(First Edition Posted May, 2007)

Walk in Lies

Dashboard Lights

1968 Ford Fairlane fastback: two doors, a wide front bench, four round portholes on the dash like some spaceship. The chrome four on the floor intrudes when Mica slides close for his first kiss. Carpet on the doors, everything crimson vinyl to welcome Mica. “I’m Michael. You’re going to call me Mitch.”

“I’m dating the quarterback.” Mica laughs.

“Don’t laugh.” The Trick’s is not angry, but Mica shuts up instantly. “The jacket still fits. I’m pretty proud of that. I’m lying really. It stopped fitting when I went to university. About five years ago, about when I got this car after my breakup, I dropped fifty pounds. Now I can wear it again. Number seven, see.” The Trick’s points to his number on the leather sleeve. “Kinda silly, an old man like me in a high school jacket.”

“No Michael”

“Call me Mitch”

“No Mitch,” Mica smiles at the bald man. “It’s cool you lost the weight. Heck, if I could play on the football team, I’d be proud to wear a varsity jacket. Your car is very cool, Mitch.”

He can call Seven Mitch if that is what the Trick wants. Mica is the hooker, the football hero gets to have his Whore-slut do-say whatever he wants. Seven turns the heavy V-8 over slips the Fairlane in gear. A gesture from the man prompts Mica to slide across the bench. Seven pushes Mica’s shoulder playfully.

“Just stick to your side of the bench. We are going cruising.”

They do. Seven takes the cherry Fairlane to the main drag. There are lots of main drags in a city this size. It takes a while to get to this one, so Mica guesses it must be high school special in Seven’s mind. They are in no rush. The Trick coasts below the speed limit in and out of traffic. MIca is so endogenous blonde beauty that a passing glance would only pause to note the age difference. Seven keeps his hands to himself.

“My hometown was so small.” Seven begins.

“I figured this was your hometown.” Mica replies.

“No, Angel, it’s a joke.”

“Oh,” Mica starts noticing the other pimped antiques on the road. He points to one out to Seven.

“Yeah, American Graffiti,” This goes over Post-Millennial Mica’s iGen head. “Can’t give you the ball on my stick shift, sorry. So, my hometown was so small.” Seven prompts Mica to reply.

“How small was it?”

“It was so small, the main drag was a transvestite.” Seven laughs freely at his own joke. “Point out some hot chicks for me, Teen Angel. Show me what turns you on.”

“Guys turn me on. Men like you turn me on.” Mica lets his hand rest on the Trick’s groin as they continue to cruise along the street. Seven slouches ever so slightly. “Should I?” Whore-slut asks.

“Don’t touch, Not now, later.” Seven replies. “Just cock-tease, make me promises with your eyes and tell me about the girls. Tell me about a boy in school you admire, but not like you plan to fuck him.”

They drive past sunset. Seven stops for gas and chats up some Boomer in a Toyota Hybrid who likes the look of the Fairlane. Mica checks out the huge-cartridge Eight-Track collection. This to USB/SD cards, crazy, Mica thinks to himself. They drive in the city lights. Dashboard lights and the street glow illuminate their faces when they exchange glances.

Without comment, Seven pulls into an A&W drive through. The Trick does not ask his hooker what he wants. “Whistle Dog, French flies and a root beer. Make it two fries, two drinks, Mama burger. That’s it.”

They pull into a parking spot. Seven seems depressed for the first time. He takes a small bite of the burger, then waves about the parking lot. “Summer time, hell, winter time, we used to come here to the Drive In. None of this drive-through crap. Eat your Whistle Dog, Angel. You loved Whistle Dogs. Someone came to your window. Took the order, and put the tray on the door. Better times, Angel, better times.”

Whore-slut’s rule, don’t eat too much. The onion on the hot dog is going to wreck Mica’s sweet breath. “Lots of onions here,” he warns apologetically.

“Not a problem, Angel face. Look in the glove compartment.”

Mica finds a Mickey of rum along with a revolver and a scattering of condoms. “Top up our drinks, Angel, right to the top.”

