Just did another pass on the screenplay. It’s now 120 pages long. I’m going to print it out and try to cut back some…but that usually doesn’t work for me.
I should have it out in the real world by the middle of April.
Just did another pass on the screenplay. It’s now 120 pages long. I’m going to print it out and try to cut back some…but that usually doesn’t work for me.
I should have it out in the real world by the middle of April.
Alec, the man who’s gay-bashed, has set his plan of revenge into motion. First he nick-names the guys who attacked him Mafia, Soccer, Quarterback, and Surfer. Then he rapes Mafia during a house party but convinces Mafia it was Soccer who did it. Now Mafia and Alec are planning to grab Soccer as he showers and rape him.
INT. FRATERNITY HOUSE – nIGHT
Mafia lets Alec in via, at the back door and leads him up the back stairs.
ALEC: Where is everybody?
MAFIA: Shh. Playin’ pool. Library. Shit like that. Couple of the Soph’s are in their rooms. Exams.
He motions down the hall leading to Surfer’s room.
MAFIA: It’s all set. I spiked the first two bottles, just to be safe.
ALEC: Be sure and throw ’em out when you’re done.
Mafia nods as they slip down the hall to his room.
IN MAFIA’S ROOM
Alec and Mafia wait. Wondering. Worrying.
MAFIA: What if he doesn’t drink enough?
ALEC: I’ll stay in here. You go in first, to see. And if he hasn’t, just tell him some chick called for him but said she’d call back. No big deal. Then we’ll wait for him to go to sleep…like he did to me.
Mafia nods and focuses on a spec of dust floating in the light about twelve inches in front of him. Fingers twitching. Fists clenching then opening and rubbing each other. Nostrils flaring. Jaw clenching. Muscles flexing. Breath deep and harsh. Nervous.
Alec is totally calm.
They hear Soccer’s Beemer squeal to a halt. Both of them jolt to readiness as he blasts inside in his usual hurricane-like fashion, clumps up the stairs and lumbers into his room.
ALEC: How long does it take?
MAFIA: Few Minutes.
The shower starts up.
Mafia rises. Slips over to the bathroom door. Alec follows and watches as he opens the door and looks inside.
Soccer is crouched down in the shower, holding his head, water dancing over his back. He half falls to a kneeling position.
Mafia cannot move. Alec pushes past him.
ALEC: Come on.
He grabs Soccer under the arms.
SOCCER: What th’ fuck?
ALEC: Yeah, what the actual fuck. (to Mafia) You gonna help?
Mafia helps Alec carry Soccer to his bed and toss him on it, face down.
MAFIA: Dude, why’d you do it? Why the fuck did you — ?
Soccer rolls about, trying to get up but unable to control his actions. He maneuvers himself to the head of the bed. Mafia seemed unable to move.
ALEC: You want some help getting started?
Mafia shakes his head and yanks off his shirt. Alec pulls his jacket off. Then Mafia grabs Soccer by the ankles and twists him back onto his stomach.
SOCCER: What — what’s this –?
MAFIA: Payback, motherfucker…
He yanks his shorts down and kneels between Soccer’s legs.
ALEC: Be easier if you used some Vaseline or baby oil.
Mafia jerks a nod and goes to the bathroom.
Alec climbs onto the bed and holds Soccer’s head. Runs his hand down the guy’s back. He sort of tries to push him away but has no strength.
SOCCER: No — don’t wanna — not me.
ALEC: Liar. I saw your dick; it’s getting hard.
Mafia returns with some baby oil.
MAFIA: Like this?
Alec: Makes it easy for both of us. I’ll help you.
Alec straddles Soccer and pulls his ass cheeks open.
Soccer struggles. Whimpers. Tries to roll away. But Mafia and Alec too tight a grip on him, and Mafia lays on top of him…and pushes all the way in…and pumps away.
Mafia keeps at it. Hard.
Soccer grunts in pain.
Alec keeps Soccer from looking around, fights the animal within as he watches Mafia go. He’s like a tiger wanting to pounce.
INT. HOUSE BACK ROOM – NIGHT
A window on Alec’s laptop’s screen shows an overhead shot of half-naked Mafia fucking completely naked Soccer…then letting loose inside him…then rolling off him.
Alec works at the laptop, a feral look on his face as he glances at the window.
On the screen window, Alec has Soccer’s face in his crotch…as if he’s forcing himself into Soccer’s mouth.
In the house, we see Alec is finishing up a website titled My Porno Manifesto — Frat-Night proves that no man is straight.
