CHAPTER 31
“And may all your Christmases be bright.”
Pete stared dully at the television. On the screen some teenage pop singer he didn’t recognize was singing. Dressed in a white fur coat, she stood surrounded by dancers dressed as carolers. Fake snow tumbled from somewhere above her, littering the stage. The girl beamed, flashing impossibly white teeth.
“Fuck you, bitch,” Pete said. He changed the channel. An animated Rudolph pranced across the screen, his nose glowing red. Pete banished him with another press of the remote button, replacing the reindeer with a talking snowman. He ran quickly through some of the other channels. Even goddamned MTV was showing Christmas videos.
He threw the remote down in disgust and reached for the bottle on the table. Pouring a healthy shot of Jack Daniels into the glass in his hand, he drank deeply. The whiskey burned his throat, but after a quarter of a bottle he was used to it. Besides, whiskey was the quickest way to get into a festive fucking mood, wasn’t it?
He’d just had Christmas Eve dinner at his mother’s house, putting up with her annoying cheerfulness. She’d made too much food, as usual, and the neighbors who stopped by had barely put a dent in it. Pete had stayed as long as necessary, promising to come back in the morning to open presents, then headed home to escape the merriment.
His buddies were all with their own families, doing whatever it was they did to celebrate the holiday. Pete wished it was all over, so life could return to normal. The last couple of weeks had been totally fucked up, what with having to shop for presents for his mother and endure the craziness that came with the holiday season. He couldn’t wait for New Year’s. Then they’d have a real party. It was going to be at his place this year, and he had plans.
But New Year’s was a week away, and right now he had nothing to do but drink and wait for it all to end. There weren’t any good movies on. Christ, he thought, he might as well turn the TV off and go to bed. But he wasn’t tired. He was just bored. There had to be something to do, some way to amuse himself.
He thought about putting in a porn tape. But ever since the night T.J. had stayed over, he’d been unable to get off from looking at porn. Whenever he tried, he remembered what had happened and felt sick to his stomach. Nothing had happened, he corrected himself, as he had been all week. Nothing. He’d dreamed it all. If anything had happened, it would mean he was something he most definitely was not. Only someone like that could do the things he’d dreamed he’d done to T.J. that night.
Then why was T.J. acting all weird, he asked himself. Why hadn’t T.J. called or stopped by? Why had he hurried out the next morning when they’d woken up, saying he had to get home to do something? Why hadn’t he looked Pete in the eye when he’d said goodbye?
It was nothing, Pete told himself. T.J. had just been in a hurry. And he’d been busy. He’d come around again soon enough. He’d be there for the New Year’s party, along with Gary, Ronnie, and everyone else he was inviting. They’d all be there, and they’d have an amazing fucking time. He wouldn’t think about that night ever again.
Maybe, he thought, he’d invite the girl he’d been introduced to at the bar the other night, the one who’d looked like she wanted him to do her right there on the table. What was her name? Carolyn. That was it. Carolyn. Pretty face. Nice tits. He’d thought about fucking her, taking her out to his car and screwing her in the backseat. Maybe he’d give it to her good on New Year’s, ring in the year with a good hard bang.
He drained his glass and refilled it. He was feeling better. The bullshit he’d been thinking about T.J. wasn’t anything to worry about. It was just something he’d imagined, that was all. A really bad fucking dream. He hadn’t actually put his mouth on another guy’s tool. Only queers did that shit.
He wouldn’t mind having a mouth on his dick, though, he thought. He hadn’t had his cock sucked in a long time. Not since the faggot at the rest stop. He could use a good blowjob. It would relax him. He’d be able to sleep.
But where would he find someone to blow him on Christmas Eve? Nobody was going to be hanging out in a men’s room or a truck stop looking for cock tonight. They’d all be home, even the faggots. They had to take a break sometime, he guessed. They couldn’t spend every night on their knees.
He laughed at the image in his mind, a queer on his knees sucking off Santa Claus. It was funny. He pictured Santa’s big hairy belly hanging out while some fag pulled on his dick. “You want Santa to come down your chimney?” he imagined old Nick saying.
He stood up, his head swimming a little. Maybe he could find some action after all. Maybe there were some desperate homos sitting around with nothing better to do than give his prong a wash. Taking the bottle of Jack with him, he went into his bedroom and to the computer that sat on his makeshift desk. He’d bought it to play video games and burn CDs on, but he’d discovered it had other uses as well. He sat in front of it and signed on to his online service.