Mica washes down the last of the fast food with his spiked root beer. The sudden buzz makes him bold and an A&W parking lot seems like a good place to ask the Trick about the gun. “Are we going to rob a liquor store?” This seems safer than right out asking if he is in a snuff film tonight.

“Don’t let it worry you.” Seven hands the whore his car keys. “Just lock it up.” Mica relaxes after that. “Ditch the trash for me, I want to show you a spot.”

“It’s not the same.” Seven complains as they pull out of the A&W.” Mica does not comment. Seven has him on a memory-journey like the Man. In some way, everything unfolds like an important ritual. Mica wonders if he is remotely like the boy this old man is remembering. Perhaps the business card advertisement picture drew the Trick to him.

Seven jacks a cartridge into the Eight-Track. Old man pop music fills the silence. As they drive, the gun-black mood dissipates. Seven talks about high school, never asking Mica any questions.

They end up off some backroad on the edge of the city and end up parked next to a broad pond. The still surface of the water is camo with dull scum-patches and reflected starlight. They are still too close to the city to see the sky glow through the rear window. Their faces are shadowed as they sit close to their respective doors.

“Yeah, so I raped him here, Angel.”

This sends a shiver through Bitch-boy. Teenage rough and tumble suite Mica fine. Edan’s competitive wrestling to a bruising pin, very hot, but date rape is just Cain pounding flesh in the Sykes’ basement.

“Used that gun in the glove compartment. It wasn’t loaded, isn’t now.” Seven looks over at Mica. The Trick’s fists look like he could twist the steering wheel into a pretzel, or maybe break a Whore-slut’s face. “It wasn’t planned, it just happened.” Seven adds quickly.

Mica has his fingers on the chrome door handle. Bitch-boy is going to run. Then pushed-tumbled down to the basement with Cain, Mica reminds himself. He wants the Trick to say he never killed the boy. I am who I am, Bitch-boy’s fingers flutter to his lap.

“Yeah, I brought him here. It was farther out back then. I thought,” Seven twists his fingers on the wheel. “I thought he knew, shared my feelings. Easy times, Angel, easy times for you these days. I was the quarterback, he was a rookie. I thought we got each other.” Seven laughs like it was all a joke. “Fucking homo, he called me.”

The Trick turns on Mica so fast, the whore only has a breath to shrink away. Seven grabs him by the shirt and slams Mica’s head into the closed window. “Don’t say that, I said.” Seven’s face is up against his. “Called me a faggot; I had to kiss him, bit my lip. My Angel bit my lip.” Seven cuffs Mica ever so lightly across the face. He stretches the hand over his arm and pantomimes opening the glove compartment. His hand is a gun when it comes back to Mica’s face.

Seven’s two finger barrel fits between Mica’s lips and touches his pallet. “That shut him up.” The Trick lets the Whore-slut go and sits back, the finger gun remains pointed at Bitch-boy’s heart. Mica rests against the door, the handle forgotten. “Whose the faggot?” Seven whispers to himself.

“Then what happened?” Mica asks.

“I told him to take his pants off.”

Mica rucks his tight hoe-pants down over his hips and pulls the tight white T-shirt over his head. It all ends up on the carpet. Bitch-boy gets it now. The light cuff across his face, the fist-gun, Bitch-boy’s prick is hard for Seven. Bitch-boy is with Filth and Mica has something nasty to share.

Seven is staring at Mica’s boner and the way it stands proud against the hard-pan of Mica’s stomach. “Told my Angel to turn around, put his hands on the window.”

Mica swings around, presenting his anus, rectum-ready for the Trick. “Like this?” Bitch-boy’s prick is throbbing for the penetration. “Was Angel ready like this? You going to take me, fag boy? Is the quarterback going to put his hands between the rookie’s thighs? Gonna grab the balls?”

“Yeah, he called me queer. Yeah, I took him. I … I was nervous maybe, really hard, couldn’t cum like I wanted to. He made me so angry! Tight in here, but I just kept fucking him till he came all over the seat. Kept fucking him till he was sobbing.”

Mica swings back onto the passenger side of Fairlane. Bitch-boy’s prick still throbs. Seven puts the fist-gun to his head. “Kept the gun on him the whole time, right here, beside his temple.”

