The Dragon Con - Chapter IV
Good Sport
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
SUMMER 2021
The doors to my apartment elevator separate 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. It’s always huffing and puffing and by all appearances seems entirely ready to pass on into realms unknown. Yet it never does. Instead it prefers 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 seem like a neurotic and grasping social climber—hardly the impression I intend to make on darling Natalie’s baby sisters.
But 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. It's almost like she and her 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 automatic access to women.
God, am I just being schizo? After all, she’s just some harmless middle aged pantsuit—yet another hapless, venal, stubby creature of mediocrity a la Ruby or Hillary Clinton. 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 hate her mouth, come to think of it… what kind of expression is that?
Suddenly she wipes a tear from her eye. “I’m having her put down today—Lymphoma. The vet says there may be a few months, but… 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—and 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 fellow who used to watch me do Starting Strength so as to ensure my squats were suitably below parallel.
“Oh, uh… hey Mrs. Ratliffe! How’s it going? And 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. Mike it is for now.
“Quite a bit, actually—heading out to Universal tonight. What about you, my man?”
He struts on in and interposes his vascular beige physique between myself and Satan—my stalwart legionnaire! “Maaan, I’m just too busy lately! Got all these new cliiiients wanting that hot summer bod… I just don’t got time for myself these days, ya know? Especially ‘cause Fernanda wants me to train her for this dumb model thing on Insta…”
“Sounds like a huge pain. Have you tried communicating firmer boundaries to her?”
Mike looks at me as though I just farted, pawing dismissively at the air in a way that would likely code as gay if he weren’t so Hispanic. “Naaaah, man… gotta go-go-go!”
As I try to discern what that means Shub-Niggurath decides to interject herself into our conversation. “You never told me you’d moved 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. We needed a two bedroom for...”
“Ah—congratulations to the both of you! I’ll bet you’re enjoying that higher view!”
He laughs awkwardly. “Yeah, 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…stuff.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose that makes sense—it’s your job, of course.
“Eh… I don’t really train fighters...”
She taps her foot. “But I’m sure Fernanda’s enjoying the view?”
“Well… she was actually on level 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 should be illegal for you to wear sandals. “I wasn’t aware that anything in Orlando even WENT to thirty two.”
He rubs the back of his head again. “I mean… her home base was in Tampa before we moved in together. She was just, like, crashing at my place most of the time.”
Her foot finally steadies. “That makes sense. Well, it was certainly very 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, uh, sorry. What I mean is… he ain’t given her a dime. Like, she went to good schools and all, but Fernanda makes all her money herself. That’s why we needed us a two bedroom—for her home office. Or at least that’s what she said. Honestly I just let Fernanda handle that stuff.”
“I see.”
Mike leans against the wall. “Man, 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 WAY MORE convenient.” He turns his head to me. “Man… I used to think you were just 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—she probably makes more money than you.”
I leer down at the uppity Taino. The guy’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. I can’t believe this little spic told me he was natty… “Well, shit! Look at mister himbo fireplug landing himself a sugar mama.”
“HA! You know it, booooy!” 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 you and Fernanda made SUCH a cute couple.”
“Heh…uh, thanks Mrs. Ratliffe. I think so too!”
She shifts her Medusa gaze on 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 length. I didn’t even know your name until…
“YO! J-Man’s a playa!” Mike slaps my back so hard it half knocks the wind out of me. “But don’t forget who helped you lose that gut, big guy! ‘Cause if I’m being honest… you’re kiiiiiiiinda gettin’ it back...” He leans back and stares cartoonishly at my belly. “Ain’t seen you in the gym recently—just saying! But if you ever want to train again…”
I smile wryly back at him. “Nah, bro… I couldn’t possibly impose when you’re strapped for time as is. 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. You heard me. Still have those 17 year old titties on your phone, faggot? Men die by swords they humblebrag with, compadre.
“Emma? I don’t think I know Emma.” Christ, she’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…? “You wouldn’t know her. She runs this young entrepreneurs meetup group thing that Mike and I were going to last year. She’s just a bit pushy—doesn’t 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!