On the screen window, Alec rises from the bed, tucking himself away. Soccer lies on the bed, unmoving. Mafia sits on the floor, exhausted and shaken.
Alec squats before Mafia. Gives him a deep, long kiss.
In the house, Alec’s chuckle is almost like a growl.
ALEC: Welcome to the club. Now you’re a man.
On the screen, Alec grabs his jacket and leaves the room.
Alec’s laugh grows almost maniacal.
I’m into the final act for the screenplay of Porno Manifesto and like how it’s going. I’ll print out a copy, go over it for corrections, and send it in once they’re done.
I’ve already got a couple good rapes in it…and I think I’ll keep in the final one, which would have Surfer, a guy who looks a lot like this, being lured to an abandoned house and punished for helping in Alec’s gay-bashing…
Ah, the pleasure of fiction…
Like any of these…
And by “own” I mean be allowed to do whatever I damn well want…
Tie him down and strip him off…
And keep him as long as I wanted…
I’m thinking of turning my first book of rape and revenge into a script and sending it to the Nicholl Fellowship and Austin Film Fest screenwriting competition, just to be an asshole.
Or…I could do one of Porno Manifesto…
Just signed up with Instagram so I could follow a Broadway Gypsy named Charlie Williams — https://www.instagram.com/iamcharliewilliams/
Lighten his hair and he looks like the perfect Lando Grissom, in my book The Alice ’65…a gorgeous Hollywood action star totally full of himself…not that I think Charlie’s like that. It’s just his little smirk…
…and that amazing body…
Yes, we hired you to pose…
But first you must take off your clothes…
Since you are the one we chose…
To play with, from your head to toes…
And what comes after? Heaven knows…
I know exactly when the thought came to me. And I can tell you for a fact, it was not before I was gay-bashed…at least, not that I can recall. I have to admit my memory is still not a hundred percent. I just know I never used to be the kind of guy who’d sit around contemplating possible reactions to various actions perpetrated against him or that he took. I had a career (I-T Guy) that demanded too much focus for that, and a decent circle of friends to entertain and to entertain me (and back me up when I’m not positive about something I used to know). No lover at the moment, but that was more by choice than chance. Or vice-versa, maybe. My hobby (photography) also took a lot of attention, and I never let myself get involved in any political crap (short of voting every election). No, I first came up with my porno manifesto after I was nearly killed, not before like some assholes want to insist, now that everything’s come out in the open.
Gay-bashed. That sounds worse than it was. I didn’t wind up comatose like that guy in West Hollywood, a few years back. Nor was I killed like that kid near Santa Barbara or something, obviously (and unfortunately, according to a few right-wing freaks). But it was still the most terrifying moment in my almost thirty years of existence, and it would have been worse had I not been taking classes in self-defense. That’s not to say I’m good at dropping and rolling and kicking the shit out of my assailant. I’m better at dropping and rolling and getting the hell away from them as they try to figure out what I’ve just done. And that’s basically what happened that Tuesday night in February.
No…that’s not right. I was attacked on a Wednesday; it gets hazy, now and then. But it seems to me everything really started the night before. Started so nicely. Who could’ve known it would wind up like it did?
Tuesday night. I stopped working on this pain-of-a-site for a new client – Wendahl Sportswear – at six-thirty, hit the gym at seven, had a decent dinner of fish and veggies at eight-thirty and hopped into a bar near my townhouse about ten. I intended to quaff one beer and spend twenty minutes flirting with this doll of a bartender I had a crush on…but then I saw Freddy. Dark-haired, dark-eyed, golden-tanned Freddy. A bit shorter than me. A bit heavier in weight. Smooth muscles with just the right amount of softness to keep him human. Good clean lines to his arms and neck. Barely old enough to drink (if he really was). And lips to send you to heaven. He was wearing a T-shirt that was just tight enough and jeans that were just loose enough to add to the curve of his body. I stopped cold the second I saw him, the thoughts of Chad or Greg or whatever the bartender’s name was (I used to know it; hell, I used to know a lot of things) shot straight to hell.
Now I’m not the best looking guy in the world; I know that. My shoulders are wide and my legs are long for my body, and I’ve only recently begun to have some real definition to my own muscles; it took eighteen months in the gym for that to happen. And my face is on the lean side with sharp cheekbones. Plus since I’m blond people have certain expectations of me that I do not meet. For example, dumb; I also design and build specialty websites for small businesses and service them. Or party animal; I prefer a beer at dinner with friends to chugging Pina Coladas in a dance bar. I’m not adventurous in bed, preferring kissing and fondling and cuddling to actual sex (tho’ there’s nothing wrong with it, believe me). And I do not have a tan line (knowing perfectly well what the sun does to the skin of Nordic types like me). But my eyes are cool green and intense (my best feature) and I have…had an open smile and a quiet way of talking to hot little beasties like Freddy that could make them think I’m more in control than I really am.
