blocking a few blows, he would let down his defense to throw a few punches himself - but this would only create a window for his father - who in my mind was shirtless and surprisingly sexy - to land a few right in his stomach, making Danny to bend over in appendix-bursting pain, eventually submitting to the never-ending flow of abuse. I know, I know. I have such a dramatically romantic imagination.
I didn't hear from Danny the entire weekend.
Monday at school, I met Danny Z in front of my locker; he had waited for me. When he saw me, we smiled at each other: there was no visible bruising on his face, but I knew better than to think Danny had gotten off blank-free. Fuck no.
"Hey lover-lips." I strutted my stuff over to the love of my life and winked.
There was something ferocious in Danny's eyes, and to be truthful, I was afraid to get too close. Danny didn't care: he grabbed the top of my pants and pulled me towards him. Our close proximity that this put us in was enough to make me spontaneously orgasm - but I didn't, because I wanted to know what Danny had to say. I knew he wanted to say something, I could smell it in his foul breath. He probably didn't brush his teeth that morning. I leaned in closer, putting some of my weight on his thigh, and he winced. It gave me a small idea of where the bruises might have been hidden.
"You didn't return my calls all weekend, hun," I rubbed my forehead against his oily cheek. "You're not breaking up with me, are you?"
Danny's face was priceless. The only way I can think of to describe it is fucking psychotic tenderness.
"Oh no, Simon," Danny Z. pressed my head uncomfortably tight against his cheek, positioning it so he could talk directly into my ear as he continued to scrape my face against his unshaven jaw. He rubbed the back of my head possessively, randomly entwining strands of my hair into his fingers. "No, I haven't had nearly enough of you yet."