Finally we’ve reached the resident parking level and this hellish conversation can end.
“Here we go.” Mike sighs impatiently and childishly 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 up like an apartment security guard leaning against the wall and giggling 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 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.” Briefly she gives me an embattled look. Then she shifts her gaze on Mrs. Ratliffe and puts 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 while cumming and grazes Brittni’s arm with her fingers. I lean 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 Gig’ here is very sick, and…”
Somehow Brittni ends this spiel by showing Ratliffe her palms—black girl magic? Christ, those fucking talons… would they even feel good on my scalp?
“Hey, I’m REALLY sorry, missus, but… I gotta go take care of some shit ground floor. Urgent facility matters. But I really hope your 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 ugly face, which now looks even more gormless than 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 booooshit.”
“Probably not. But actually…” I flash her a rather theatrical look of contemplation. “You guys have backups keys to all the units, right?”
Her childlike bantu eyes sparkle back mischievously. Brittni is probably like 105 IQ, but she’s still girlish enough to get turned on by that tired LARPy serial killer affect. “Jay… 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 later 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, after which point…”
Brittni giggles and punches my arm. “Nigga, why you use some ratchet-ass homeless?”
I cross my arms. “Disposable. Cheap. Low risk.”
Brittni rolls her eyes and plays with her dreads. “Highest risk, ‘cause you get what you pay for! First off these niggas can’t even remember half the shit you tell ‘em… and then if they get caught most of ‘em’ll snitch on you before you can even get ‘em lawyered up ‘cause the cops gave ‘em a fuckin’ snickers bar or some shit. See, this the problem with wypipo... y’all got stupid rich makin’ apps and shit and probably can’t even tell the difference now between some fuckin’ homeless dude 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 before calling it a day.” Britni 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… yeah, 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?”
“You know, I always thought it was cool how String and McNulty sort of related to each other. They were such different guys, but haunted by the same demon…”
“Boy, can you save it for Reddit? My fucking back hurts.”
Across the carriage Brittni leans back against the wall and scans me up and down. “You lookin’ slick today, J. Guessin’ you’re meetin’ some new booty call downstairs to take back to that white boy torture dungeon?”
“It’s not really a dungeon given that I live on the twenty fifth—more a wizard’s tower. But no, actually. I’m heading over to Universal. Meeting my ex-girlfriend’s sisters…”
Now she’s a reaction gif. “Ex-girlfriend? Not gonna lie, J—that sounds kinda 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 uncomfortably. “Turns out when she said that she was on a break with her boyfriend it wasn’t the kind of break she made it out to be. One of his friends saw us walking around together downtown holding hands, and… well, that was that. Guess they’re engaged now.”
She scoffs. “These stupid ass bitches 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 Rebecca. Y’all seemed pretty happy together.”
We were—what a phenomenal dingus I was to screw that up for the slightest chance with Nat. “Ya know, Britt… I feel like I should ask you more about your relationships so I’m not, like, always turning you into the side character or something.”
She cocks her head again and sighs. “Awful good of you to pretend I’m more than just the help. But if you really want to know, I’m mostly only 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. She’s a lot darker than Brittni, decades older, somewhat thicker, more overtly lesbian—the type to get inside the house not because she herself is very 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 narrow on Brittni reproachfully.
“Oh, it ain’t nothin’ Breen. It’s just that… well… niggas be triflin’!” Brittni cackles.
“Niggas do be triflin’, chile.” Sabrina’s eyes flash me a warning as I smile sweetly. “Let’s go, Britt—need your help scarin’ off those kids on their dumbass scooters.”
Time to win Sabrina back. “My advice? Bananas.”
Sabrina narrows her gaze on me as Britti and I make our way out of the elevator.
Then she sighs. “Bananas?”
Perfect—she think’s I’m just being racist. “Yeah—you heard me. Head over to Publix and buy a bunch of bananas. Just, like, a shit ton. And then start throwing the peels out in front of all the scooter kids so they 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. “And then what we do with all them bananas, J…?” Is she teasing me here or Sabrina?