He was sitting alone on a stool at the bar, handing out a Don’t even think about it. vibe that’s usually a turn-off to me. That type – when it comes to sex, you have to do the all work while they get all the fun. But this time…this time, it made me more interested, for some reason.
At the time I didn’t know why. I sort of thought it was due to the hint of sadness in his eyes. Or the way he focused so intently on his beer (Amstel Light, my favorite). Or the fact that he just plain ignored the gorgeous bartender (I really have to write his name down so I make sure to remember it), which was sacrilege in a gay bar. Whatever it was, I slipped onto a stool two seats down from him, ordered my own Amstel and pulled out a copy of Froissart’s Chronicles. I propped it on the counter, took a sip of my beer and studiously ignored him as I sent hidden glances his way.
I read for about ten minutes, mixing in some chit-chat with Chad/Greg about life and nonsense, before Freddy ordered another Amstel, giving me my in.
“Good choice,” I said, acting like I’d just noticed that was what he’s drinking.
He shrugged and handed Chad/Greg a five. “It works.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” I said, putting down my book. His only response was to put the fresh beer to his lips and, What I wouldn’t give to be that beer bottle, did a flash-frame across my brain, but what I said was, “If all you want to do is get drunk, maybe you should try something stronger.”
“Or cheaper. Right.”
I shook my head and turned back to my book. He was starting to sound condescending and I don’t need that. A guy I was involved with straight out of college was full of the I’m too cool for you. attitude and I was dumb enough to think I could prove otherwise. I couldn’t. No one could. Since him, I’d left the Ain’t-I-perfects to their self-inflicted solitude – less from a conscious decision to do so and more because the catastrophe of that experience still had me skittish about anything more than a one-nighter.
I finished out my chapter on The Siege of Calais, bookmarked my page then pulled a twenty from my wallet and motioned to Chad/Greg. He bopped over like a big happy Lab and I let my heart do its usual flip at seeing his way-too-sexy-albeit-totally-manufactured grin.
“Just one, tonight?”
I nodded. “I’m meeting my crew here, tomorrow.”
He bopped away to get my change, and I heard, “Wait…you come to a bar to read?” I turned to Freddy with a smile and raised eyebrows, faking like I hadn’t heard him. He was looking at me, truly confused. “That book…you’re really reading it.”
He looked at the title and frowned. “I never heard of that. What’s it about?”
“Oh, medieval times. Pre-Renaissance and The Hundred Years War and all that.”
“You a teacher?”
“No, I just like history. It’s fascinating to find out where we came from and how our society evolved. A sort of learn from the past and you can see the future kind of thing.”
“And you read it for fun? You don’t have to?”
You know, it’s moments like this that remind me just how weird I can seem to most people…and it always irritates me. So I’m reading a book in a bar? So what? So I like to learn about more than just the latest pop-pop-pop-music trends or gossip crap out of whatever online magazine is hip for the day? You have to make me feel like a dork? I sighed and shot out with, “What can I say?”
Chad/Greg hopped over with my change and I left him a five as a tip. He expected that much just because he was so pretty and lets guys like me flirt with him (I honestly could not tell if he was really gay; the pings on my gay-dar were too laced with self-interest), but I also left it to show Freddy I was more interested in the bartender than in this little twerp who was making me feel out of place.
As I put the rest in my wallet, Freddy took a sip of his beer and said, “You must be smart. A book like that looks like work.”
“Only if you want it to be.”
“Yeah. Right. Things ain’t that simple.”
Well…he had me there. But like a smart ass, I just had to ask, “Why not?”
He just looked at me with this cool calculating gaze and shrugged. “Life.”
“That’s nice and vague.”
“And that’s relationship trouble.”
He nodded. “I just got dumped. Not that we were together all that long…but it still shakes you up.”
“Yeah. I’ve been there. I’ve also done that.”
He looked at me, a hint of confusion in his eyes. I think he was surprised I didn’t hand him the usual “How could anybody dump a gorgeous guy like you?” line.
“You dumped somebody?” he asked. And when I nodded, he leaned forward and wondered, “How come?”