Mica reaches over to the steering column and snags the keys. Once the gun is in his hand, he checks the empty chambers. Bitch-boy runs the barrel up and down his jumpy prick. Tips touch and a glistening thread spins out between them. Oh fuck, I need to cum, Mica tells himself.

Whore-slut cocks the weapon, “I’m a queer. I’m a faggot.” Shit! I’m so fucking hard! “Who’s the homo, Mitch?” The old Trick is slightly confused. Seven hesitates. “Who’s the homo, Mitch?”

“You are, Angel, you’re the fucking faggot.” Seven finally answers.

“Yeah Mitch.” Bitch-boy leans forward so the barrel rests against Seven’s forehead. “So now, I’m going to open the door here and you are going to follow me out this way.” They move slowly, the gun barrel always touching the Trick’s forehead. “What am I Mitch?”

“You’re queer.”

“Damn straight.” That’s funny, even a giggle is not going to drop Whore-slut’s boner at this point. “Strip, varsity jacket to me.” Seven strips and Mica slips the football jacket on. The gun goes back to Seven’s forehead. “Clean my cock, Mitch.”

The old Boomer drops and begins sucking the precum off of Mica’s prick. Mica lets the gun caress Seven’s cheek. Maybe the old man has not tried this since he raped the high school boy. Finn does it better. “I need a condom, Mitch. Can’t fuck the quarterback without protection. Put it on me, Mitch.” Seven rolls the condom over Mica’s prick. The man is as hard as the Whore-slut. ”You take your blue pill? You gonna stay hard for me? I need you hard number Seven.”

The gun directs the Trick over to the bench. Mica lets the lubricated condom ease his boner into the man’s passage. There is no fuss. Bitch-boy figures this old anus has relaxed enough in its time. The Whore-slut tops Mitch hard. Left hand holds the gun to the Trick’s forehead, right fist starts jerking on the old man’s hard prick. Car sex, not so new for the teenage slut. Summer, bug-bitten sex by a pond.

“Ahh, ahh, ung,” Seven announces his orgasm. Seven’s seminal fluid marks the spot where he raped his dream boy. Bitch-boy orgasms next in the Trick’s rectum. He pulls out right away and drops the unloaded gun to the floor of the car.

Seven has a smoke by the water. Bitch-boy pretends to smoke his own cancer stick just to be companionable and maybe because the smoke will keep the bugs off his bare skin. Seven has his Letterman jacket back, otherwise they are companionably naked in the distant glow of the city.

“What’s an A-Track?”

“Dumb little shit, it’s an 8-Track.” Seven replies.

“A track is a song, right? That game cartridge only holds eight songs? A phone can hold gazillions. Hell, Mitch, I’d just use a cloud service.” If I could have a decent phone like Edan, Mica adds to himself.

“I’m not going to try to explain it to a child.” The Trick sighs.

“What are we listening to?”

“The Eagles” Seven does not even care if the young whore knows who the Eagles are. “Hotel California, nevermind.” Seven takes another drag on his cigarette.

“You must have wondered how it would have gone if this guy had not fingered you as a faggot.” Mica prods. The bugs are vampiring his essence when it should be the Trick sucking his prick, or taking him home. “Your queer, I’m queer. I’m a slutty whore who needs to be fucked over. It works out pretty well that way.”

“Well, I wasn’t planning to use the gun with Stephen.”

“Yeah, I figured that.” Mica laughs. “Come here,” Mica drops to his knees and latches onto the Trick’s slack prick when he steps close. Mica pulls off to add, “Your date, Mitch. Angel’s here to take you to paradise. This is a hard reset, right now.” The Trick’s prick is waiting and Mica is Angel or Whore-slut. Gonna be what I will be! The bugs and dry grass tickling his crotch, and the shit-decay odour of the living pond remind Bitch-boy he is an animal in the wild.

Mica doesn’t let the old man toss his spunk. He just prods the blue pill to wake up Seven’s prick. Bitch-boy loves the kneeling and the texture-taste of turgid prick swelling toward his tonsils. His lungs suck the blood back into each man. The Trick’s palm is calloused against his soft cheek.