“I’m sure we can think of something, Britt...” Shit, Sabrina didn’t like that—reposition! Perhaps we could turn them all into banana bread… then try to organize a bake sale? Worst comes to worst it gives Ratliffe something to do.”
Both of the sistas start howling—and that’s my cue to leave.
“Have a lovely night, ladies! Good look with the scooter kids.” As Brittni looks 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 notice he’s an elderly white man. What turn of events brought you here, grandfather?
I wait a bit longer for him to approach before exiting the building so I needn’t endure Orlando’s sweltering June 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. 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 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 weak and gay when you jog at them. “I am! Are you…” I check my phone. “Jerome?” Isn’t that a black man name?
“The same. Hop in!” He activates his automatic door opener and beckons me inside.
I oblige him and make myself comfortable. “Smells like cinnamon in here.”
“You like cinnamon?” He adjusts the rearview mirror and we lock eyes. Christ, the dude has to be at least 70… I don’t think I’ve ever met someone this ancient who also seems so youthful and energetic. Perhaps he’s on the same TRT / Adderall 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.
“Why? Not like you broke anything.” He smiles warmly and adjusts the mirror back.
click
Jerome takes off with surprising force. During my years in Nebraska I’d often do the same thing when picking up a girl for a date to connote dominance and assertiveness. It got me laid a few times, probably because it sort of threw the girls off their rhythm and established a useful power dynamic from the outset. When Jerome does it though it’s honestly rather heartening—even empowering? Perhaps that’s because I’m a man. In a world full of all these low agency girly pops it actually feels quite good to meet someone else capable of acting firmly and decisively.
Jerome shifts the mirror back. “You like Kendrick?” The rapper? Is he serious?
“I only really know that berry song.”
He grins enigmatically. “A classic! Well, what’s your taste then? I DJ in my spare time.”
Aren’t we full of surprises? “Man, you’re gonna laugh.”
“Try me.”
“I mostly like showtunes.” I stare the greybeard down and 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, Gandalf.
Jerome notices some orange cones in the distance and quickly veers down a side street to bypass the obstruction. “So what brings you to Universal? Given you live downtown I’m guessing you’re making use of that annual pass?”
“Actually no... I had one a few years ago, but these days I find the parks kind of boring. Just way too many lines. I’m hoping the magic comes back when I have my own kids. Tonight I’m going to meet up with my ex-girlfriend and her little sisters for dindin.” Why’d I call it dindin?
“Ex-girlfriend… and her sisters? I’m surmising that you intend on excising the ex part of that in the immediate-to-near future?” Higher IQ old people always talk like Redditors.
“That’s the plan.” I scratch my chest—that compression vest is starting to get itchy.
“Well… do her sisters like you?”
“Never met them before. Not in five years of dating her on and off. And honestly I’m not even sure what she’s told them about me. But I also figure the fact that she wants me to meet them now is pretty significant. I mean it has to be—right?”
He frowns. “It certainly sounds like a complicated situation. On the one hand women will often use their sisters and girlfriends and such to test the waters about whether a potential partner stands to elevate her status or diminish it.in the broader community. On the other hand… women have their own little games among each other. Sometimes when a man reads too heavily into a lady’s behavior in these situations he’s failing to grasp the ways in which she’s just using him for her own ends against other girls.”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Right. And sometimes it’s actually both and you can’t really separate the two or tell where one motive ends and the other begins.”
“Ha!” Jerome smiles darkly. “It’s virtually always both, and not even the girl can truly separate them. But if you do what you need to tonight your gal will say it was entirely the former, whereas if you screw up? Entirely the latter in her head going forward. How old is she, by the way?”
“27—Same as me.”
“And her sisters?”
“Uh… the middle girl is 23 or 24, and the youngest is I think 21?”
