This is a sample chapter from my debut novel The Con, which you can purchase here.
Chapter 7
Good Sport
May 2021
Orlando, FL
The doors to my apartment elevator open and contract like enormous metal labia.
I’ve been here dozens of times; stood beside that same po-faced auntie, watched her cradling that same gormless little AIDS dog that’s always huffing and puffing and by all appearances is entirely ready to pass on into realms unknown. Yet it never does, preferring instead to leer on over at me from the crick of its mistress's arm, forever sizing me up through bleary, beady little booger-eyes. Clean your dog’s eyes, nasty bitch...
I admonish myself for being overly judgmental, recalling that such behavior invariably codes as low status and makes one come off as a neurotic and grasping social climber—hardly the impression I’d like to make on darling Natalie’s baby sisters.
Yet I can’t stand those pupils... not the dog's, my neighbor’s. They’re not rightly shiny.
I also resent the old bag for living on one of the three stories above mine—partially for very gauche and tedious subclinical narc reasons, but also because our situation basically just forces me to look at her unattractive eyes on occasion.
There's virtually no consistent way to avoid her; whenever I leave my unit it turns into this Shirley Jackson lotto thing wherein she and her little fag dog—I mean why even GET a dog that small… just get a cat so you don’t have to take it out to shit constantly—feel entitled to intrude upon my personal ontology, in the same way blacks expect unlimited purchase in white spaces or incels demand access to women.
Am I just being schizo. here? After all, she’s just a harmless middle aged pantsuit—yet another hapless, venal, stubby creature of mediocrity a la Pantsuit Ruby or Hilldawg. And if I can’t even tangle with a hoary old sow like that, can I really call myself a man?
I clear my throat and politely smile at the matron. “He’s cute!”
Her eyes drift over to me.
Really, cunt, nothing?
“Your dog. He’s so adorable!”
For a moment she fixates quite intently on some random spot on the wall behind me. Then she looks at me thoughtfully for several seconds, before glancing down at her booger dog. “This is my little Gigi. She and I are off to the vet—aren’t we, Gig?”
I pivot gracefully from my misgendering: “Getting babygirl her latest round of shots?”
Her face curdles into something sour and stinky. Was babygirl weird?
“She’s going to die.”
Her hands tighten around the dog, and for a good long while neither of us says a word.
I also really hate her mouth, come to think of it…
Like, what kind of expression is that?
Suddenly she wipes something from her eye.
“I’m having her put down today—Lymphoma. The vet says there may be a few months, but… well, I just want to get it all over with!”
Something flutters beneath my compression vest. “Christ…”
“Excuse me?”
She raises an eyebrow and suddenly those dry little pupils are saucers.
I scratch my nose. “I mean, why wouldn’t you want a couple more months with her?”
Nurse Ratchet and I stare each other down as her grasp on little Gigi turns into a vice.
She shifts her weight between her feet—ugly, piggish—then flashes me an exaggerated look of disgust. “Well… I hardly think it’s any of your business! But I couldn’t possibly ask my husband to pay for that! He’s stressed enough as is, being an essential worker…”
*DING!*
The elevator doors fly open to reveal the diminutive Puerto Rican who used to watch me do Starting Strength so as to ensure my squats were suitably below parallel.
“Oh, uh… hi Mrs. Ratliffe… How’s it going? And yo, Jeremy! Bro, wazzzzzzuuuuuuup?!”
Mike’s sad Latin eyes don’t especially match his voice, but at least they aren’t liable to give me nightmares. So Mike it is for now...
“Quite a lot, actually! Heading out to Universal tonight. What about you, my man?”
Mike struts on in and interposes his vascular beige physique between myself and Satan—my stalwart legionnaire! “Maaan, I’m juuust too buuuusy lately! Got all these new cliiiients wanting that hot summer booood… I just don’t got time for myseeelf these days, ya know? Especially cause Fernanda wants me to train her for this dumb modeling thing on Insta…”
I bite my lip.
“Sounds like a pain. Have you tried communicating firmer boundaries to her?”
Mike looks at me as if I farted, pawing dismissively at the air in a way that would likely code as gay if he weren’t so aggressively Hispanic.
“Naaaah, man… gotta go-go-go!”
As I attempt to discern what that even means Shub-Niggurath decides to interject herself into our conversation. “You never told ME you’d moved up to the eighteenth floor, Michael! You were on… fifteen, before, if I’m not mistaken?”
Mike turns to her and rubs the back of his head. “Eh… well… yeah, a few months ago Fernanda and I moved in together, ya know? We needed a two bedroom for...”
“Ah—congratulations to the both of you! I’ll bet you’ve been enjoying that higher view!”
MIke laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, for sure… I mean, it’s only three floors higher than before. And honestly, I was sorta trying for that corner unit on eleven, cause I really could have used all that extra space for my sparring and shi… uh, stuff.”
“Oh. Well… I suppose that makes sense. It is your job, of course…”
“Eh… I don’t really train fighters...”
She taps her foot. “But I’m sure Fernanda’s been enjoying the view?”
“Well… she was actually on thirty two at her old place… so it’s actually kinda lower than Fernanda’s used to, to be honest...”
Now she’s thumping her foot like a jackrabbit.
It shouldn’t be legal for you to wear sandals...
“Well, I wasn’t aware anything in Orlando even WENT to thirty two.”
Mike rubs the back of his head again. “I mean… her home base was in Tampa before we moved in together, right? She was just, like, crashing at my place most the time…”
Her foot finally steadies. “That makes sense. Well… it was certainly sweet of Fernanda’s father to set her up like that when she came to America.”
Mike shakes his head.