Now by this point, I’m starting to see things that make me think he’s open to being chased. And caught. Things like how his thumb would trail from his lip to his chin after he took a sip of beer. And how his head would cock (pun NOT intended) at an angle as he looked at me. Oh, I’d have to initiate things and he’d be casual about it for a bit, but something in his sudden interest and basic body language said, If you wanna. And I sort of…did.
I smiled and decided to try being quick and bold, for once. “Well – a one night stand is a lot of fun, but sometimes you think it could wind up being more. Then you see each other a couple of times and realize that’s how it should have stayed.”
He slipped off his stool and turned to lean back against the bar, giving me a perfect view of his perfect body. Full pecs lightly dusted with hair curled into sleek abs that dipped behind jeans riding at just the right position on his hips. His crotch was nice…ripe…and his legs held just the right curve, giving his jeans an even sexier look as they bunched around his gray and red Nikes. Totally hot…and he knew it. And he had every reason to know it. And I deliberately swept my eyes over him to let him know I knew it, too.
He took a sip of his beer and said, “You do that much? One nighters?”
“Only my share.”
His smile widened, and it was a lovely smile. “I’ve never done one,” he said, looking away. “It’s kind of dangerous.”
“And sexy…if you play careful. With the right person.” (That reads lamer than it sounded at the time.)
“Don’t you think it’s better to know the person, first?”
I offered my hand and chimed, “Alec Presslea, at your service.”
“That could be taken wrong,” he chuckled, then said, “Freddy. What do you do, Alec?”
Not wanting to sound either too rich or too geeky, I said, “Operations manager for Wendahl Sportswear.” Which wasn’t a total lie; I was trying to finish up the structure of an online catalogue and ordering system for them (and having trouble with it, as noted earlier) but that sort of made me an operations manager. Sort of. Of course, Chad/Greg overheard and gave me a quick glance, but I winked at him and he turned away with a knowing smile.
“I heard of them,” said Freddy. “Their stuff looks gay.”
“Yeah, it does. We’re trying to expand beyond that. Fact is, we just got in our spring line and some of that looks more Every-guy than Aber-zombie.”
“Yeah. Y’know, I have one of the new catalogs at home. You want to come see?”
He did. And it surprised me how easy it was to get him to come back to my place. Initially I wondered if he was serious or if all he planned to do was scope my place out and come back later to rip me off. Then I thought he was just gonna get me all hot and ready before springing the comment, You want more, it’s two-hundred bucks. or something. Finally I figured he’s just out to show his ex that he’s still cool enough to get picked up by anybody…and prove it to himself, as well. Not that I cared; I just wanted to get him alone. So we walked the whole three blocks (through a gentrified part of town) and I gave him a tour of my spare-but-stylish-in-an-Architectural Digest-kind-of-way cave.
It’s funny – I call it a townhouse but really it’s just a glorified condo. Steps lead up to an entrance I share with a similar unit on the other side of the building, but I also have the level directly below me, which I use as my office; the other downstairs side is a separate apartment. A side entrance leads to stairs and an elevator that take you up to the second floor, where the regular condos begin. Quirky but comfy; suited me perfectly.
I won’t bore you with the next half-hour’s chit-chat and wordplay. Let’s just say that after a couple more Amstels, Freddy and I were flopped on my couch, drifting. For some reason, we were listening to an old Depche Mode CD (101, I think) and the conversation was at a lull. He was leaning back, his gorgeous legs parted in a casual fashion, his half-gone beer resting on one thigh, his eyes focused on nothing. And I was beside him, looking at his amazing profile (Greek, probably…or northern Italian).
I grew bold, again, and slipped my fingers over his right shoulder. He didn’t react…so I let them drift down his arm and across the fabric of his T-shirt. He let a little sigh escape his lips when I drew my thumb over the tit, so I gave it a bit of a pinch…and got a gasp of pleasure as my reward. Then I leaned over and kissed him, long and deep, whispers of the beer mingling with the scent of his skin.
It wasn’t the greatest kiss. He seemed to hold back, seemed to be unsure. I didn’t care; I let it linger for just long enough…then I proceeded to kiss his cheeks and his chin and his nose and his eyes and his eyebrows and his ears then ran my lips along the line of his jaw and down his throat to tickle the hairs on his chest that peeked over the collar of his T-shirt. My fingers drew soft over his pecs and swirled around his tits and tickled down his sides and over his abs to slip under the soft fabric and glide it up and over his body. Without a word, he lifted his arms and let me remove the shirt and gaze at his tight toned torso.