The Trick leads Mica back to the Fairlane. “Back seat,” Seven instructs. Mica slides onto the bench. The Eagles, or whatever spins these old men back to Seventeen, stops with a loud mechanical ejection. Seven grabs a fresh condom and the pistol gets forgotten in the glove compartment again. When Seven rolls over the front seat like an eager young stud. “Give us a kiss, Angel.”

It’s not sweet sixteen. The lips connect in a bruising crush that sparks Mica’s adolescent lust. Hair is to be tugged and whiskers were made to rug burn soft cheeks. Varsity jackets are a nuisance. Seven’s coat ends up somewhere on the floor with Mica’s clothes. Bitch-boy bites a hairy chest and snaps at a nipple before letting the man chase his tongue.

They are measuring dicks. Mica straddles Seven’s thighs. One palm fists the paired pricks, making sure his adolescent lubricant finds its way onto the Trick’s prick. The other palm slides around Seven’s bald pate. The Trick has his fingers sunk into plump ass cheeks. “Angel,” Mica wants the man’s prick up his rectum now. “Angel!”

“What?”

“Shove that 8-Track in. I want the music.” Mica twists out of Seven’s lap and leans across the backrest. The Trick starts grazing on an ass cheek and fondling his scrotum through his thighs. “So much of us are legs. Have you ever thought about that, Angel? This gorgeous ass of yours keeps it all together.” Mica is no scientist, but he knows the center of his gravity lies somewhere between the tip of his glans and the tender anus Seven is licking. Mica slams the heavy cartridge into the 8-Track player.

There is a moment of silence in the car. The Whore-slut’s sphincter still grips Seven in a steady beat reminiscent of a milking machine. They are both pond-damp and stinky. Bitch-boy licks his lips and blinks up at Seven from behind a tangled veil of lank blonde hair. Seven drove out here for this. He dropped so much weight and hit the gym just for this one night with an underage boy who could spin him back to that lost, never forgotten summer night.

Then a new track starts playing. It is a slow regretful cadence. Bitch-boy rests there on the Fairlane bench, keep his knees flung up against his sweating pits so the latex sleeve remains in his rectum. The Trick jiggles his hard prick gently in Mica’s rectum. Orgasm redux experimentations. 

Their second coupling was too brief. The Trick barely punished Mica. Seven has aged into a body that is much like Mica’s spare adolescent frame. He is sexy with a sexy car. Alea has her two-whore stable to distribute, Bitch-boy has his mental client list of preferences. The Man, of course. Edan, his demanding-commanding boyfriend, always. There are others welcome to his body. Bitch-boy wants the unappealing Lout to rebook. There is a strange chemistry between them. Bitch-boy kneels to the cold calculation slapped across his face. Seven, maybe, maybe Bitch-boy needs Seven.

They shared the last of the Mickey by the side of Seven’s 1968 Ford Fairlane. The Trick does most of the drinking. The memory of the Deacon’s bourbon on an empty stomach still nauseates the whore. The date feels done. The Trick’s memory tape has run out. Seven put his jeans on, but his chest is bare beneath the varsity jacket. Bitch-boy is naked to the bugs. Bitch-boy is naked to the possibilities of the night.

Mica puts the bottle to his lips and wets his tongue. Alcohol is for adult tricks, not underage whores, just Bitch-boy’s personal opinion, personal experience. Maybe Seven on Bitch-boy’s summer dance card. Finn and Mica are starting to lead the steps with the Man. He deflected Seven from his rape-redux, recognized something else the Trick wanted. The guitar wants to vibrate, not stare at a scummy pond in the dark.

He is the Whore-slut draining the last liquide fire on the marsh grass. “Oops! I spilled your drink.” Mica turns on Seven naked and cocky. “Are we done here?” He asks the trick. A suggestive glance down at Seven’s covered crotch. “Yeah, we’re done here.”

“You looking to get in my face, Angel?”

My dad would never call me Angel, Mitch. I’m no Angel; Fallen Angel, you should know that, Mitch.” Mica wags his prick at the Trick. “I’m the great dragon hurled down to earth.” Mica points to the fermenting pool as if to say, That’s where I landed.