“Nah, her dad’s a greedy prick—oh, sorry. What I mean is… he ain’t given her a dime, right? Like, she went to good schools and all, but Fernanda makes all her money herself. That’s actually why we needed a two bedroom. For her home office...”He frowns. “Least that’s what she said… honestly, I just let Fernanda handle that stuff.”
“I see.”
He leans against the elevator wall. “You know Covid SUCKED for me—think I told both of you how it ruined my gym plans, right? But if there was one silver lining, it was Fernanda’s job going fully remote right away, because that made dating her SUPER convenient...”
Then he turns his head to me.
“Maaaan… I used to think you were bullshitting me about not doing any work all day… but honestly, bro? I bet you still do TEN times as much work as Fernanda.
And no offense—but she probably also makes more money than you.”
I leer down at the uppity Taino. The dude’s in his forties but between his height and manner I can’t not see him as fourteen. “My total comp’s like 192—where’s she?”
Ratliffe bristles. “This isn’t appropriate…”
Mike sucks his teeth. “212.”
I whack one of his roided-out triceps. “Well, shit! Look at mister himbo fireplug landing himself a sugar mama!” I can’t believe this little spic told me he was natty…
“HA! You know it, boooooooy!” Mike proceeds to hi-five me, perhaps not realizing the congratulatory gesture is supposed to come from the other direction. Still, it’s cute.
Ratliffe makes a weird cooing noise. Stop smushing Gigi against your chest like that, cunt. “You know… I’ve always thought that you and Fernanda made SUCH a cute couple.”
“Heh… uh, thanks Mrs. Ratliffe! I think so too!”
She shifts her Medusa gaze onto me and adopts an ‘ironic’ finger-wagging auntie voice. “Maybe YOU should take notes, young man! I never see YOU at any of our community events… and whenever we cross paths in here, you’re with an entirely new young lady.”
Bitch, this is the FIRST time we’ve even spoken at all. I didn’t even know your name until…
“YO! J-Man’s a playaaaaaaaa!” Mike slaps my back so hard it very nearly knocks the wind out of me. “But don’t forget who helped you lose that gut, big guy! Cause if I’m being hooooonest…” He leans back and stares cartoonishly at my belly. “…you’re kiiiiinda gettin’ it baaaaaack... and I ain’t seen you in the gym recently—just saying! But if you ever want to train again…”
I smile back at him wryly. “Nah, bro… I couldn’t possibly impose when you’re so strapped for time as is. And my job is such a crock of shit—I can get my ass in the gym whenever. Whereas you got your clients, and Fernanda…
And then there’s also Emma to handle…”
Mike’s eyes bulge in their sockets. Yeah, you fucking heard me, faggot… still have those
17 year-old titties on your phone? Men die by swords they humblebrag with, compadre…
“Emma? I don’t think I know Emma.” Christ, Ratliffe’s a bloodhound! “Who’s Emma?”
This only works if I can bail Mike out… gotta be plausibly deniable. But what’s a good lie?
Got it. “Oh, you wouldn’t know her—she just runs this young entrepreneurs thing Mike and I were going to last year. She’s just a bit pushy, ya know? Doesn’t really take no for an answer. Wouldn’t be surprised if she has some kind of personality disorder…”
“Hm. Michael—you know my husband also runs…”
*DING!*
At long last we’ve reached the resident parking level and this hellish conversation can end. “Here we go.,,” Mike sighs impatiently and hammers the open door button.
Well, that’s him pissed at me—how the fuck did this turn into me versus him? I like Mike.
The doors slide open to reveal a petite high yella girl dressed as an apartment security guard leaning against the wall and giggling merrily at her phone. I’m not entirely sure how old she is—likely between 20 and 35 (not even being racist here; I very genuinely can’t tell how old black people are and it’s been an issue for me). Today her waist-long dreads are pulled through a funky lil’ headband, and honestly? She kinda cute…
Brittni gives us a playful little wave. “Hey y’all! Ayo Mike—still doin’ that HIIT camp this summer? That shit POPPIN’. I remember last year you had my booty lookin…”
Mike walks past her. “Yeah, I am, Brittni. We’ll talk about it later, ‘kay?” His voice sounds a lot softer and less energetic than I’ve ever heard it. God fucking dammit.
Brittni’s eyes dart between us frenetically. “Oh, uh… aight… sure. That’s cool, dude…”
Then she briefly gives me an embattled look, before shifting her gaze to Ratliffe and putting on her very best Gone With The Wind voice: “Well, well, well… if it ain’t missus penthouse twenty-eighth flo, gracin’ the rest of us common folk with her presence!”
Nyarlathotep breaks into the sort of look that’s only dignified to make whilst cumming and grazes Brittni’s arm with her fingers. I lean back against the elevator wall and grin back at the wench impishly. Please go for the hair…
“Oh! Sweetheart, you really do flatter me! I WISH this were a social call… But I’m afraid my little Gigi here is very sick, and…”
Somehow Brittni ends this spiel by showing Ratliffe her palms—black girl magic?
Christ, those fucking talons…
“Hey, look—I’m REAL sorry, missus… but I gotta take care of some shit ground floor. Urgent facility matters, you’ll understand. But I really hope your little dog gets better!”
As Brittni saunters into the carriage I pointedly jam my finger into the close doors button to expedite my departure from Ratliffe’s face, which now is even more gormless than poor Gigi’s.
As the two of us are encapsulated in that great robotic vulva Brittni spins her internal
code switching Wheel of Fortune and apparently decides it would be fun to coon a bit.