Just as I expected, his skin was smooth over solid muscles that weren’t overdone, like you see in muscle mags or the porn sites. A treasure trail of light hair danced up to his navel and playfully twirled slightly away from the center then tightened, once more, and lead up to a light dusting of hair that flowed out over his chest. His tits were rosy brown ovals, unpierced, firm and ready to be used. And no tattoos (that I could see, anyway).
I let my lips encircle one tit. Let my teeth take hold of it and hold it as my tongue flitted over it. The fingers of my left hand toyed with the other. His breathing quickened and his back arched, and the way he squirmed under my touch let me know he was loving it. I shifted to kneel between his legs, then my fingers slowly drew down his sides and along the top of his jeans to trace down the line of his fly as it bunched over his crotch, then they caressed the inner seam of his jeans before coming to rest on his thighs. I could feel his muscles clench and tighten in reaction, almost quiver, at times. I’d never felt so completely in control.
He hadn’t moved yet, not really, just reacted to what I was doing. Little moans escaped from him to let me know I was hitting all the right spots. His body arched a bit more when I shifted from one tit to the other. His hands remained still, letting me do as I wanted but not adding to the moment, and I thought, No surprises here; just another pretty boy who likes being serviced. I figured I’d make him really go nuts, then.
I let my tongue get to work on the line of hair leading from his chest down his belly…and he gasped, despite himself. I licked his little innie of a belly button as my fingers tickled the backs of his legs and slipped up to his hips.
“Shit,” he muttered. “Don’t tease.”
Your wish is my command, sahib. I slipped my hands around his ass, felt his cheeks clench as I dug my fingers into them and nuzzled my face into his crotch. He smelled salty, a little like peanuts. (It’s weird, I know, but that’s what I thought of.) He bucked his hips up, ramming his crotch into my face, surprising me. Impatient, I thought.
I undid the button to his jeans…slid down the zipper and pulled the flaps apart to reveal clean white briefs clinging and bulging in all the right places. Too perfect.
I guided his jeans down, pulling the briefs with them a little to expose some of his ass…and he stopped me.
“Don’t do that,” he murmured. He guided my hands back to his crotch…so I traced my fingers over the rolling seams, instead, and tickled the hairs that peeked from behind the white cotton. He squirmed, his breath quickening. Finally, I pulled the front of the briefs down slowly…slowly…slowly…to reveal inch by inch a nice, neat, ready-to-use dick that let itself be seen completely before it flipped up and over to greet me. It was thick and round, not yet hard but getting there, and had a perfectly shaped pink head that was all but begging my tongue to meet it half way. So I did.
I licked the head then ran my lips down the shaft…and he grew ramrod straight in a nanosecond. Then I pulled back to admire just how perfect he looked – his jeans halfway down his thighs, his briefs gliding around his hips to dip behind balls that hung round and smooth, his dick flopped back, soft dark hair framing his crotch and gliding down his legs. Then I slipped my lips over the head and down the shaft and I pumped sweet little Freddy for everything he was worth, my left fingers rolling his balls against each other and my right ones caressing the hairs along the inside of his thighs.
Oh, he loved it. His hips ground his dick into my mouth. His perfect ass tightened and shoved and shifted away from my groping hands. His beautiful round balls bounced slightly as he tried to hump my throat. The feel of it all – it was right. Almost too right.
He came quickly. Cried out as he grabbed my hair and rammed himself into my mouth and unloaded. I gently twisted both his tits and kept working him for every ounce of juice he had, kept him going until he was so rock hard, he was bout to pop. He finally whimpered, “Don’t tease,” and pulled himself away. And then he just lay there, looking straight ahead, breathing deep, his jeans loose around his knees, his briefs halfway down his thighs, his beautiful dick growing soft and lying happy atop his groin, and his perfect balls hanging loose between his legs. God, I wanted to take a picture of him like that, it was so erotic.
I didn’t swallow. Never have. I just smiled and let his semen spill from my mouth into a bandana I had, then I leaned in to nuzzle his crotch, hoping he’d relent and let me explore his just right ass. Get some of my own jollies (if you know what I mean). After all, I wasn’t exactly satisfied. My own nice average dick was ripe and ready for Freddy.
But instead of reciprocating, he suddenly stood and yanked his briefs and jeans back up. He was buttoned up and tucked in with his shirt back in place before I could think of anything to say except, “Uh, Freddy…”
“Gotta go, man. Got a class in the morning. Thanks for the beer…and stuff.”
And bam – he vanished out the front door.
It can be better to find out his price for putting his hetero-sexness on ice, so you can prove to him that it’s really nice to be used well, despite all his mommy’s advice.