He nods. “So here’s what’s probably happening. Your girl’s sisters probably 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 peak years, and you can bet your bottom they’re flaunting that change in power dynamic in all kinds 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 barely a moment’s notice…”
“…she proves she’s still queen bee and puts the little sluts in their place. Well done! 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 useful foot in the door, whether they realize it or not. Play your cards right and you’ll usually manage to jam something else in there.” He winks at me. Kinda creepy, but also quite sweet.
“Yeah, for sure. I mean, that’s how I basically always get laid. But you also got to be careful in these scenarios not to, like, get the door slammed on your penis.”
He cuts me another toothy grin, but his eyes suggest he’s weighing my words carefully. “Man, you really get into your head a lot, don’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“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 the highway.
“Right now? Just some Adderall.”
“Yeah yeah, obviously. What else? You drink?”
“Only with girls.”
His cocks his head. “Not with your buddies?”
I consider his question. “I mean… I definitely used to. Back in like, my early twenties… or I guess mid twenties. Since I moved out here though I haven’t really felt the urge.”
“Haven’t felt the urge… or haven’t found any guys worth drinking with?”
“For me it’s a distinction without a difference.”
Jerome beams back at me in the mirror. “You look pretty built. Are you on gear?” Suddenly I realize how weirdly vascular his forearms are. They still have that scrotumy rubber chicken quality, but it’s clear he’s not wasting away underneath.
“I did a cycle last winter—just Test E though. Not any of the rough stuff.”
“I’m on the rough stuff. It makes sense for me, but you were very smart to stay away—going down that road isn’t even remotely worth it for straight guys.” Full of surprises…The important question is, did you make sure to do your PCT after?” We lock eyes and he 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 like 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! That sort of makes sense if you think about it, though. Chemically speaking fat will aromatize testosterone into estrogen. Maybe it’s actually the tough guys who are most likely to grow bitch tits and birthing hips when they can’t put away 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.”
“I figured as much.” He nods slowly. “It’ll be a while before you let yourself get fired. Hold on, I need to get around these nincompoops.” Jerome floors it and proceeds to nimbly weave through traffic as he barrels down the nation’s single deadliest highway. 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 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 junkies and homeless black people. But these days we just have it better than you. Nearly all of my straight friends are divorced, whereas half the guys I meet your age are basically incels. Even the ones who get women sort of come across like incels.”
I stare back at him darkly. “Trying to convert me, gramps?”
“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. I also doubt you have it in you to be one of us. You have the manner of a lad who rather enjoys making your girls squirm precisely because they’re so weak and pathetic. 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. It was remarkably true back then. The hunt was such… good sport. These days grooming faggoty little incels onto my cock is probably a lot easier than the shit you deal with trying to fuck these spoilt little harlots…” Jerome nods sweetly to some fat teenage girl giving us the stinkeye for no discernable reason.
You sly bastard… “And that’s why you Uber. Lot of guys are in that weird mental place after a girl 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 after. But I’ve also done my share of dating in the manner of your more standard 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—yes sir! I’ve heard the way they talk about straight men behind your backs. I see the way these… heartless whores will just devour you, and then proceed to LAUGH about it afterwards with their cunt friends very earnestly thinking of themselves as these 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 exactly what gave me the idea to take advantage in the first place.” His eyes glisten. “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 pedestrian. Your sadism comes from a place of warped compassion and fermented self-loathing. Honestly I kind of envy you if anything. Also I can’t say I feel especially bad for anyone who’s such an incel that he feels the need to suck some old guy’s cock.”
Jerome looks at me admonishingly. “Don’t say that. These men are just lost little boys. Imagine how you would feel if you didn’t have money or words to fall back on, or were even a few inches shorter. All these fellows need is someone strong to care for them—take the reigns for a bit and let them be soft and delicate.”
For the first time I feel very skeeved out. “That would probably mean everything coming from a woman. Kind of a poison pill if the price is going down on Sleepy Joe.”
I hear the steering wheel distorting under his grip. “I look NOTHING like Joe Biden… I am NOTHING like him…. Shall the two of us 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…”
Jesus, fella! “I don’t know about that.”