“Maaaaaaan, you wypipo crazy! I don’t get paid enough for this booooooshit…”
“Probably not. But actually…” I flash Brittni a rather theatrical look of contemplation.
“You guys have backups keys to all the units, right?”
Her childlike Bantu eyes sparkle back at me mischievously. Brittni is probably around 105 IQ, but she’s still girlish enough to get turned on by that tired LARPy serial killer affect. “J… you fixin to pull some fucked up white boy shit on that poor old lady?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking, Britt. But say I make a copy of that penthouse key and hand it back to you before anyone has time to notice. Then a few weeks from now I head down to Lake Eola and hand the copy over to the least retarded homeless dude I can find and have him tailgate me into the elevator, at which point…”
“Nigga, why you use some ratchet-ass homeless?” Brittni giggles and punches my arm.
I cross my arms. “Disposable. Cheap. Low risk…”
“HIGHEST RISK, nigga! Cause you get what you fuckin pay for!” Brittni rolls her eyes and plays with her dreads. “First off, those niggas too stupid to even remember half the shit you tell em… and if they caught they’ll just snitch on you before you can even get em lawyered up cause the cops gave em a snickers bar or some shit. See, this the problem with wypipo... y’all got stupid rich makin apps and shit and now you can’t even tell the difference between some retarded-ass homeless and an actual G!”
I consider her words. “It’s like with Bubbles in The Wire. He was unreliable…”
She giggles and hits my arm again. “OMAHGOD, of course you bring up The Wire...”
I lean back on the wall. “To execute this plan correctly I’d need, like… a Wee-Bey.”
She cocks her head. “Boy, if you even FOUND a Wee-Bey he’d most definitely just end up robbin yo ignorant ass and calling it a day.”
She sucks on her teeth and regards me mischievously. “You Stringer Bell.”
The hairs bristle on my crossed arms. “Wee-Bey literally answered to Stringer Bell..”
“Because of Avon, nigga!”
“I mean… okay, fair point. But Avon couldn’t have gotten where he did without String.”
She raises an eyebrow and barely represses another giggle. “Did I say he could have?”
I sigh and smile back at her.
“You know, I always thought it was kind of cool how String and McNulty related to each other. They were such different guys, but haunted by the same….”
“Boy, can you save it for Reddit? My fucking back hurts.”
Across the carriage Brittni leans against the wall and scans me up and down. Then she crosses her arms. “You know, you lookin slick, J… Suppose you’re takin yet another booty call up to that white boy torture dungeon?”
“I mean, it’s not really a dungeon given that I live on the twenty fifth—more a wizard’s tower... But no. I’m actually heading to Universal.
Meeting up with my ex-girlfriend and her sisters.”
For a moment Brittni turns into a reaction gif.
“EX-girlfriend? Not gonna lie, J—that sounds a little retarded...”
“Yeah, well, wypipo do all kinds of retarded shit. Climb Mount Everest, go the moon…”
She smiles softly. “Whatever happened to that blonde bitch? That chick who always sounded like she was screaming when she talked. Other than that I sorta liked her...”
“Oh… Mara?” I shift around uncomfortably.
“Turns out when she said she was on a break with her boyfriend it wasn’t the kind of break she made it out to be. Then one of his friends saw us walking around together downtown holding hands, and… well, that was that.”
I rub my temples. “Guess they’re engaged now.”
“Mhm. These dumb little biches always cheat in the most retarded fuckin’ ways…”
Briefly her eyes leave mine, then return with a twinkle. “You know, it’s a shame what happened with my homegirl Rebecca. Y’all seemed pretty happy together...” We were. What a phenomenal tard I was screwing up for the slightest chance with Nat...
“She’s a lesbian now, I guess.
Anyway, Britt, I feel like I should ask you more about your own relationships so I’m not always turning you into a side character or something…”
“Awful good of you to pretend I’m more than just the help!”
She cocks her head at me and grins. “But if you really wanna know, I’m right there with her. Mostly dating girls these days.”
*DING!*
I cut her a sympathetic grin. “…cause niggas be triflin?”
Brittni bursts out laughing as the doors unfurl to Sabrina’s perplexed ebony visage.
Sabrina’s a lot darker than Brittni, decades older, somewhat thicker, far more overtly lesbian—the type to get inside the house not because she herself is pleasing so much as because she’s exceptionally talented at keeping all those 80 IQ field niggas in line.
“What foolishness are you two up to?” Sabrina’s eyes reproachfully narrow on Brittni.
“Oh, uh, it ain’t nothin, Breen. It’s just that… well… niggas be triflin…”
Brittni sniggers through her teeth as Sabrina sighs and crosses her arms.
“Niggas DO be triflin, chile…”
The great mammy’s eyes flash me a warning as I smile very sweetly at her.
“Anyway… Let’s go, Britt.
Need ya help scaring off more of those kids on their dumbass scooters...”
Time to win Sabrina back... “My advice? Bananas.”
Sabrina narrows her gaze on me as Britt and I make our way out of the elevator.
Then she sighs. “Bananas?” Perfect; she thinks I’m just being racist...
“Yeah, you heard me, Sabrina. Just head on over to Publix and buy a great big bunch of bananas—like, a shit ton—and then start throwing the peels out in front of all the scooter kids so they all go flying into oncoming traffic.”
Sabrina’s eyes soften and she snorts out a chortle despite herself.
“Boy, you FUCKED UP!”
Brittni puts her hands on her hips and addresses me in a singsongy bed wench voice.
“Then what we gon do with all them bananas, J?” Is she teasing me here or Sabrina?
“I’m sure we’ll think of something, Britt...” Shit, Sabrina didn’t like that—reposition!
