Dirty Hippy's boyfriend called; without asking for my approval, she said yes and her mother whisked us away to a Rite Aid on the other side of town. It was cold and dark and the unnatural buzzing fluorescence of the 24-hour store made me blink my eyes and rub my temples. We weren't far from my house - a five minute drive, at most - but I felt stranded, lost on some dark, paved island millions of miles from where I was comfortable.
The boyfriend appeared, his bumbling, ugly, lion-haired best friend in tow. Greasy-haired upper-middle class scum with a tan, mousy face. He hadn't hit puberty and his voice was anathema to me; I was more of a man than he was. I loved Dirty Hippy more than him - more than he ever would. But she had him, and I'd do anything - anything - to convince myself I didn't want her.
When the 21-year-old Army asshole welcomed me into his apartment and offered me booze, I drank. It was dark and sparsely decorated, with sandalwood incense burning in all of the corners. It was rank; it permeated and everything smelled like her. It drove me crazy. And I drank. Until all of the shadows and people and noise - that fucking Rage Against the Machine bullshit meddle of guitars and spoiled suburban punk-manifesto rap - blurred together into an uncomfortable, unfamiliar haze. I felt like I was wrapped in wool; nothing was comfortable and everything was warm and itchy and nothing made the feeling go away. I watched as the boyfriend slipped his tongue into Dirty Hippy's mouth. Put his hands in her pants, up her shirt. when the 21-year-old Army asshole offered my fag and I a tour of his oh-so-20-year-old apartment, I accepted so as to quell the heat in my eyes and the dry, sandpapery, golf ball-sized lump that was rolling between my throat and my mouth. To this day, I'm not sure if that ball was vomit or some primordial, angry scream.
The bathroom. The hallway. My darling bisexual soon-to-be-gay faggot making idle, excited comments about the Super Nintendo out in the living room, about the burn mark I'd put in the carpet when I'd ashed a cigarette without paying attention.
The bedroom.
I wasn't paying attention. Too busy admiring the orange glow of the room, the way it hit the canopy and looked purple and blue from certain angles. Too busy complimenting the sheets, the dresser, the handcuffs beneath it - military grade; hard steel with swiveling closures.
Too busy to hear him lock the door.
I don't know what happened, what progression of awkward, unwilling action occurred. I remember his grin - smug, sleazy. Too-white teeth and eyes that crinkled and creased a the corners. Stubble that itched and scratched and irritated the sides of my face, my body, the place that was too high to be my cunt and too low to be my stomach. But, suddenly, I was naked and he was on me and I was saying no. No, no, no. Over and over again and he kept moving. I saw Dirty Hippy, saw her calling me a pussy, her baby Christian girl who needed to be corrupted, telling me I should shut up and get laid. I stopped loving her, but it was at the cost of forgetting I was worth loving.
Hands I didn't want on me, fingers around my wrist, my neck - "all girls like this, right?" That fucking stubble against my side, at the place where there's no fat and my ribs show through. It felt like it was burning, like he was striking flint against my bones over and over, desperately trying to start some fucking campfire at boot camp. Everything was orange for some reason; the dim lights and the vodka, rum, and tequila and God knows what else sloshing around in my head just made it hazy and bright and brownish orange; our skin blended into the light. Rough, long fingers inside of me, nails too long. Begging. "You have the cutest clit." Tongue. His cock in my mouth, telling me to let him fuck me. Over and over again, I said no.
And, suddenly, like that, he stopped. Took his dick out of my mouth, shoved it back in his pants and fastened his belt. My underwear looked dark and foreign on the floor, the blue of my shirt too bright. Awkward. Sickly.
I pulled my clothes on and Dirty Hippy cheered as I walked out of the room and towards the restroom. I vomited before I could close the door and a large, black boy stumbled in, told me to lock the fucking door, and stumbled back out as I flushed and gagged and flushed and gagged and identified the carrots and watermelon and assorted breads that came out with each heave. Lettuce here, tomato there. Seeds. Bile. More flushing. Listerine.
I stumbled outside and back to the party, where Dirty Hippy lifelessly put her tongue in my mouth and my fag put his arms around me and kissed me and wiped away the few tears that managed to escape when the Army asshole wasn't looking.
And a month later, I went back.
He ushered everyone out of the room upon my arrival and unbuckled his belt, told me to "finish what I'd started." His hands tangled in my hair. I felt dirty and burned holes in his carpet until he kicked us out.
I felt dirty for two years, until he stopped calling and moved away.
Sometimes, in the dark recesses of my dreams, I can still see his stupid fucking grin.