“Well, I do. Like I said, they act entirely different around us compared to around you. They treat us like their little girlfriends, but less than that—as their accessories, really. Like those grotesque little dogs you often see rich women carrying around with them. Lord in Heaven, why even bother getting a dog at that point, just get a fucking cat.” Jerome sighs. “Women…”
“Can’t live with ‘em… and at least some of us can’t live without ‘em.”
“That’s why I very genuinely want to help you, son.” He looks at me more seriously. “Look, heed my words or don’t—I’ll stop caring in a few hours either way. I just don’t want you walking into this hornet’s nest without any protection. Whatever happens, and I mean WHATEVER, don’t you ever let your Natalie or any of these girls act like victims around you. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do ‘wrong’, the bitch probably saw it coming weeks in advance and was gaming around it from the very start, even if it was only semi-consciously. It’s absolutely essential you realize that taking women at face value is a lot like walking into a chess match with a goddamned checkers set.”
“Perspicacious words, Jerome.”
He scoffs. “You’re making fun of me. I’m such a silly old queer…”
“Oh, stop, you sound like a woman. I just think you’re only seeing half of 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. How could I forget that? Christ, maybe I really am Sleepy Joe…. Anyway, I stupidly thought Marie my first love. But she really was such an insipid little piglet... worshipped the ground I walked on.”
“She did?”
“Oh, quite slavishly. As passionately as any young twink, yet infinitely more reliably. When we went away to college she never stopped writing, even while I myself was breaking boys over the stairwell 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. I told her I’d started sleeping with other girls, though—if only because I actually did derive some degree of gratification from her… well, humiliation. And I’m not proud of that, but it had been the only way I was able to maintain an erection when we made love.”
“Made love?” I smirk like a jackass.
“Oh, I don’t know! It was a girl and in the fifties, will you give me a goddamn break?”
“Sorry. Anyway it just sounds weird to think of humiliation kinks in the context of… “making love”… especially in the fucking 1950s. Much less so with gay dudes, I guess. But I can’t imagine, like, my grandma drinking piss.”
He rolled his eyes. “I could have made Marie eat her own shit had I really wanted to. Being a degenerate faggot, what I did was far worse: I put a pillowcase on her head.”
“I mean… that’s not super nice, but it doesn’t really seem worse than eating shit…”
“No, no, you don’t fucking understand… it wasn’t just that. I didn’t understand my own sexuality at the time, not at all. Not just in a boy-girl way, either. I didn’t know how to dom properly, that was the real issue. I was just a naive child who hadn’t gleamed the proper way to… flick my wrist when spanking someone so it stings instead of smarts.” He turns to look at me directly. “I mean that in both the literal and metaphoric sense.”
The old fag’s as pretentious as I am. “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 she’d feel silly for objecting to anything. Still, she didn’t like it at first. I knew that. She tried to convey that in all manner of frivolous womanly ways, and naturally I played the hapless male oaf. Eventually she stopped trying—in part because she began to internalize my abuse as her own fetish.” He frowns. “Girls really are just… rags, aren’t they? They soak up everything.”
I grin back at him softly. “It’s their very best quality.”
He rolls his eyes. “But where’s the fucking CHALLENGE in that? You straights are like those blue-blooded sorts who’ll fly to Africa and murder some elephant the local spear-chuckers have trapped in a nature reserve. Go into the jungle and skin the tiger! Look, you only find women hard because of your faggot’s heart. Even in their forties these fish are trivially easy to groom and manipulate when you don’t actually want to fuck them. They’re so desperate for approval, for you to like them, for all to get along. Take away those holes and their power evaporates. Just evaporates. They’re like kids.”
“Good thing for women we want to fuck them, I guess.” Why am I feeling defensive?
“Indeed.” Jerome narrows his eyes on me. “Yet if you acted with a bit more dignity and self-respect girls like Natalie couldn’t pull half of these insipid little games. You know that as well as I—far better, no doubt. For you it’s visceral…” His 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 emotionally incontinent than your average modern straight man to get yourself inside one of these fish. Then her fishy brain will practically force her to fall for you, no matter how awfully you treat her.”