“…like maybe we turn them into banana bread… and then try to organize a bake sale?
Worst case scenario it gives Ratliffe something to do!”
Now both of the sistas are howling—and that’s my cue to leave! “Anyway… Have a lovely night, ladies! And good look with the scooter kids.” As Brittni glances back at me walking away I fail to resist the urge to mouth bananas to her. She rolls her eyes.
With a contented sigh I check my phone and am pleased to see the Uber to Universal is only a few minutes away. Looking down at the picture of my diver I’m also intrigued to see that he’s an elderly white man. What turn of events brought you here, grandfather?
I wait a moment longer for him to approach before exiting my high rise so I needn’t endure Orlando’s sweltering summer miasma a moment longer than necessary; given the intense humidity of our tropical clime a man risks getting swamp-assed even in these evening hours should his travel plans fail to optimize around steady access to air conditioning.
Soon the old man’s just outside the entrance, so I step out the door and make my way toward the street, where I meet his eyes in seconds—it seems he’s parked confidently in the middle of the road with a massive line of vehicles behind him.
“You Jeremy?”
A jolt of energy flashes through my body as I realize this isn’t just some hapless codger—experience has taught me voice physiognomy offers far and away the most predictive insight of all immediately observable character traits. What wisdom do you have for me? I stroll towards his sedan at a brisk yet deliberate pace. It looks gay when you jog at them..
“I am! Are you…” I check my phone. “Jerome?” …is that not a Negro Name?
The old man nods. The same!” His face bears an affectionate Gandalf smile. “Hop in.”
Jerome flicks a switch to remotely open the doors of his vehicle and beckons me inside. I oblige him and make myself comfortable. “Smells like cinnamon in here…”
“You like cinnamon?” Jerome adjusts the rearview mirror and we lock eyes.
Christ… dude has to be pushing eighty… I’ve never met someone this ancient who also
seems so youthful and energetic… perhaps he’s on the same TRT routine as Sleepy Joe?
“Certainly don’t mind it...” I autistically struggle with the seatbelt.
“Think that’s the wrong one... You might be sitting on it.”
Why aren’t they honking at him?
“Ah—you’re right. Sorry.” I pull that receptive clicker thingy out from under my ass.
Jerome snorts in amusement. “Why you sorry? Not like you broke anything...”
He winks at me and smiles warmly… and then he adjusts the mirror back.
click
Suddenly Jerome takes off with surprising force.
I smile to myself as I recall that during my years in Nebraska I’d often do the exact same thing when picking up a girl for a date to subtly connote dominance and assertiveness. Looking back this almost certainly got me laid a few times—certainly with Josephine. The maneuver probably worked so well because it sort of threw bitches off they rhythm and established a useful power dynamic from the very outset. When Jerome does it though it’s actually quite heartening—even empowering? I suppose that’s because I’m a man; in this world of unagentic and passive-aggressive girly pops it actually feels quite nice to meet someone else capable of acting firmly and decisively.
Jerome shifts the mirror back. “You like Kendrick?” The rapper?! Is this nigga serious?
I stretch my back. “Only song I know’s that berry one...”
He grins enigmatically.
“A classic! Well, what’s your taste then? I deejay in my spare time.”
Aren’t we full of surprises?
I sigh. “Man, you’re gonna laugh...”
“Try me.”
“I mostly like showtunes.” I stare the greybeard down as he breaks into a toothy grin.
“You strike me as a Sondheim guy...”
He taps his phone a few times and puts on Follies.
How apropos. Lovely bit of deejaying there, Merlin...
Jerome notices some orange cones in the distance and quickly veers down a side street to bypass the obstruction. Then he turns back to me.
“So… what brings you to Universal? Given you live downtown I’m guessing you’re making good use of that annual pass?”
“Actually no. I had a pass a few years ago—one for Disney as well—
but these days I honestly find the parks kind of boring. Just way too many lines...”
“Know what you mean. I have a pass to both myself, but it’s more for cardio…”
“Cardio? You mean like mall walking—just at Disney?” I can’t help but grin.
“Yeah, exactly! I used to do mall walking, but there were too many other old people. Conversations got wretchedly stale. Whereas Disney Walking’s a pretty mixed crowd… lots of annoying little fat girls, but other than that it’s quite tolerable. Lots of different perspectives—that’s the important thing for me. And then you can stop whenever you want, grab a bite to eat, take in the scenery, jump on a ride if the line is short…”
“Sounds kind of amazing…” I pull at my beard.
“Oh yeah? You should join our group sometime. We have a decent outfit going…”
I sigh.
“Maybe… I used to go to the parks all the time back in like 2017. I lived in Tampa, but would commute out here because my girlfriend Natalie worked at Disney…”
“…and you’d visit her at work? Pretty romantic…”
Again Jerome gives me a toothy smirk.
“A few times, yeah… by myself, or with a buddy. But then I’d also just enjoy the parks, right? And eventually the rides… sort of lost their luster. And so I did quite a lot of Disney Walking just by myself.”
He nods slowly. “Well, that might have actually killed some of the magic for you.
Puts you in a weird state of mind… weird social context too.
When you do it yourself you look a…”
“Anyway, I’m hoping the magic comes back when I have my own kids.
Which is actually sort of why I’m heading out to Universal tonight. I’m seeing that same girl… Natalie… who's now my ex-girlfriend, I guess… and also her little sisters.
Meeting up with them for dindin.” Why’d I call it dindin?
“…your ex-girlfriend… and her sisters? I see. And I surmise you’re intent on excising the ex part of that in the immediate-to-near future?”
“That’s the plan.” I scratch my chest.
