He grunted, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
His body slackened.His hand loosened around my neck.A high ringing noise started, and it was a while before I understood it was in my head.When he pulled out, the pain returned—not sharp, like before, but the burn of raw skin and stretched muscles.Something wet and cold pressed into my shoulder and skidded along the bare skin there.
“All right,” he said, trying to catch his breath.He caught my hair again and yanked my head around.The men waiting were silhouettes, and then I had to squeeze my eyes shut against the light, weak as it was.“Who’s next?”
“What the fuck’s wrong with his face?”the second one asked.
The third one said, “What happened to him?”
They’re called scars, I thought with fractured clarity.
“Who cares?”Daddy said.“His ass is fine.”
“That’s messed up,” the second guy said.“I don’t want to look at that.”
Daddy slumped next to me.I could feel his chest rising and falling.And then he said, “So, it’s a bag and tag.”
The second guy laughed.“What?”
Springs creaked as Daddy rolled across the mattress.Bedding whispered, and then a soft thump.And then something cold touched my face again, fabric dropping over me.Daddy pulled the pillowcase down and tucked it into place.
“Bag and tag,” he said again, and this time, he was the one who laughed.
“Well, fuck,” the second one said, and he laughed too, and then the only sound was the buzzing music below and the jingle of his belt buckle.
They took their turns, even the one who had kept saying, “Jesus.”
My body rocking into the mattress.The smell of the pillowcase’s detergent, and then my saliva when it caught in my open mouth, gummed to the wetness of my tongue.The musk of unfamiliar bodies, and low guttural noises, and fingers biting into my flesh.
And then it was over.
The sound of a can being opened broke the stillness.
And then the first one said, “Give me some of that.”
There was more, but my brain had detached from the rest of me, and I was too far gone to make sense of the words.Jokes.Giving each other shit.Riding the high of the fuck.They sounded like they’d won the state championship of train-running.An old part of me that I’d almost forgotten thought,I want to say that to Emery.
I wasn’t sure when they left.I slept—passed out—woke.The room was still dark, and the house was still thrumming with music.I dragged the pillowcase off my head.The aches seemed more intense, and a wary voice warned me I wasn’t quite as deep anymore; it wasn’t exactly words, more the gnawing sensation that, at this rate, I was in danger of sobering up.I was still messed up enough, at least, that the thought of turning on the lights only sparked a far-off echo of my usual panic.I found a lamp, squinted against the sudden harshness, and picked up my clothes.A door connected to a tiny ensuite bathroom, and I carried my shirt and shorts in there.It wasn’t until then that I realized I still had my shoes on.What a bunch of gentlemen.
There was too much light in the bathroom, hard to avoid myself, impossible not to see.I sat on the toilet and got as much of it out of me as I could.I thought, Thank God for PreP.And later, when I cleaned up with toilet paper (a few dabs, all I could stand), No blood.
I was dressing when I saw the tally.Magic Marker.Three uneven lines on my shoulder.
Fucking juveniles.
I turned off the lights and left the room.I took the stairs slowly, my legs stiff and unresponsive.Music roared up at me, louder and louder until the only competition was the occasional scream or shout.A young crowd, I thought as I got to the bottom of the stairs.A lot of college-aged kids.Early to mid-twenties.My phone said it was a little after two.
When I got to the bar, the bottle of tequila was gone.Pretty much everything was gone—college kids.A few cans of Red Bull.Some Cokes.I stretched my back and thought, I should go home.
Instead, I spotted an open seat and dropped into it.It was a nice chair—the upholstery clean and soft and new, the padding just the right degree of firm.It was a nice house too, done in a nautical theme with shiplap siding and white paint and decorative rope ties and lamps that looked like they were meant to hang off a dock.On the sofa next to me, a trio of kids were hunched over their phones, sending each other texts about me.I could tell because they kept giggling and trying to look like they weren’t aware of me.Two girls and a boy.The boy held a joint between his forefinger and his thumb like he was the shit.
“Bro,” I said, and the guy looked up at me.Guy.Nineteen.Twenty, tops.He tried to look away again, but I said, “Can I get some of that?”
He glanced at the girls, who were covering their faces, trying not to giggle and still pretending they were looking at their phones.Then he grinned and passed me the joint.
The rule was: stick to shots.Tequila doesn’t show up on a drug test.
I thought of their bodies on me.The pillowcase over my head.More of it came back to me, details bubbling to the surface.At the end, when it had been too much, and that was how I’d nutted: a hand on my neck, forcing my face into the mattress, and one of the boner bros growling at me,Stay down.The body is weird like that, I thought, and I took a hit.I held the smoke and let my head fall back.The body likes what it likes.And the body remembers.
