Creative Writing from
Fairleigh Dickinson University

Long Story

Rob Kolbasowski

"All right, I'm done.” He pulls out of me quickly and with a light sigh, rushing to the bathroom to dispose of the partially filled rubber.
      I just lie there, motionless, thinking. He will wash himself off, probably not the whole body but certainly those parts which have just seen action: the mouth, the ass, the crotch, and the hairy crevices in between. When he dries off with that rough economy motel towel and nervously crosses the doorway into the humid night, only then will I get up and clean myself off.
      He emerges from the tiny bathroom fully clothed, once again the respectable married businessman that he was before he began touching me in this barely clean room. His tie is draped around his neck in a loose knot, just like after a long day at work. He leaves a crumpled up wad of paper and money on the particleboard top of the bedside table -- I follow it with my eyes and nothing else. Most likely his name and number, in case “I ever want to hook up again.”
      Sure enough, he explains this to me just before closing the door and leaving my life forever. Now I will myself to move. My semen has almost completely dried on my stomach, and the cheap motel soap will barely get me clean enough to make the car ride back to my own bathroom. I know this without even having to look at that small clinical courtesy bar -- Motel 6, Econo Lodge, or any of their kind -- the soap is always the same. Never tough enough to scrub all the shit off of you.
      I rise, my skin rubbing against the harsh comforter in a scratchy whisper. This one didn't even take the comforter off before we started -- he must have really wanted me right then.
      The sweat and stink and scaly slime of our combined fluids and the cheap lubrication wash off of me slowly, swirling around in a pearly hair-ribbon as they descend into the depths of the shower drain. I dry off quickly with the remaining clean towel. The cheap ones always leave a rash around my ribcage area -- I'll have to put some cortisone on it when I get home. Home.
      I dress quickly and make sure I have recovered all of my personal effects. I barely remind myself to flush down the condom -- this guy forgot; maybe he was in a hurry to get home to his wife. To his children and his home-cooked meal. I grab the wad of money with his number. Counting out one hundred and twenty-five dollars, I smile at my twenty-five percent tip and toss his number in the wastebasket. I grab the motel keys and my car keys (always hidden in the second bureau drawer, under the Gideon edition of the Holy Bible) and make for the office. If I check out before eight o' clock I can save twenty bucks on the room.
      The Indian guy who works the evening shift has seen me before; I estimate by now at least a dozen times or so over the last three months. He never asks why I pay for a night in a single-occupancy room, only to come back an hour or so later with the key for a $20 partial refund. He doesn't care, only nods at me before counting out the money. He's wearing a white collared shirt with sweat-stains around the armpits -- pretty typical for this time of the season. His upper lip is kind of sweaty too -- his skin there is a glassy shade of bronze.
      “Here you go, boss,” he tells me. It's always the same remark -- a chilly, simple, “Here you go boss.” Whose boss am I exactly? I take the four crinkled fives -- and shove them into my right pocket. My money pocket; my keys and receipts usually rest in the left. I'd never find my keys if I didn't keep them in my right pocket.
      It makes me think of my bedroom when I was a senior in high school, running late on a cool October morning, searching for the keys to my car. Overturned laundry basket, clothes from the Gap spilled like cotton vomit from its Rubbermaid mouth, comforter lying in a twisted heap on the hardwood floor, total chaos as I rushed from corner to corner.
     I had been so upset then. Lost keys meant that I would be late to school; tardiness meant destroying a perfect attendance record. What would my teachers say? What would my mother say? I'd never been late before -- not me. Finally I checked the left-hand pocket of my jeans from the night before, and there they were.
     I jetted to school in my Aries that day, drove roughly eighty in a twenty-five -- the usual scenery went by so fast. I got stuck behind one of those damned grade-school buses and screamed around it on a stretch of pavement with a double yellow line. Even so, I managed to screech into the student parking lot and sprint into homeroom with exactly three and a half seconds to spare. Take that, lost keys.