“Interesting plan... Well, I certainly wish you the best!”
I scratch my scalp and sigh. “Let me guess—you think going there at all is kind of undignified and needy and I should just move on or something?”
“Did I say that?” Jerome voice is testy now.
“It’s what everyone says...”
“Well, I’m not everyone.” Jerome flashes me an interesting glare in the mirror.
“But riddle me this: do her sisters like you?”
“Never even met them before.” I frown. “Not once in five years of dating on and off… Honestly, I’m not even sure what she’s told them about me… but I also figure the very fact that she wants me to meet them now is significant. I mean it has to be—right?”
He pauses for a moment, then frowns. “It certainly sounds like a complicated situation. On one hand, women will often use their sisters and girlfriends and such to test the waters as to whether a potential partner stands to elevate her status or diminish it in the broader community. On the other, well… the ladies have their own little games amongst each other, and oftentimes when a man reads too heavily into a girl’s behavior in these situations he’s failing to grasp the ways in which she’s using him for her own ends against other gals.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“And at times it’s both… but you can’t even separate the two, because there’s no reliable way to tell where one motive ends and the other begins.”
“Ha!” Jerome grins darkly. “It’s virtually always both—and not even SHE can truly separate them. But if you do what you need to tonight your Natalie will say it was all the former and genuinely believe that. Whereas if you screw up…”
Jerome cuts me a dark little grin in the mirror. “…then it’s entirely the latter going forward—even in her head. Zero dignity for you, schmuck! And however Natalie sees you, so shall the world. Just the way it is…”
Jerome shakes his head and sighs. “How old’s your Natalie, by the way?”
“27—same as me.”
“And her sisters?”
“Uh… the middle one’s 23—or 24, maybe? And then the youngest is 21.”
He nods. “So here’s what’s likely happening. Your girl’s sisters no doubt grew up idolizing her or feeling competitive with her or both… but now she’s unwed and racing towards thirty while they’re in their own years of wine and roses, and you can bet your bottom they’re flaunting that change in the power dynamic in all manner of plausibly deniable ways!”
Fuck—now I see where he’s going with this. “…and so if Natalie can get her old flame to show up and buy them all dinner with nary a moment’s notice…”
“…she proves she’s still queen bee and puts the little sluts in their place—
Well done, lad!”
Jerome grins at me in the mirror. “Thing is, it’s not half as bad as it sounds.
Girls and twinks are mischievous little imps in situations like these, but their infantile manipulations give you a foot in the door whether they realize it or not.
Play your cards right and you’ll usually manage to slip something else in there...”
He winks at me and sticks out his tongue. Kinda creepy, but also quite sweet...
“Yeah, for sure… I mean, that’s how I typically get laid. But you’ve also got to be careful in these scenarios not toget the door slammed on your wiener...”
Jerome cuts me another toothy grin, his eyes suggesting he’s weighing my words carefully. “Man. You really get into your head a lot… don’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, your body language, for one. Always touching your face; eyes that never rest... If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly are you on right now?” He pulls onto a ramp and takes us onto the highway, seamlessly merging into the din of summer tourist traffic
“Right this moment? Just some Addy...”
“Yeah yeah, obviously. What else, though, any meds? Like—anything for anxiety?”
“Can’t say I am...”
“Fix that. Nothing heavy—no xannies or anything—maybe try Propranolol.
You drink?”
“Only with girls.”
Jerome cocks his head. “Not with your buddies?”
“I mean, I used to, quite a lot. Back during, like… my early twenties. Or I guess it was mid-twenties... But since I moved here last year I haven’t felt the urge.”
“Haven’t felt the urge… or haven’t found any fellas worth drinking with?”
“For me it’s a distinction without a difference.”
Jerome nods to himself enigmatically… then changes the music to Merrily We Roll Along—an ironic choice given that we’re presently ensconced in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
Then he turns back the mirror again. “You look pretty built! Are you on gear?”
Suddenly I realize how vascular the old man’s forearms are. They still have that scrotumy Joe Bideny rubber chicken quality, but it’s entirely clear he’s not wasting away underneath. I smile at him. “Not now, but I did a cycle last winter—just Test E, not any of the rough stuff.”
“I’m on the rough stuff. And it makes sense for me, but you were smart to stay away—going down that road isn’t remotely worth it for straight guys.” Chock full of surprises…
”The important question, though, is did you make sure to do your PCT after?”
We lock eyes and Jerome gives me a remarkably earnest concerned grandpa stare.
“I did, yeah. Even had my bloodwork done and everything months after. Turns out my natural T levels are actually near the top of the range for my age cohort. Which was a bit weird for me to learn because whenever I get fat I sort of carry it like an old lady…”
“Ha! Sort of makes sense if you think about it: chemically speaking fat will aromatize testosterone into estrogen… so maybe it’s actually the tough guys who are most likely to grow bitch tits and birthing hips when they can’t put down the pizza.
Speaking of—how much you work out?”
“I used to like four times a week.”
“What made it used to?”
“Threw out my back deadlifting.”
He rolls his eyes. “What horseshit. You’re not getting one past me—I’ve been a gym rat for five decades. I’d hazard you either got fired or it was some messy woman shit.”
I smile back at him warmly. “The latter.”
“Ugh… figured as much.” He nods slowly. “It’ll be a while before you let yourself get fired. Derive too much self-esteem from your career, no doubt…”
“I mean, I for sure used to. These days it’s all about the money for me and not much else. Like, when I started my first job I got crazy into it at first, and it was the exact same with my second. Didn’t really happen with this one… but I’ve thought a lot about finding something faster paced in the consulting world, so… I don’t know, man. I go back and forth, I guess.”
