How To Rape A Straight Guy by Sullivan, Michel (phonics reader .TXT) 📗

when he was discovered by the firemen who answered the call about a trash can fire, it got to be even bigger.  ‘Cause now there was a mystery involved.

I kept tabs on it from Vegas.  Anything that happens in L-A is important to that town.  A lot was said about how he was in a “catatonic shock.”  An’ how he’d been “brutalized” an’ “treated viciously.”  An’ on an’ on, but not one word about him bein’ raped.  I don’t know if they didn’t find it out when he was examined by a doctor — oh, but they must have!  He was torn up pretty good; I noticed bloodstains on the Malibu’s seat an’ worked like a bitch to get ‘em off.  So maybe the cops were just keepin’ it quiet, till they found out who did it.  Whatever the reason, that little detail stayed out of the papers.

He “emerged from catatonia” a couple days after he was found, but his mind was blank as to what happened.  Experts yammered on an’ on ‘bout how he just didn’t want to remember.  That his mind was blockin’ something horrible.  The mystery of it all -- an’ the fact that he was good-lookin’ an’ had an adorable wife an’ three adorable kids -- made the city go nuts.  They sent him a thousand teddy bears an’ ten million flowers an’ started funds to help his kids through college.  An’ they lit candles an’ held anti-violence, an’ we-love-our-police marches an’ did everything they could to make him feel better.  An’ when he eventually wound up on disability ‘cause he wasn’t able to handle his duties as a cop, these same freaks paid off his mortgage an’ his cars an’ his credit cards an’ even the hospital bills not covered by the department.

What a weird fuckin’ world we live in.  I couldn’t get anyone, not even a fuckin’ priest, to help me when I got out of County.  Not one fuckin’ dime’s worth of encouragement.  But those same fuckers did back-flips over some cop who got hurt.  A homophobic prick who’d been an asshole to fags for years.  If I hadn’t been feelin’ so confused ‘bout my feelin’s over Shayes, I’d of gone back an’ ripped him a new one.

No.  No I wouldn’t of.  Not really.  Deep down, I was glad he’s gettin’ taken care of.

But I was confused.  I felt towards him like I never felt towards anybody, not even Connie.  It’s like this -- this hole was dug in behind my heart an’ was layin’ there empty an’ I couldn’t tell you why.  If it was ‘cause of what I’d done or ‘cause of my new title in life or ‘cause of all I’d lost.  Or if it was just ‘cause I missed the son-of-a-bitch.  Shit, that couldn’t be love, could it?  Could I really be a fag?  A homosexual.  A man who loved men?  I dunno.  I -- I still looked at women on TV like I’d like to fuck ‘em.  I still get the hots for this one dark-haired bitch on some comedy show I saw.  Even though she’s like ten years older’n me an’ I really go for blonds.  I even missed bein’ with Connie an’ wished I could find some way of gettin’ back to her, even though I know it’s impossible, now.  She’d never put up with this shit.  Never accept it.  That was over an’ done with, forever.  But even knowin’ how much I’d screwed that up, an’ run Connie out of my life doin’ it, I knew that hole wasn’t there ‘cause of it.  It was just...there.  An’ I was frozen.  I’d made it to Vegas, but now I was locked in my hotel room, unable to move or sleep or even think, I was so lost.  All I did was watch TV an’ live off Cokes an’ crackers.

As for Wayne an’ Lenny, they were found a couple days later.  Seems they owned this porno video store on Melrose -- y’know, they never did tell men how they made a livin’ -- an’ when they didn’t show up to get the night’s income two mornin’s in a row, their manager got worried an’ went over an’...well, talk about another big news item.  But no one seemed to connect them with Shayes.  Or me, even though now that I was thinkin’, again, I was kickin’ myself for leavin’ behind hundreds of fingerprints an’ my blood mingled with theirs an’ God only knew what else.

But none of it mattered, finally.  ‘Cause four days later, one paper quoted the cops as sayin’ there were still some other cameras in that shed.  Besides the three I knew about.  They were hidden in corners an’ really small but still took good pictures an’ got some good shots of everything that happened around that chain in the ceilin’.  An’ on that bed.  An’ that chair.  An’ that horse.  Everything.  Some of it in glorious close-up.  An’ that’s on top of a couple of full tapes out of those cameras.  Seems all I’d taken was their third load.  They mentioned it to show they had some leads.  But when I heard about that -- shit, I knew I was done.

Sure enough, my old mug shot from Mid-State flashed onto the news the next day.  “Wanted for questioning.”  “Person of interest.”  I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid.  I was stayin’ in this piece of shit motel on the east side of Vegas’ airport.  One of those cribs where there’re more bars on the windows than you find in prison.  Where you know the cops’ll stop by sooner or later an’ the clerk’ll turn you without even lookin’ up from his “Playboy.”

Everything got real clear, after that.  I left the motel room, bought some new clothes, then came back an’ showered an’ shaved.  Then I went over on the strip an’ had a decent meal at the Paris -- my first since before that