Seven smiles at Mica’s posturing. “Lucifer, are you?” Fifteen is just a kid, but the young hooker is man-child too. “Someone whipped your ass, Lucifer.” The boy’s a whore. Mitch forgot that in the back seat. “You need that to keep you in your place?” Mitch has the smile still, man-child indeed.

Bitch-boy steps up to the Trick, stoking the fire, tempting the unknown potential of this middle aged man. Take a few steps down into the basement, never knowing what I’ll find at the bottom. Whore-slut shivers in the growing heat. “What’s it going to be boy? I put a gun to your head. I stole your jacket.” Mica fingers the old leather and Felt. Seven brushes the fingers away. When Mica tries again, Seven slaps the cheek turned his way in invitation. “Harder,” Bitch-boy taunts him. He does not need a Service Top. Bitch-boy needs a Top who knows he is filth.

“Ah Lucifer-Angel,” Seven smiles indulgently at the boy. “Never my thing.”

“Go on,” Bitch-boy urges. The next slap has more determination. Mica is tugging at the Trick’s waistband, massaging the healthy prick with the palm of his hand. “You brought me out to rape my pussy, faggot. I fucked your ass.” That is worth a hard kiss that works its way into Mica’s mouth. Mica goes passive, hoping Seven will take charge now.

A fist grips the pony tail and pulls Mica to his knees. “Suck cock,” so Bitch-boy gratefully does. The car door opens and Seven uses the ponytail like a leash to force Mica to the front bench. Bitch-boy lies open, one foot stepping in, the other planted on the turf like he is ready for a race. Seven pops the glove compartment and there is a fumble while a condom comes into play. The gun comes out.

The Trick traces a line with the muzzle from Mica’s chin, along his back to his open anus. The revolver slides into him until the trigger guard presses into his purenium. “You ready to shoot up, Angel?” A hand massages his scrotum, touches Bitch-boy’s hard prick readiness. The gun comes out, music begins to play.

This is the hard fuck Bitch-boy needs. Long strokes that slide out of his anus. Puckered lips drawn away from his rectum, sphincter muscles trying to put the breaks on like the top of his shoe slowing a BMX for the turn. Then the hard thrust back home, right across the plate. Bitch-boy has to grunt each time like the Trick nailed him in the solar plexus. Seven makes him ejaculate on the spot where the Trick stained his mint Fairlane. This helps to take the edge off.

“You hungry?” The Trick asks as they drive back to the heart of the city.

“Nope,” Mica answers. Neighbourhoods pass them by. Streetlights flicker across his face. “I’m good.” He adds softly. Mica slumps in the passenger seat like a pouty child.

MItch is middle-age content with the date. The young whore was everything and more for him. Too young to fuck regularly, way too chancy, but the not so little demon has exorcised some nightmares. Mitch won’t ask for a report card. The whore will say anything he needs to hear. “You’re good,” He tells the teenager.

“Thanks,”

Just that, no smile or jaded sneer. Mitch takes an unexpected turn. “Still early,” he tosses toward the slumped boy. “Suck on my cock while I make a call.”

“Not supposed to talk and drive, Mitch.”

Seven pulls over. He makes a call while Bitch-boy buries his face between the wheel and Seven’s stomach. Mica ignores the brief exchange. The Trick is not hard, it does not matter. A prick is in his mouth and someone is taking care of him. “Don’t want to disappoint you, Angel. You treated me well tonight. This is for you, Angel face. My treat, because you were so good to me.”

Sketch sort of town, much like where Mica Laar will end up when his parents finally get tired of his random disappearance and offensive sinning. Very flop with some sketchy friends in a rusty-water ghetto end. “You can thank me after,” Seven explains, pulling the slut off of his hard prick.

A man-off-the-street sort comes to the door of the 1968 Ford Fairlane. Maybe late teens, early twenties. “Hey Mitch, good to see you.”

“Get in the back seat,” Seven orders. The young man glances at Mica, then waits till Mica slides closer to Seven and pushes the seat forward. He settles into the middle, on the hump. “Michael, this is Lucifer.”

“Lucifer?” Michael stares at the blonde boy eyeing him. “You look like jail bait to me. This his first time getting his cock sucked, Mitch?” Michael rests his arms on the front seat so he can inspect Mica’s slim figure.

