Evil Companions Page 6

  It was the most exquisite orgasm I’ve had, a pale rose thrill spreading throughout my entire body—and I hadn’t come yet. But despite my jerking, the incoherency of my thoughts, I felt a desperate need to release my semen.

  “Paulette ... fuck me ...” She said later that she was also burning inside, but she quickly straddled me and hung on while I jerked my hips so strongly I was sure my cock would impale her up to the lungs. I came in a matter of seconds, shaking so strongly she was thrown off me and into the slime Anne had spewed. At the same time I shot, my sphincter muscle went crazy, and I shit all over the floor.

  We lay there until daybreak, when we awoke stiff with fatigue and caked from head to foot with the mess. But we all managed a smile.

  Chapter Six

  ___________________ The Dark Park

  Life became much less complicated, like living on a floating bed in a greenhouse, with the sun shining all day. Anne would never ask: “Are you happy?” But the answer would have had to be yes. For the first time in my life, I felt alive, and just as much a part of the universe as an earthworm, or a bit of dirt on the windowsill.

  I stopped trying to figure myself out, deciding that moment-to-moment feeling was more important than understanding. That was it. I stopped trying to understand. I occasionally thought about Anne, wondering what made her so tough, so knowledgeable; of course I wouldn’t question her, thinking she’d run away. And she was my guide, my partner, my generator.

  But I stopped taking baths, or shaving. I brushed my teeth because I liked the sensation toothpaste gave me, but I let everything else, every remnant of workaday, nine-to-five civilization go by the board.

  Instead, Paulette went to work hustling for us. Anne really directed her, while I stayed in the apartment and began to plant myself. Most of the time I went around in the nude, taking care of Anne’s customers. I was like a service station attendant, filling the needs of Anne’s customers while she was out on the street with Paulette, introducing her around. The dirt caked on me, but Anne didn’t even notice the smell. I think she enjoyed it, along with the change she had caused in me. There’s nothing more exciting than a convert, at least for a while.

  Paulette looked a hell of a lot different when Anne got through with her: cheap, tight sweater, bright orange slacks, teased hair—the bright, hard-shield look of shellac that signals whoredom. Gone were her suits, her expensive blouses, her discreet perfume and jewelry. Here was another woman, one who couldn’t live without sex, and the special knowledge that Anne conveyed through fucking. Anne gave her a habit—fucking a different man every night—that she couldn’t shake. She supported us, and provided us with random entertainment.

  It was then, with money coming in regularly, that I discovered that Anne had a small habit, although it didn’t affect her. She wanted me to mess with it, and I did for a while, but gave it up because I could get the same effect without it. It’s an attitude.

  I found that all I had to do was lie down in our dirty sheets, or spend some time in the bathroom smelling my own ordure, to achieve the feeling she got with junk. I’d do anything: scratch my ass, pick my nose, fart, burp—the minor crudities—without blinking an eye.

  I began to take trips to the park late at night, hoping to meet some new animal of the night. None came along, but the park at night brought new sweets to my system; at first I sat on a bench and just watched the sky, inventing stories about the stars I could make out, since I knew nothing of astronomy. After a few nights, I switched to lying on the ground. I could avoid cruising cops, on their little scooters, and watch what went on (the action was fantastic) without being observed, if I chose to. But most of my pleasure didn’t come from any of this; it came from just lying on the clean, cool grass, rolling over and over it, putting my face in the dirt. The smell—iron, acrid, sometimes sweet—turned me on.

  The respectables stayed away from the park. There had been too many muggings and rapes, and that made it all the more appealing. It was a place inhabited by hunter (the police) and hunted (me, and hundreds of other predators).

  I made a mistake there one night. I had been fairly successful for weeks in my new territory, grabbing ankles and rolling on the grass with everyone from high school kids to college professors, when I got giddy and a cop got to kick me in the face. He was in plainclothes, a young, muscular, blond Nazi. When I whistled from behind some bushes, he jerked around as if he had been kicked. He got me in record time, running like a halfback right at my hiding place. I marked it down to eagerness.

  “Slow down. It’ll still be there.”

  “Oh, I’m going to get you.”

  “You’ve got me now. Here I am.” My fly was undone, and it was in my hand. I shook it at him playfully, hoping he’d want to suck it, instead of anything more strenuous.

  “What are you doing! What are you doing!”

  For some reason he was all excited. Lisping like crazy.

  “What’s your problem, man?”

  “I’m going to arrest you for soliciting and indecent exposure.” He had his gun out and was shaking it at me, the same way I had been shaking my cock at him. It wasn’t a fair comeback. I zipped up and held up my hands so he wouldn’t shoot me. In situations like this, I only know what I learned in the movies.

  I was still on the ground, though, and that made him uncomfortable. “Get up, you dirty faggot!” He lisped when he said “faggot,” but I couldn’t dwell on that. He kicked me in the ribs so hard I thought my heart would burst. I scrambled up, holding my exploding side, one hand out to ward off more attacks. The gun was cocked.

  “I feel like just shooting you through the head!” He was still jerking and swaying with that heavy Smith and Wesson in his hand.