He’d discovered the chat rooms accidentally while poking around his Internet service. He’d been surprised to see rooms with names like BiM4M and M4MJONow. The first time he’d entered such a room, nothing had been going on. It wasn’t until a little window appeared on his screen and someone asked him if he wanted to get off that he’d understood. Even then, it had taken some time for him to really get into the game. He’d spent a long time just sitting in rooms, looking at the profiles of other users, waiting for people to approach him.
Finally he’d made up his own profile. It was largely the truth, with a few important details changed. And it seemed to work. Guys liked him. They sent him pictures of themselves, faceless images of them with their hard cocks in their hands. He never sent one back, but it didn’t seem to matter. They never turned him down. They always did what he asked them to.
He usually limited himself to rooms with generic titles: M4MJocks, MilitaryM4M, StrtM4JO. But lately he’d been looking at other rooms, ones where men met to meet in real life. He’d never ventured into one, afraid of identifying himself geographically. More and more often, though, he’d found himself wondering what he might find in M4MUpstateNY. Would there be anyone from Cold Falls, anyone near enough to actually come over and drain his balls or, better, let him come to him? He found the idea exciting, but also terrifying. What if he should encounter someone he knew? Someone like T.J.?
That would never happen, of course. T.J. was no more queer than he was. Still, he’d been cautious. Fucking around with people he couldn’t see was one thing; meeting them in the flesh was different. But he couldn’t deny the attraction of it. He’d had some hot times with his electronic buddies, with one in particular. He wondered idly what had happened to the guy. What had his name been? Pound-something? Cake? It had struck Pete as a stupid name. But the guy had been into anything. They’d fooled around a couple of times.
Maybe he’d run into pound cake tonight, but he doubted it. Even if he did, he wasn’t interested in online play. Having accepted the idea, he now had his heart set on real live action. That is, if he could find any. He still had his doubts that there would be anyone within a two-hour drive of Cold Falls.
He found the list of rooms and searched for M4MUpstateNY. There it was. According to the listing, there were twenty-three people in it. Jesus Christ, didn’t faggots take a break even on Christmas? He logged himself in and looked at the list of members. The names were all new to him. Apparently none of them ever ventured into the rooms he frequented.
He clicked on a couple of profiles that sounded promising, but rejected them for one reason or another. Finally, toward the bottom of the list, he came across one that caught his eye: CldFllsGy. Selecting it, he read the details. The man indeed claimed to be from Cold Falls. The rest was immaterial. Pete opened an instant message box and typed a query: Looking for some fun?
He waited impatiently for a response. In his experience, if people didn’t reply quickly, they were busy with someone else. He had no interest in reeling someone in; he wanted a hungry one. When a window popped open, he raised a fist in triumph.
CldFllsGy: What’s up?
Pete continued the direct approach with his reply: My cock. Want 2 suck it?
He poured himself some more Jack and downed it. His foot tapped against the floor impatiently. What the fuck was taking so long? Either the fag was interested or he wasn’t. A ding broke the silence as the answer came back: Pic?
“Fuck a pic!” Pete muttered. He wrote back: No. Got 8 thick and cut. Big balls.
It took very little time for CldFllsGy to get back to him. Where R U? he asked.
Pete knew he had him. They always went for the big cock. And in his case, he wasn’t lying. He felt his dick stiffen as he wrote back to his quarry: Cold Falls 2.
It was a risk, he knew. Cold Falls wasn’t that big a place, and although it was unlikely, it was possible he was talking to someone who would recognize him. But now he was anxious to have his dick sucked. Besides, he wasn’t the one looking to be the cocksucker. He wasn’t the fag here. He had nothing to be ashamed of.
CldFllsGy: Come to my place?
A few more exchanges later and Pete had the address. He told CldFllsGy he’d be there in fifteen minutes and grabbed his jacket. He knew he probably shouldn’t be driving, but it wasn’t far, and he’d be careful.
Right on time, he pulled into the driveway of the house whose address he’d scrawled on the scrap of paper. Decorated with Christmas lights, it looked like all the other houses on the street. But unless someone was fucking with him, waiting inside was a queer who was going to do exactly what Pete told him to do.
He got out and walked to the door. He rang the bell and waited. A few moments later the door opened and he found himself looking at a guy not much older than he was. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt.
“I’m Greg,” he said. “Come on in.”
Pete stepped inside and the queer shut the door. The house was nice, nicer than Pete’s. It looked like the fag made some money. The furniture was new and it all looked kind of expensive. From somewhere the sound of a woman singing a Christmas song floated into the foyer. Pete noticed that Greg wasn’t wearing shoes, probably so he wouldn’t track anything onto the clean floors. Fuck him. Pete wasn’t about to take his boots off for any faggot.