     Ever since then, I've kept them in my left pocket so I would always be able to find them. In fact, the two times I have lost my keys since that day were the odd times when I was wearing pants or shorts without pockets. I don't wear those anymore, as a matter of principle.
      I release the memory from my mind's eye. I am in the middle of a shallow puddle right next to my dark red Dodge Aries, a fair distance from the amber glow and shiny Indian attendant in the office. It's well over ten years old, my car, and sunshine has been none too kind towards its square-framed paint job. In this twilight it's dark red; when I left it to get the room it was barely holding onto its hue, threatening to fade to a morbid pink in a few years. I should really get a new paint job from Maaco or something -- it only costs two hundred bucks, according to the advertisement. That's only two or three more meetings with my men, my growing group of one-night payoffs. I could have that within the week, certainly. If I wanted it.
      I turn on the defroster. Fog slowly loses its grip on my windshield, already scarred with the sea --salt spots from the Atlantic air. Living near the shore certainly has its benefits, but sometimes it's a real pain in the ass. I'll never get those spots out of the windshield, and the glare they refract from headlights at night can be distracting. I'm almost home.
      This could be tonight, or any night, any time. I have made this drive so many times I could probably achieve it with my eyes closed were it not for the traffic signals. The road curves delicately right after I cross over the bay, and the breeze always makes it bank a little to the right on the way down the bridge. This causeway is decrepit -- soon my prayers are going to be necessary to get all the way over it. It doesn't matter -- I don't plan on being around much longer. I am getting sick of the seashore. This isn't forever.
     

Seagulls. When will God finally get rid of those fucking things? They wake me up all the time, screeching just outside my bedroom window, always when I can sleep a bit more.
      I need to scratch the three itchiest places on my body. Short, clean cut dirty blonde hair, decently developed pecs and abs dusted with golden brown man hair, balls covered with trimmed golden fibers. I am the perfectly attractive young college boy -- all the men want me so bad. I smile. I give each area its share of scratching, rise out of my single bed and enter my hall.
     I have to pee; time for a bathroom stop. Pushing it out really hurts -- my ass muscles are sore. That businessman liked it really rough and was pretty well endowed, at least as big as three-quarters of the guys I have had.
     I need to eat. I'm always so hungry after I have a rough night, but eating before sleep causes weight gain. Undigested food collects on the ass and the stomach eventually.
     Mom switched the kitchen around again. She always does this to me, rearranges all the cabinets and food so I can take thirty minutes to find a cereal bowl and my Cocoa Pebbles. Great, the spoons and knives are where the dishrags used to be, and the chips and Doritos have kicked my Cocoa Pebbles out of their home. Where is my cereal? She can't handle being forty, so she keeps changing things so she feels fresh. I feel like an Alzheimer's head case. There's my cereal.
     I walk over to the living room desk and fire up the computer, crunching on Cocoa Pebbles. My mom and dad always yell at me for pressing the power button on the tower unit with my left big toe. I will never understand that -- the tower is on the ground, and it makes no sense to bend over and crack perfectly good vertebrae when I can just lift my leg and turn it on with my big toe. It builds good coordination.
     The monitor blinks to life and runs through its usual startup as I walk away. I toss my last swallow of milk and Cocoa Pebbles in the sink and set the bowl and spoon carefully on the sideboard.
     My email automatically opens as I sit down in the computer chair. My ass really hurts.
     Had it not been for Dave, I would never have wanted to be fucked by anyone. I met him through his online personal. It was simple and direct: “Youngish thirty-year-old seeking no-strings fun with college age boys.” He was so interested after I responded; he invited me over to his house the very next day, and ripped my clothing off two seconds after closing his front door behind me. He led me quickly into his dim and cozy bedroom, stripping down completely on the way.
     He lubricated and penetrated me after we lay in his bed. As I winced and felt tissues tear inside of me he whispered in my ear, “Take a deep breath and hold it, and let it go slow. The pleasure comes after the pain. Everyone hurts their first time.”