  “Why don’t you just shoot me through the cock, and get your kicks that way? I mean, I don’t want to go to any police station.” That stopped him, but only for a second; he was so excited (or scared) I thought he’d have an epileptic fit.

  We stared at each other, him shaking, me holding my side.

  That was what did it. He got a chance to think. Thinking, if you can induce it, will louse up the most authoritarian mask you have to deal with.

  “I feel like tearing it off with my bare hands....”

  “And eating it?” I sneaked in. The gun went down like a flag being taken down. I felt like singing “O say can you see,” but my sense of humor always gets me in trouble.

  When the gun went down, I seized the golden moment and launched a monologue the saints would remember, if they could hear, and if they were there. I preached:

  “You miserable motherless son of a hound that lifted its leg on your grandmother’s flowers, can’t you understand that my cock is more powerful than your gun, and that if you had my cock, you’d be superman?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I feel tired anyway.” He held his head in his hands.

  “I’m talking about you, holding the hard metal of that gun in your hand instead of your cock. You’re a sad motherfucker. All you can do is kill me with that gun—make me a piece of dead hamburger; but with your cock, you can touch the universe. Make your miserable thing mean something. Your miserable life.” I looked up at him. He was studying the ground, as if the grass would answer him the way it talked to me. The gun dropped. He wasn’t shaking any more—he was crying. Sad little tears running down his clean face.

  I moved in on him, before he had a chance to think. My right hand went to his ass, and my left hand went to his cock. I started a movement that would have made a turtle come.

  This time his hips moved, instead of his arms.

  “Stop! You’ve got to stop!” Now he was stuttering. I increased the pressure, drawing his prick out of his trousers, trying to pull him off. But he backed away.

  “What’s the matter now?”

  “I could get fired. I could go to jail myself.”

  “So? What’s jail? A chance to get together with yourself, that’s all.” I said it as if I believed it, but I
didn’t want to go to jail. I kept up the action, exciting him until he came in my hand. When that happened, it blew his mind. He sank to the ground and began groveling in the dirt.

  “Take the gun and shoot me. I’m not worth saving,” he whimpered.

  Instead I got him on his feet, and threw the gun in the bushes, in case he changed his mind. I felt sorry for the big bastard. I was leading him out of the bushes when a prowl car pulled up and flashed a light on us. They had me. All the way downtown he kept squealing like a stuck pig. I kept my mouth shut, hating those mad gorillas with a passion that bordered on insanity.

  In the cop house, they led him upstairs to talk to the captain. Me they put in a little cage on the first floor, the cage for street monkeys. I expected them to start poking sticks through at me any minute, but they ignored me.

  They ignored me for six hours. My bladder got very full, and I was hungry. I wanted to start yelling, but I controlled myself, not wanting to give them any kind of satisfaction.

  As it turned out, I had very little to do with it. I knew they were ready to work on me the minute the two plainclothes cops walked up and began scowling at me.

  “We haven’t charged you with anything yet,” the first one said; the fat man (I knew it instinctively) in the sympathetic role. The thin man kept picking his nose and adjusting his shoulder holster.

  “We’ve been keeping an eye on you for a week. We know what you’ve been doing.”

  “You mean in the park?” I tried to be wide-eyed, a boy lost in the jungle.

  “Where else but in the park?”

  “But officer, I had nowhere else to sleep.”

  “You weren’t sleeping, you little queer.” I took offense.

  “I’ll catch your act another time,” is what I said to him.

  “He jests,” the thin man said to his partner, who was looking at me with his eyes.

  “C’mon, kid. You’re making my arches ache. I’m an old man and you are wasting everybody’s time. Tell us all about being a pervert freak so we can get a night’s sleep. I’m married, and my wife worries about me.”

  The thin man went away and came back with three or four cops from the desk. They looked at me as if I were a zoo animal in a cage.

  “Show it to us, boy. Show us that big thing of yours ... the one with the teeth marks on it.” I snarled at them, showing my teeth and letting spittle run down from the sides of my mouth. I started scratching my armpits with my hands. They laughed, and poked their nightsticks through the bars at me. One of them threw in a banana; I picked it up and ate it, taunting them with the simian manner I used in doing it. I made faces, pulling my mouth open and clicking my teeth at them. They laughed, and I went to even greater efforts to flaunt my newfound animality. Taking off my shoes, I started dancing a crazy step in the cell; when that didn’t make them roar enough, I took down my trousers and waved my ass at them. But it wasn’t until I turned around, with my traitorous cock half-hard, that they saw red, and shouted loudly.

  The door was unlocked and a lot of red, hairy hands grabbed at me, pulling me out into their arms. I was knocked down, and a big Irish foot came down on my chest.

  “Not here. The captain might be down,” one of them said. Mumbling about the best place to dispose of my miserable carcass.

  “Take him back to the park!” The brainstorm came, as I was afraid it would. “Take him back there, and we’ll have a little hunt.”

  So I was taken out to a police car and thrown in the back seat, with someone sitting on me. I tried to bite his ass, but I couldn’t. His holster smacked me on the nose every time the car lurched.