“Quite a way to spend Christmas Eve, huh?” Greg said. He was just standing there, looking Pete up and down. It made Pete sick to see the queer sizing him up. He was lucky Pete was going to let him suck him off.
“Just another night,” Pete said surlily.
“Yeah,” Greg answered. “I guess it is. So, you want a drink?”
“No,” Pete said. “Let’s get to it.”
Greg nodded. “Whatever you want,” he said. His words seemed a little dulled, and Pete noticed for the first time a mostly empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table. Apparently he wasn’t the only one who’d been drinking.
Greg walked into the living room and Pete followed him. Greg motioned to a leather armchair. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said. “Do you mind if I leave Barbra on? She kind of sets a mood, you know?”
“Whatever,” Pete said. He assumed the fag was talking about the crappy music that was playing. He didn’t care if it stayed on or not. He undid his belt buckle and pushed his jeans down. His cock sprang free and stood out from his crotch. He saw Greg eye it greedily. That’s right, Pete thought. And you’re going to take it all.
He sat down in the chair, spreading his legs. He grabbed his dick and stroked it a few times, giving Greg a good view. The queer came over and stood in front of him, looking down. What the fuck was he waiting for?
“Suck it,” Pete said.
Greg lowered himself to his knees. Looking into his face, Pete realized that he was drunker than he’d seemed at first. He knelt there, swaying slightly as he stared at the cock in front of his face.
Pete grabbed him by the hair and pulled him down. His dick hit Greg in the face and he opened his mouth, clumsily putting the head of Pete’s dick between his lips. When he slid forward, his teeth scraped the sides of Pete’s cock.
“Jesus Christ!” Pete said. “Watch it!”
Greg looked up at him, the head of Pete’s cock still between his lips. He seemed unable to move. Then he started to cry. He let Pete’s dick slip from his mouth and sat back on his heels, bawling like a little kid.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Pete asked, growing angry.
Greg shook his head. “Just go,” he blubbered. “Go.”
“Not until you blow me,” Pete said.
“Get out,” Greg said, his voice rising. “I don’t want you here.”
Pete grabbed the queer by the neck and pulled him back toward him. He tried to shove his cock in the man’s mouth. “Suck it!” he yelled. “Suck my fucking cock!”
Greg pushed against him, forcing himself away. He sprawled on the floor. “I was supposed to be home,” he said quietly. “For Christmas. Then my father called and said he didn’t want me there. He didn’t want his faggot son to come home.” He looked up at Pete with drunken eyes. “I just wanted to be with someone tonight,” he said. “That’s all. I didn’t want to be alone.”
“Fuck you,” Pete said. He didn’t care what the fag wanted, or why he was home alone on Christmas Eve. This wasn’t about him. It was about what Pete wanted. He stood up and advanced toward Greg. If the faggot wouldn’t suck him off voluntarily, he was going to get what he wanted by force.
He grabbed Greg by the shirt, holding him in place. With his other hand, he whipped the queer’s face with his cock, smacking him in the mouth.
“Suck it, faggot,” he ordered. “Suck it now.”
Greg pushed him away. Pete, enraged, brought his fist down against Greg’s face. He heard the queer cry out as his nose crunched. He was just like the cocksucker at the theater, too weak to fight back. Pete hit him again.
He continued to hit, bringing his fist down again and again. At first Greg made an attempt to protect his face, but after a minute he went limp. Blood dripped from his face onto the floor. Seeing it, Pete let the man go and he slumped to the floor. Pete kicked him in the stomach.
“Get up!” he screamed. “Get your faggot ass up!”
Greg didn’t move. Pete kicked him again. He felt something snap. Why wasn’t the faggot trying to protect himself? Why was he letting Pete beat the shit out of him?
Because it’s what he wants, a voice said. It’s what he wants you to do to him.
Pete knew it was true. All the queers who’d ever sucked him off, that’s what they’d wanted, wasn’t it? The fag at the theater, the one at the truck stop. They all wanted him to use them. Well, he’d give this one what he wanted.
He continued to kick Greg, watching the blood spatter and enjoying the soft thuds his boot made against the queer’s chest. Finally, his anger drained enough that he saw how much blood there was, he stopped. Through the foggy haze that enveloped him, he saw that he had to leave. He’d done what he’d needed to, and the fag had gotten what he wanted. Their meeting was over.
He left Greg on the floor and walked to his car. Turning the radio up, he put the car into gear and pulled away, leaving the front door open. From inside the house, Barbra Streisand wished the world peace on earth.