     My eyes teared silently up for a minute, and the torture of it all exploded upon me in waves of pain and flesh. As his natural rocking rhythm corresponded with the sensations I felt all over my body, the only thing I could do was groan and sink my freshly clipped fingernails into the bed sheets.
     He went on forever that day. When he finished I attempted to leave, but he held on to me and made me stay in his bed with him, spooning with him for the most degrading and agonizing hour of my life. Realizing that I definitely desired men and also acting upon that realization was enough -- having to lie with the other guy on top of all that was torture. I had no time to think. I had just lost my virginity. Dave told me I was special, that I was someone, that I was going to be someone.
     Bullshit. My life was over at that minute. What would my parents say if I ever told them? Would they think I was a weak-willed AIDS patient who didn't have the sense to realize that God hated homosexuals? Would they even want me around anymore? Pain was all I felt, all I could see or hear. It buzzed in my head and numbed my thoughts. It felt like I had been ripped inside out by someone who meant very little to me.
     The only pleasure came after he slipped me a hundred-dollar bill and said that every kid deserves a treat after his first time. That worked for me. The pain was at least worth something that could be measured. Get fucked; buy a Playstation or a car stereo. Not the most elegant or refined of mathematics, but a complete equation nonetheless.
     I left Dave's house as soon as he let me go. I would never to step into another man's house again -- if I met anyone else it would be at a neutral place and on my terms. Never less than a hundred dollars, either. I would never trap myself again. I can't recall vowing to forget every man's name after Dave, but I've held to that policy just as strongly. No names, no memories.
     There are seventeen new messages in my Yahoo Personals account. Eleven of them are men I have never met, all wanting badly to fuck a college boy in a hotel near the shore, as per my personal ad. I delete the other six without checking them. They are all ones I've met with over the past two weeks, each most likely asking for a repeat encounter. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. Delete. It's never going to happen, boys.
     The remainders seem pretty promising. Young professionals -- some married, some not, most in their thirties --all of them have attached their pictures with their responses. The first response's picture doesn't match the description -- this one is well over 35, maybe even 40 or 41. Ugly, too. Delete.
     Two, three and four are all reasonably attractive, receptive to my hundred-dollar fee, and willing to drive to a hotel nearby over the next week or so. I reply to them with the same message: “Sounds good. Give me a date and I will let you know where we can meet.”
     I check the other ones before making any decisions. They all seem normal and cute enough. They all say my picture in my personal ad turns them on.
     It's my graduation picture, the one where my mom says I look like an angel in my black satin robe with the white shirt and tie barely peeking out of the top. An angel. Innocence is in these days. These guys all like to think they are the first or one of the firsts to have me, to ruin me and waste me. The merciless hatred of a young attractive boy taken out in thrusts and climaxes. They leave and think they have taken me over. I wonder what they think when they realize I am never going to call or email them back.
     The very last email is a confirmation message -- some guy named Joe is going to meet me tonight at the Econo Lodge, in the parking lot. He will be sitting in a tan Chevy Cavalier. I have no idea what that car looks like. Tan will have to do. He looks really young. It doesn't matter -- young money spends the same as older money.
     I close out all the programs and shut the computer down. Time to get in the shower and work on getting out of here. Mom will be home soon from school, ready to tell an empty house about the horrible day she had. I must make myself scarce or she will take it out on me and not the cabinets or the linen closet. I decide to leave the bowl and spoon unwashed on the counter. She'll know I'm alive and eating.

"Are you nervous?” he slides closer to me on the bed, handing me the bottle again.
      I barely sip from the bottle. “Not at all. You?”
      “Nah, this is not my first time or anything.” Joe has blue eyes and they stare at me when he speaks.
      I start to say, “same here,” then I realize it's redundant. He knows my game. He is not defiling an angel; he is fucking a kid in his age range.