  In the park, they put me on the ground again, while they discussed the rules for the hunt. They were simple: I got to run, barefooted, up to a count of one hundred, and then they tried to get me any way they could.

  They gave me a kick to get me started, and then I ran like a jackrabbit into the park, heading for the thick vegetation. Behind me I heard scooters, cars, and even a horse revving up. Then they were off, and I was flying through the brush. Lights bounced off the trees and bushes in front of me; they were sounding their sirens and firing at random, apparently.

  I might have made it. It’s easy to beat those machines, if you’re used to the trees and bushes, if you feel like some kind of an animal, with your heart leaping out of your armpit; but the horse smelled me out and ran me down. I curled up in front of the cop, trying to protect myself. But he didn’t do anything. He just blew his whistle for the rest of them.

  They drove up as close as they could get and got out. I almost laughed: all those serious policemen, focusing their attention on me. My laugh became a high whine.

  Chapter Seven

  ___________________ A Piece of Meat

  When they got through stomping me, I wasn’t much more than a wet spot on the grass, making baby noises, like gurgle gurgle, unable even to crawl away into the shadows. They threw a blanket over me and left my body for dead, but they didn’t figure on the creatures of the park. I was out until dawn the next morning, when I felt a warm tongue on my face.

  It was a dog, a big one with a big tongue and fight scars all over his body. I think it was a mastiff, but I’m not sure. I just stared at him, waiting for him to have me for morning breakfast. But he just licked—the blood and filth had dried, but apparently he had cultivated a taste for the stuff. He spent over an hour at it, patiently licking, and then he disappeared. Half an hour later, a tom came slinking toward me, his eyes watching me carefully. When he left, I discovered a piece of raw meat, still bloody, a few inches away from my face. I watched the flies collect on it, and on my own nude body, until it made me mad, and I blew them away. I sawed a piece of the warm bloody stuff away with my teeth, and began chewing on it. You hear stories about raw meat, and I expected to have the usual reaction, but it didn’t happen; I enjoyed it, and managed to finish the piece in no time.

  Mouth bloody, I lay there in the sun for hours, watching the black flies close in, doing their own little dance before this new hunk of meat. The animals didn’t come around any more, and the air got warmer.

  Night came, my night, night in the dark park, and I decided to try to crawl back to Anne. I wasn’t sure what my reception would be—she’d probably want to lean on me and suck my blood, for the newness of it.

  It took me hours, scraping through the brush, to make it to the roadway that runs through the park. I managed to stand up, and waved a bloody hand at the cars coming at me. Tires screeched, drivers nearly killing themselves trying to get around me. I decided to pull the ultimate gambit when I saw a lone cab coming, with nothing in back of it. I threw myself in front of it, and dared it with my raw flesh not to stop.

  The cabbie was angry, but he was frightened, too.

  “You crazy piece of meat, get outta my road!” I hung onto his hood, wailing my little tale until he had to stop shitting around and put me inside. On the back seat, on plastic.

  I even got him to carry me upstairs, swearing all the time about the mess on his clothes. Anne gave him a hand job and got him out of there, with a wet front, in no time. Me she put on the kitchen floor. Linoleum. Wino came up to sniff me, and for the first time I felt a kinship with the little bastard. But I didn’t want his rough tongue on me, so I blew in his face, and he scatted.

  “What have you been getting yourself into? You look like a piece of hamburger the cat vomited up.” I hardly heard the words; I was listening to her tone, which was mingled sympathy and interest, carnal interest.

  “I’ve been gamboling in the woods.”

  “You mean freaking in the park. I’ve been hearing some stories about a vampire.” But she grinned that evil little whore-cannibal’s grin, so I relaxed. I dug it on the floor—a good thing, because I ended up staying on it all night. She had plans for me, it turned out.

  First she dressed the wounds with antiseptic and a few bandages, and bathed me. I lay back and enjoyed the attention. She was a most competent nurse, seemingly taking no enjoyme
nt from the minor pain she caused me.

  “You like this, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I don’t dislike it.” I didn’t want to commit myself. I wanted to see what would happen next.

  “How come you went off to the park like that?”

  “Did you worry about me?”

  She pinched my thigh. “Don’t be coy. I just want to know.”

  “Yeah, I like grass and trees.” That stopped her. I didn’t like what I said, though, so I erased it in my mind and said it again: “It’s the smell of the grass, and the dirt.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “I never denied it. Far from it.” I felt an urge to explode my tight mouth and start chattering like a monkey.

  “So we’re both crazy.” I looked at her, hoping for a trace of something I could respond to, but there was no expression on her face.

  “Wouldn’t it be lovely to think so?” I said. Paulette walked in with a trick just about that time.

  “How come he looks like that?” she asked Anne.

  “He got caught with his pants down in the park.”

  “He’s been a bad boy,” Paulette said.

  “Yes he has.” They both stared at me. It gave me a hard-on. The trick was a young kid, well-dressed, a little fat—rich fat. He hung back at the door (as a matter of fact, he had his hand on the doorknob), his eyes goggling out at me. Paulette took his hand and pulled him over. “He’d make a good sandwich, wouldn’t he?” she asked the dude. He got even more confused.