He nods. “Sounds like you have another one of those cycles left in you.” Then he honks at some portly middle-aged woman in front of us distracted by her phone.
“But likely just the one. Anyway, this woman shit—that with Natalie?”
“No, there was another chick—Mara. Got real intense fast, then sort of petered out after a few months. Thing is our connection was pretty superficial… but at the time I really needed something intense to distract me emotionally after this other super intense thing with this other broad Rebecca… which was a lot less superficial, but didn’t last nearly as long as it should have because I kind of blew it up trying to get back Natalie…”
“Christ, Jeremy—you date like a fag!
Or at least an artist. What was it you said you do?”
“Actuary. It’s like a ma…”
“I know what an actuary is. My niece is married to one.”
He smirks at me and nods slowly. “Pretty sure that won’t last.
Anyway, hold on, I need to get around these nincompoops.”
Jerome floors it and proceeds to deftly weave through traffic while barreling down the nation’s single deadliest stretch of roadway. Ninety seconds later we’ve naught but clear skies and open road ahead of us.
“Much better!” Jerome looks in the mirror.
“You know… I really don’t envy you heterosexuals. Not at all. There was a time I did—particularly when it seemed like half the guys I’d dated were meeting their maker because they wouldn’t stop jumping into bathhouses with homeless junkies. These days? We just have it better than you. Nearly all my straight friends are divorced, whereas half the guys I meet your age are incels. Even the ones who get women sort of come across like incels...”
“Kind of weird hearing you say ‘incel’…”
“Because I’m old? Keep in mind I’m as online as you are, and definitely more With It… I’ll bet I keep up with Gen Z a lot better than you—
why, you don’t even know your Kendrick!”
“Probably easy for gay dudes to be With It...”
“Oh fuck off, you fat little pussyhound—you don’t even have that excuse! I don’t see a ring on your finger... Also, that shit you just described with Mara and Rebecca—
do you even understood how girls work? Have you ever given even the faintest thought as to what happens AFTER you spread her legs? How to keep a relationship afloat, how to exit gracefully, how to handle the fallout with dignity? It doesn’t sound like you did your PCT when it mattered... Anyway, if you want to approach dating like that you’d have an easier time with other men.”
I stare back at him darkly. “You trying to convert me, gramps?”
With a mischievous grin Jerome taps a few buttons on his phone—Sweeney Todd.
“A little, yeah… I know it won’t work.
You clearly do well for yourself financially… and don’t seem all that desperate for affection that isn’t attached to a smelly little clam. Yet...”
Jerome pulls off the highway and takes us down the access road to Universal.
“I also doubt you have it in you to be one of us…”
“I mean, I do love showtunes…” I sigh and flex my shoulders on the seatback.
“You aren’t nearly narcissistic enough. No real desire to be idealized or objectified… and perhaps even wanted? Grotesquely hetero in your hyper-subjectivity, really.
You prefer to act and never be acted upon...”
“I mean, yeah, duh—like, obviously I’m dominant...”
“So am I—it’s not about that!” He rolls his eyes.
“The point is you don’t want to be worshipped sexually—you want to subsume her desire into your own… sort of obviate her sexual agency so it’s all about worshipping HER—even when raping her; the two go hand in hand for you. Anyway, that shit only works with girls. The bigger obstacle though is that you fetishize feminine fragility, even—and perhaps especially—as it consumes you; humiliates you; annihilates you...”
Jerome nods at me slowly as his voice grows dark and rich.
“Yes… you have the manner of a lad who likes making ladies squirm precisely because they’re so weak and pathetic... Whereas I enjoy breaking other men because it’s actually an achievement.”
He pulls into the Universal rideshare drop-off and sighs.
“Or at least that’s what I told myself when I was your age. But it was so deliciously true back then—the hunt was such GOOD SPORT! These days grooming faggoty little incels onto my cock is probably quite a lot easier than the shit you put up with trying to nail these spoilt harlots…”
He nods sweetly to a fat teenage girl giving us the stink eye for no discernable reason.
You sly old bastard… “
And that’s why you Uber, isn’t it?—lot of guys are in that weird place mentally after a chick pulls some shit late at night. And they’ll already have some liquor in them…”
Jerome goes pale. “It seems I’ve said too much. Listen, son—I have my eccentricities, and at times they take me to places I don’t feel great about once the sun comes up. But I’ve also done my share of dating in the manner of your more typical queen, and what can I say? Breaking twinks is simply a lower order pleasure... they’re too damned close to girls!”
His eyes catch fire. “…and speaking of THAT. Over the years I’ve also played court fag to many dozens of fish like your little Natalie—oh yes, sir! And I’ve heard the way they talk about straight guys behind your backs—seen the way these heartless whores will just devour you, and then LAUGH about it afterwards with their cunt friends, all the while earnestly thinking of themselves as faultless little angels. From both sides I’ve seen how such behavior can destroy a man for YEARS—really just eviscerate him…”
“…which of course is how I got the idea to take advantage in the first place.”
Jerome sighs, eyes glistening. “I’ll ask you not to hate me for it—
scorpion and the frog, and all that...”
Poor old grandfather.
“I’d never HATE you, Jer. That would be so vulgar—so very pedestrian! You’re not an entirely evil man; it’s pretty evident your predation stems from a place of warped compassion and fermented self-loathing. Also, I can’t say I feel especially bad for anyone who’s enough of an incel that he feels the need to suck some old guy’s cock...”