     Joe rises from the bed, crosses the room, and lowers the lights. “A little mood lighting. You in the mood yet?”
      I smile and begin undressing. He does the same. He climbs into bed with me and begins unwrapping and sliding on the condom I placed on the bedside table minutes before. I open my new bottle of Astroglide and begin spreading it on my ass. Joe squeezes some on the top of the condom. He is ready to go. He is ready to take me.
     I close my eyes and bite my upper lip. He enters me, pauses a minute for me to adjust, then moves in and out with increasing speed. Joe is just a year older than I am, old enough to buy that bottle of cheap wine now sitting on top of the television, and he has the energy to show for it.
      Joe is hot. Hotter than all the rest of the guys. I wonder what he's doing here, with me. The possibilities are endless and sexy. He seems to want more than just to ruin and overpower me. I reach upward, pull him down closer to my chest, and kiss him on the mouth. He slides his tongue gently in between my parted lips. I kiss him again. The first two true kisses of my life.
      Never before have I let a soul kiss me. Many tried. Most were men in their thirties -- they all wanted to plant one on the angel they were defiling. I wouldn't let them -- I'd either place an arm in the way and push back gently, or I'd turn my head so that wandering lips would meet my cheek only. It felt too much like kissing my father, and I never recall doing that (nor wanting to) in my life.
      Joe kisses me again. He seems different. I feel my stomach turn, but not in pain. It's jumpy and nervous. What am I doing? What is going on?
      My mind wanders as his lips leave mine. He sees this as a romantic thing -- he must. The wine, the lighting, the kissing . . . this kid is my age and somehow taking another kid for money is romantic. How intriguing. I am in control of this kid, I am his dream right now and that is all that matters. I own him.
      Joe speeds up and grunts as he nears climax. He locks lips with me again as he finishes. My stomach turns at the same time.
      He heads for shower. I lie silent and unmoving. Back to the usual routine. He leaves his number and the money on the table. As he reaches the door, he turns and encourages me to call him again.
     The door slams. I eye his telephone number. This one is my age, a good kisser, and a bit of a romantic to boot. I own knowledge of him that billions of people in this world will never know. I know how he fucks, what he likes, and what noises he makes when he is about to come. The possibilities are endless and sexy.
      I clean up and get dressed. It is after eight; I missed out on the twenty-dollar refund. I grab the money and number, sliding both into my right pocket. The paper makes my crotch look bulkier than usual, like I am perpetually excited.
     

Seagulls again. Always in the summer mornings. Everyone fantasizes about the beauty and relaxation of the seashore, but they never take into account the screeching of these feathered trash --eaters.
      After scratching myself, I look across my room at my dresser. My boxers are folded and arranged in two symmetrical, equal piles. The work of Mom. She is alive too.
      I don't know how she gets the bloodstains out of my underwear so well.
      After Dave fucked me and let me leave his house, I came home and realized that my boxer shorts were damp with congealing blood from my torn insides. I stripped them off and threw them in the bathroom hamper, but forgot to take care of them before Mom got to the wash the next day.
      She eventually mentioned that she saw blood in my undies, and asked if everything was all right. I told her everything was fine. She nodded her head, and never said another word about it. I have left her two or three pairs of boxers a week with reddish blotches since then. She knows not to ask -- if there was any problem with me, I would tell her. She knows that I am on top of things. She doesn't care that I have plenty of money, yet no discernible day job. A responsible college boy, getting great grades, on his way up in the world when the day is done -- that is all that matters to her. Not telling her anything was the best decision I ever made.
     I leave my clean underwear in my room. I will put my clothes away later. I have to pee and eat.
     There is a ticket to some kind of concert on the kitchen table, with a bright yellow Post-it note next to it. I walk over to inspect it, and find that it is a General Admission ticket to the Counting Crows concert, exactly one week from today, at the Atlantic City Convention Center. The note is in Dad's handwriting, a completely upper-case straight-lined script: “GOT A TICKET THROUGH A FRIEND -- ENJOY! I KNOW THEY ARE YOUR FAVORITE. HOW'S THE PAPER COMING ALONG?”