“That’s what happened with Marie.”
“She was Pigsy by the time we both left for school.” He sighs. “I would even make her sign her fucking letters as that. People who say children are innocent are imbeciles.” His eyes flick over to me nervously. “Don’t get any ideas, though—I’m no pederast.”
“Of course not—bad sport.”
“Precisely.”
“So when did she stop writing you?”
“Around the time she became a prostitute, Jeremy.”
We sit in silence for several moments. Then I rest my hand on grandfather’s shoulder. “They really are just fucking rags.”
He rubs his eyes. “Yeah. God—twinks are so easy in comparison. They have agency, real interiority. Even when they’re BPD little fairies their sense of self is contiguous, and even when you groom them into adopting half your fetishes there’s still a sense where it’s actually 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 doesn’t blind us like straight guys always—fucking always—end up getting blinded by cunt. Because we’re seldom dumb enough to imagine he’s anything BUT a scheming queen. To fall in love with Natalie in the way you want, she wants, really all of society wants… you’d sort of need to just ignore or forget about the very worst parts of who she is.”
“It’s easier if you never fall in love at all.” Now my eyes are getting misty too. No homo.
I see real pain in Jerome’s face… yet his voice hardens into something fierce and feral. “And that’s NO way to live your life. It’s really not. Young man—whatever you think of me and all my foolish antics, I simply need you to trust me on this one.”
I clasp his shoulder affectionately. “Thanks for the sentiment, pop-pop. It means a lot. Thing is it’s sort of wasted on me, because if I didn’t agree with you quite ardently I most definitely would not be here at Universal doing this retarded song and dance.”
He sniffles and nods. “Right. I see that now.”
“Now, there are certain guys out there who might actually benefit from hearing your spiel because they’re quite convinced everything is hopeless… but it wouldn’t exactly be in your interest to restore their confidence, would it?” I flash him a toothy grin.
“Oh God…” Jerome cups his mouth histrionically.
“I’m not judging, Dumbledore. I just mean to say everything’s already been priced in. Either a dude will be so terrible with girls you won’t see any point in heartening him—honestly at that point grooming the dude into eating cum is actually sort of a mercy—or he’ll be good enough with girls that despising love only offers him a pronounced market advantage, meaning your words will fall on deaf ears. Like, clearly he’ll agree EVENTUALLY… but by then he’ll be your age and nobody will care about his opinion.”
Jerome looks very angry but nods all the same.
“And so we’re left with windmill-tilting romantics of moderate sexual market value—dudes who might strike gold and might strike out; for whom everything boils down to some combination of the quality of their own performance and the 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… almost none of your sage advice is really more sophisticated than, like, ‘hold back more’, which first is like… yeah, no shit. And second, that whole way of looking at the world straightforwardly contradicts your whole romantic idealism angle, which quite frankly makes you come across like a histrionic little hypocrite.” I release him from my grip—now more of a vice.
Then I sigh and smirk and try to soften my voice. “But I’ll also not begrudge you that. It would get a bit recursive, even for me.”
He gives me an embattled little whimper and I see his hand twitch. “You shouldn’t have to deal with what pampered slits like Natalie put you through. The games, the heartbreak, all the wasted time, energy, money… You’re so much better than this.”
“Clearly not, or I wouldn’t keep coming back for seconds.” I open the car door and then glance at Jerome one final time. “Honestly? I very genuinely sort of like it.”
His face is the picture of bewilderment, bringing to mind Gigi and Ratliffe both. “Why?”
I flash the old codger a wolfish grin and step on out of the car.
“Because it’s great fucking sport.” The only one that really matters. I slam the fag’s door.
With renewed vigor I make my way towards CityWalk, reflecting that if nothing else Jerome was entirely correct about one thing—Natalie has *absolutely* given me a foot in the door with this dinner. I intend to make the most of it and then some.
Yeah, I’ll almost certainly end up getting my dick bruised at some point or three… but also fuck it, All’s Fair. 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.