“Oh, don’t say that!” Jerome shakes his head at me admonishingly. “These men are just lost little boys! Imagine how you’d feel if you didn’t have money or words to fall back on… or were even just a few inches shorter! All these little fellows really need is someone strong and masculine to care for them—to take the reins a bit… let them be soft and delicate…”
Suddenly I feel a bit skeeved out
“Yeah… I dunno, Jerome... Like, that would probably mean everything coming from a woman. Kind of a poison pill, though, if the price is going down on Sleepy Joe...”
I hear the steering wheel distorting under his grip.
“You fink. I look NOTHING like Joe Biden! I am NOTHING like Joe Biden! Shall we step outside, laddy buck? Methinks someone ought to teach you to mind your elders…” God, is this how I sounded to Roxanne?
“LOOK—Jerome—I’m not saying you’re like Joe Biden. I genuinely apologize for that. Earlier today a girl compared me to Jonah Hill and it hurt my feelings the same way.”
He sighs. “God above! Sometimes women really aren’t people…”
“I mean, I don’t know about that…”
“Well, I DO!
Because as I said—these birds act entirely different around us.
They treat us like their little girlfriends, or even less than that, as bloody accessories, really. We’re exactly like those wretched little dogs you often see vapid rich women carrying around with them. I mean, Lord in Heaven, why even bother getting a dog at that point—just get a fucking cat!”
Jerome sighs and shakes his head. “Women…
“Can’t live with em…” I grin at the elder homosexual in wry camaraderie.
“ …and at least some of us can’t live without em!”
“And that’s why I very genuinely want to help you, son!” He looks at me a lot more seriously. “Look… heed my words or don’t—I’ll stop caring in a few hours either way. But I don’t want you walking into this hornet’s nest without any protection. Whatever happens in there, and I mean WHATEVER, don’t you EVER let your Natalie or any of these scheming shrews act like victims around you. Because I don’t give a rat’s about what you supposedly did ‘wrong’—the bitch likely saw it coming weeks in advance and was gaming around it from the start, even if only semi-consciously. It’s nothing short of essential that you realize taking women at face value is a lot like walking into a chess match with a goddamned checkers set.”
“Perspicacious words, Jerome…”
He scoffs. “Oh, you’re making fun of me! I’m such a silly old queer…”
“Fucking stop—you sound like a woman...
I just think you’re only seeing half the picture.”
Jerome’s eyes sparkle. “Ah? How do you figure?”
“Look—have you been with a woman? Not just kissing, but like, fucked her proper?”
He sighs. “In high school… Marie Abramson—no, Arbogast!
God, how could I forget that? Maybe I am Sleepy Joe….”
Jerome rubs his eyes. “Anyway… I stupidly thought Marie my first love. But she really WAS such an insipid little piglet—practically worshipped the ground I walked on!”
“Did she?”
“Oh, quite slavishly. With as ardent a passion as any young twink, and a lot more reliably. When we went away to college she never stopped writing, even while I was breaking boys over the stairwell practically every weekend and entirely open with her about that...”
I leer at him darkly. “No you weren’t, you lying old faggot.”
He starts to get indignant, then sighs and gives me a half nod. “FINE, I wasn’t. But I did tell her I’d started sleeping with other girls—if only because I actually did derive some degree of satisfaction from her… well, humiliation. And I’m not proud of that fact… but it had been the only way I was able to maintain an erection whenever we made love.”
I smirk like a jackass. “Made love?”
“Oh, I don’t know! It was a girl and in the fifties—will you give me a goddamned break?”
“Sorry, sorry—it’s just kind of bizarre thinking of humiliation kinks in the context of, like… making love. I mean, I guess not entirely, actually… it was sort of like that with Rebecca—fuck, maybe a lot like that. But the fact it was the fifties makes it odd for sure. Less for gay dudes, I guess, but I can’t really imagine my grandma drinking piss…”
Jerome rolls his eyes.
“I could have made my little Marie eat her own shit if I’d wanted to! But being a degenerate faggot, what I did was far worse: I put a pillowcase over her head.”
“I mean, that’s not super nice. But it doesn’t really seem worse than eating shit…”
“No, no, JEREMY—you don’t UNDERSTAND! It wasn’t just that! I didn’t comprehend my own sexuality at the time—not at all! And I don’t even mean in a boy-girl way…
I didn’t know how to dom properly; that was the issue!
I was a naive child who hadn’t yet gleamed the proper way to… I don’t know, flick his wrist when spanking someone so it stings instead of smarts.”
He turns to look at me directly.
“…and I mean that in both a literal and metaphoric sense.”
Old fag’s as pretentious as I am…
I nod and smile politely at Jerome. “So what exactly did you do to her?”
“Well… I called her things. Ugly, stupid, poor. Fat. At first entirely in jest, couched in JUST enough irony and plausible deniability that she’d feel terribly silly for objecting to anything. Still, she didn’t like it at first. I knew that. She attempted to convey that to me in all manner of frivolous womanly ways, and naturally I played the oblivious male oaf. So eventually she stopped trying—in part because she’d begun to internalize my abuse as her own desire.”
Jerome frowns. Closes his eyes a moment. Sighs to himself.
Then shakes his head. “Girls really are just rags, aren’t they?
They soak up fucking everything…”.
“It’s their very best quality.”
“But where’s the FUCKING CHALLENGE in that?!”
The old man rolls his eyes. “Where’s the bloody HEROISM?!”
“You straights are like those blue-blooded sorts who’ll fly out to Africa to murder some poor elephant the local niggers have trapped in a reserve—
venture forth into the jungle and SKIN THE FUCKING TIGER!!!