     He expects me to have my summer research thesis finished in a week. He finds the most innovative ways of letting me know his expectations. He'll want to proofread it before I send it in to my professor.
     Dad has always checked up on my studies. I only disappointed him once, when I was a junior in high school. I brought home a mid-semester progress report with a C in Trig. I was capable of more and he knew it. He told me he didn't care what I had to do -- I just had to have an A before the end of the semester. He meant it.
     I spent the next six weeks in isolation, studying theorems and postulates as much as humanly possible. I filled two five-subject notebooks with scrawled pencil math problems. Dad allowed me to stay up as late as I wanted, as long as I was working on improving that C. Mom fought with him about my staying up until two or three in the morning. He convinced her that I was fine with a little less sleep as long as it was for such a good cause.
     After I aced the Trig midterm and brought home that A, he hugged me and produced a ticket to the Counting Crows concert at the Atlantic City Convention Center. He knew that I would do it. He even drove me to and from the show. It was the best night of my life. All that work was worth something.
     Now Counting Crows are on tour again, and Dad knows I have writers' block. He has most likely checked my file on the computer, and it is only three pages long. I have a long way to go. It's time to work on my thesis. I start the computer with my big toe and sit down at the desk. I won't be going anywhere today.

"You didn't have to buy wine again.” I take another sip from the coated paper cup, swiped from the gray plastic courtesy tray on the bureau.
      “But I did. So deal with it.” Joe smiles at me as he finishes his cup in one chug. He reaches for the bottle again. His fingers brush against the deep green bottle and it falls to the floor. He curses as he bends over to snatch the wine bottle from almost a total loss. There's still a few cups left in it. I quickly drain the last of mine in a few gulps.
      “Here, fill me up again.” Joe laughs. I realize what I just said. I'm getting tipsy. He winks at me, pours the wine. “We'll get to that.”
      I am not sure what to say, or where to go with all of this. I can't remember ever waiting over thirty minutes to have sex with a man I have met. All I can think of doing is lying back, spreading my legs and waiting for him to join me. I resist the instinct for the moment. I am not on the clock tonight. I sip the wine.
      I reach for the remote to turn on the television. Joe grabs my hand. His touch is softer than it was last night.
      “Let's leave the TV off for now. I see enough of that at home.”
      I feel sweat form and drip silently from my underarm hairs. Does Joe want to talk to me, or have me, or both, or neither? Why am I even worrying about something like that?
      No, Joe is exactly like all the rest. He wants me. That is all that matters. I cradle my left hand around the nape of his neck and pull his lips to mine. The wine taste is dry and almost smoky. This is what I am here for.
      Joe pulls back. His eyes are almost blank to me, not at all the warm windows to the soul that I expect. His pupils are dilating. The wine is hitting him a little now.
      “Do you kiss every guy?” He seems only slightly serious, like he wants to know but only if the answer is no.
      “No.” Are my pupils dilating too? The wine has definitely warmed me. Joe's eyes are still blank. I want to dive into those eyes and make him see that I think he's different than all the rest, that just maybe I don't want him as just another hundred dollars. “Do you believe me?”
      “Does it matter?” Joe leans forward. He stops short of kissing me again.
      “Yes.” Now I have to give him some help. “I wouldn't have kissed you if I didn't like you.”
      “Is that right? Well how many guys have you 'liked?'” His words are invasive, like a scalpel aimed at the part of my brain that holds truth.
      “Just you. You are the first person I have ever really kissed.” There I said it. He knows more about my life and my feelings now than anyone else. More than a mother who doesn't care enough to question my actions or a father who wants me as a trophy upon his paternal mantle. Fucking someone with a name, Joe specifically, doesn't seem as painful or dangerous as before.