“Jesus Christ, your breath is bad. So, did you play football with Mitch in high school? Graduated together, right?” Mica is all innocence. Michael narrows his eyes at the boy. “Anyone tell you your face is sort of like a ferret’s?” Mica is looking puzzled, like Michael is a disappointing piece of flesh.

“You can hit him if you want.” Seven offers. They are back on the road, driving here and there through the city night.

“Oh, it’s like that.” Michael understands. His hand flicks out and Mica is backhanded into the passenger door.

The knuckles caught Bitch-boy’s nose and a small trickle broke free. “You washed, right?” Michael reaches over the seat and grabs Mica’s white T-Shirt. He starts to pull Mica over into the back seat. Seven jams on the breaks. With Mica half over, Seven yanks the pants off of his waist. “You’re strong for an old guy, Mike.”

“Shut up!” Michael threatens.

“Some zits you forgot to pop. If you have a Kleenex …” Slap! “Okay, no Kleenex, just your shirt.” Slap! Seven smiles. He slips a hundred dollar tip into the Whore-slut’s pants pocket, then he eases his foot off the break.

“Oh man, this is going to be disappointing.” Slap!

“Mitch, you promised me a man. You got to turn around and lose this peckerwood.” Slap! “Love you too, Michelle.” Slap! Then there is the sound of fabric ripping across Bitch-boy’s chest. While Michael pulls his own shirt over his head impatiently, MIca punches him hard in the tight abs. He grins at the young hooker. “Like Jello!” Mica’s T-Shirt is ripped from neck to hip. He leans back so his throbbing prick is open for his partner. “Deep throat me, Michelle, I know you want my meat.” Michael fists the remains of his shirt and pulls Mica up to his hand, Slap! 

“Sorry man, I was wrong. You didn’t graduate with Mitch. Little dude, I don’t do children, not a chicken hawk, sorry.” Slap! “Does it get hard? Can you get it up?” Slap! 

The young hooker is sort of hot, very fit. Michael’s face is not much to look at. Neither is Finn’s. He is still tearing at Mica’s shredded T-Shirt, twisting it in ways that build sensation. Bitch-boy knows the young man wants him. He is boned and the young man’s scrotum wants his balls under strict control. Mica won’t touch the beautiful prick. He won’t trace the hard-body torso of the hooker. Bitch-boy wants this one bareback. Michael is his Edan with an attitude. Michael is barely in control. Bitch-boy likes it.

“You do know what you’re doing? I can walk you through it. Mitch, is he a virgin?” Slap! Bitch-boy can taste the iron on his lips. Michael wants to kiss him. Mica turns his face away and the young man’s lips end on a stretched neck. “Michelle, you’re tickling me.” The “me” stretches out because Michael has decided to squeeze his scrotum.

Michael shoves Mica around so he is facing the window. The city cruises by while Mica’s fingers claw at the cladding. “Good idea, Mike. Now I don’t have to see your ugly face.” His forehead is slammed into the glass and then the back of his T-Shirt is ripped away.

“You like it hard?” Michael growls.

“You’re hard?” Bitch-boy counters, and his face is mashed into the glass. His anus is ready for the hooker, and needs the brutal invasion this young man can provide. “Argh,” Michael twists an erect nipple. Next, a thick shaft. Penetrates his ring and swells his rectum. Bitch-boy erupts across the back seat in three full jets. This is the Deacon’s length. Seven has been generous to the Whore-slut. “Oh fuck!” Mica whispers gratefully into the window pane. “Awe, come on man! You’re gonna just finger me?” He turns his face into the fist that lightly punches his nose so fresh blood will flow.

“Gosh! Does this kid ever shut up?” Michael asks in exasperation. He drags Mica’s hips further toward the center. Fucking hot, this kid, fucking tight.

Mitch just laughs. Angel has Mitch’s prick hard with all the backseat action. He strokes himself slightly. It is worth just edging himself along until Angel-Lucifer can thank him for the backseat fuck. Mitch stops at a red light and jacks a fresh 8-Track into his machine. He has a moment, so he turns around to watch the two boys. The Eagles start to play.