“Look—you only find women difficult because of your faggot’s heart. But even in their forties these fish are just trivially easy to manipulate if you’re not also trying to fuck them. Ugh… they’re just so DESPERATE for approval; for you to LIKE them; for all to GET ALONG! Take away those smelly little holes and their power fucking evaporates—just evaporates! They’re like kids.”
I lean forward and lock eyes with him.
“I guess it’s great for women some of us still want to fuck them.”
“Indeed…” Jerome narrows his gaze on me. “Yet if you acted with just a BIT more dignity and self-respect girls like Natalie couldn’t pull half of these insipid little games. But you know THAT every bit as well as I do—don’t you?
And for you it’s visceral….”
The old man’s eyes drift away. “Oxytocin is a hell of a drug—the most powerful on God’s green earth, I’ve found… and I’m on the rough shit! You’d need only be a bit less faggoty and emotionally incontinent than your typical modern straight man to get yourself inside one of these dumb little fish, and then her fanciful flighty fishbrain will practically force her to fall for with you, no matter how terribly you treat her…”
“That’s what’s what happened with Little Marie?”
“She was Pigsy by the time we left for school.” Jerome sighs. “I would even make her sign her letters as that… people who say children are innocent are fucking imbeciles.”
His eyes flicker over to me nervously. “Don’t get any ideas, though—I’m no pederast.”
“Obviously not—bad sport.”
“Precisely.
“So when Marie she stop writing you?”
“Around the time she became a prostitute, Jeremy.”
I rest a hand on grandfather’s shoulder.
“Sometimes they really are just fucking rags…”
“Yeah. God, twinks are easy in comparison...”
Jerome rubs his eyes. “They have real agency and interiority. And even when they’re BPD little fairies their sense of self is at least somewhat contiguous, and when you groom them to adopt half your fetishes there’s always some sense in which it really WAS their idea, in a way it never actually is with girls—not truly.”
Jerome wipes away a tear. “…and more importantly: falling in love with them never seems to BLIND us like straight guys always—fucking always—end up blinded by cunt. Because we’re very seldom dumb enough to imagine he’s ANYTHING BUT a scheming little queen. Whereas to love your Natalie in the way you want, she wants—really all of society wants, expects, fucking demands of you—you’d need to evade or ignore or simply fucking forget about all the very worst parts of who she is.”
“It’s a lot easier if you never fall in love at all.”
I see pain in Jerome’s face… yet his voice hardens into something fierce and feral. “And that’s NO way to live your life, young man. It’s really not! Look, son—whatever you may think of me and all my foolish antics, I simply need you to trust me on this.”
I clasp his shoulder affectionately. “Thanks for the sentiment, pop-pop—it means a lot. Thing is it’s also sort of wasted on me, because if I didn’t already agree to my bones I wouldn’t be here at Universal putting up with this faggotry in the first place.”
He sniffles and nods. “Right; of course. I see that now...”
“Now, there are loads of guys out there who might actually benefit from your little spiel, being quite convinced everything actually is hopeless and nobody cares about them… but it wouldn’t exactly be in your interest to bolster their confidence. now would it?” I cut Pappy Jerome a toothy grin.
“Oh God…” The old man chokes back a wail as he cups his mouth histrionically.
“Hey, I’m not judging, Fagneto! I just mean to say everything’s already priced in.”
“Like, either a feller will be so terrible with women you won’t see any point in heartening him—and honestly, at that point grooming the dude into eating cum is arguably something of a mercy—or he’ll be good enough with girls that despising love only amplifies his existing market advantage, meaning your words will fall entirely on deaf ears. And, like, clearly he’ll agree EVENTUALLY… but by then he’ll be your age and nobody will care about his opinion.”
Jerome looks terribly angry, yet nods along in agreement all the same.
“…and so we’re left those windmill-tilting romantics of moderate sexual market value—men who’ll strike gold one day and strike out the next; for whom everything boils down to some combination of the quality of their own performance and the unfeeling vicissitudes of fate; who’ll appreciate your words of encouragement, then forget them ten minutes later.”
I tighten my grip on his shoulder. “Because, Jerome… quite literally none of your sage advice is really more sophisticated than, like… hold back more. Which first of all’s, like… yeah, no fucking shit. And frankly, that entire way of looking at the world just straightforwardly contradicts your romantic idealism angle, which makes you seem like a pretentious little hypocrite.” I release him from my grip—now more of a vice.
Then I sigh and smirk and soften my voice:
“But I’ll also not begrudge you that. It would get a bit recursive, even for me.”
Jerome gives me an embattled whimper and I see his hand twitch. “You shouldn’t put up with what spoiled slits like Natalie subject you to. All these games… the heartbreak… the wasted time, energy, money… you’re so much better than this!”
Smirking I flex my shoulders against the seatback. “I mean… clearly not, or I wouldn’t keep coming back for seconds. At the end of the day it’s all priced in, always.
Every man gets precisely what he deserves. As does each woman...”
I open the car door, then glance back at the elder gay one last time.
“And honestly, Jerome? I very genuinely sort of like it.
He stares at me a moment. Tightens his jaw. Then: “Why?”
I flash the old codger a wolfish grin as I slide on out of his sedan.
“Because it’s great fucking sport.” The only one that matters. I slam the faggot’s door.
With renewed vigor I make my way into CityWalk, reflecting that if nothing else Jerome was entirely right about one thing—Nat has clearly given me a foot in the door with this dinner. Tonight I intend to make the most of that opening and then some.
Because, sure—I’ll probably wind up getting my dick bruised at some point or three…But All’s Fair In Love and War, and that shit cuts both ways.
This game has always been more about attrition than blitzkrieg.
And at this point my dick has so many calluses it’s practically a doorstopper.