      Joe's eyes crystallize into two chips of hardened ice. “That's really sweet. I'm a whore's first kiss.” He pauses. His eyes melt just a fraction of a degree. “Do you run this line with everyone you fuck?”
      “No, it's not like that. I like you. You seem like a nice guy, and you are my age and cute and –” I stop. I just now realize what Joe said to me. It stings.
      “Look, whatever man. You don't need to say this stuff to me. I had fun last night, and I am going to have fun with you tonight, and you can cut out the Fatal Attraction angle.”
      Joe leans farther forward and kisses me aggressively. I kiss him back even harder. The sting of his words fades a little. I grab the back of his head and continue kissing him. No more words can come out of his mouth, and I can forget those he has already said. Rejection is a bitch.
      Joe fumbles around for his condom and the lube. I barely have time to strip down before he is on top of me. This feels cold. Much colder than last night, when Joe seemed a romantic. He is like all the others; he is just younger. I almost liked him, and he is no more than the rest. My disappointment is stretching my patience like a piece of warm taffy. I want this to be over. I want it all to be over.
      I moan. I have never moaned like this before. I am not thinking about the waves of pain and flesh and man and hurt that have invaded me for nearly a year now. I am thinking about my Mom and my Dad and my pinkish car and seagulls, about college in the fall. About everything that is not sex, and not being gay, and not being a whore. The summer is almost over.
      Joe moves faster and harder. Faster and harder. Faster and harder. He is matching my moaning with his effort at ruining me, like Dave and every other man who has had me. I close my eyes.
      In my mind I remove myself from my body, and look down at me and Joe from the top of this Econo Lodge room. I see Joe's bare ass thrusting, his back muscles twisting, his head bobbing up and down in extreme exertion every few seconds. I see myself. A young man with his eyes closed and his two front teeth clamped over his bottom lip.
      I feel a gentle trickle of blood from biting my lip. I am back inside myself. The pain is cleansing me. Making me forget everything that happened before.
      Joe finishes after much flailing and moaning. As he pulls out, I quickly rise and pace over to the dingy bathroom. I turn on the shower-head and hop into the grimy tub. The water warms quickly and feels slimy. No matter. I quickly scrub down, washing my sweat and fluids down the drain. I turn off the water and reach for the towel.
      He steps into the shower as I dry off. He pulls the vinyl curtain behind him without even looking at me. I pause to stare for a second at his blurry form behind the semi-opaque curtain. The hurt I felt from his words has subsided. I want to step into the shower with him and show him what he has turned away. I let my towel drop to the off --white tiling. I take a step towards the hiss of the water steaming heavily from behind the vinyl.
      No. He is just like all the rest. That is all. I turn and walk towards my clothes, naked and nowhere near clean. I dress silently, check for my keys in my pocket and exit the room before he has a chance to even finish in the shower.
     

I walk down the stairs from the hotel room. I head for the amber glow of my Indian friend's office; just as I cross the threshold I realize that I did not have the key because I did not pay for the room. He looks up from his desk, upper lip as glossy as ever from the summer heat.
      “Can I help you, Boss?” He recognizes me, but knows I have not paid for a room earlier.
      “No,” I mumble as I shuffle out of the office and towards my car, parked in the usual spot. How embarrassing. I need to get a hold of myself. I need to get out of here and to my room. I need my routine.
      I start my car and speed out of the lot. This feels better. I sigh as I click on my left-hand blinker, swerving towards the causeway. I turn on the radio. It crackles with some song I don't recognize.
     Why do I desire men? They are all the same. Even those that appear promising are all the same in the end. They never make anything more than a rough first impression.
     There's not much to me, is there? I am what I let into my world, and that is not a whole lot.
     A tear leaks from my right eye. I don't want this. Who wants to be a whore? I'm not even a legitimate whore; I'm just some punk kid who makes a few bucks for giving himself away.