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Respecting de Sade

by Dangeris F.A.G.

(Roman & Clay are two friends driven by a common psycho-sexual philosophy, who try to view everything . . . differently. They try hard---like us---like artists who know they're brilliant but not famous yet. Roman & Clay get on perfectly well. This is Part IV of a series of shorts. Underneath you'll find links to the other stories)

Romàn & Clay are snacking al fresco at the pretentious college haunt Café Picaro. They’re both in their low twenties and presently involved in a game of Balls. They have a serviceable buzz from coffee, smokes, Romàn’s primo Colombian, and plenty of ambiguously straight college boys passing by on foot and every imaginable means of wheeled transport. The boys’re the bait here, Romàn & Clay the catch. Just being scoped this intently by Romàn & Clay makes some of them scared. The game’s Clay’s idea: you stare a guy down no matter what. Sometimes feeling the heat will actually stop them, which is what Romàn & Clay want. Then it becomes totally unpredictable. Like a boy’ll ask: “What!” in some really indignant way.

Plenty of ambiguous guys passing by

    In other words, once you get him to stop you have to really bear down. And then, if he’s still there, fucking stick it to him with the line, “Sorry, dude, thought you were my ex.” You see how many guys you can get down to that. Plus bonus points if you take him “beyond.” At present they’re tired of internet hookups & sort of prefer less virtual rites of seduction.

They are tired of internet hookups

It frequently works for Romàn & Clay because they’re cute, though Romàn seems to attract more boys with his innocent banality than Clay does with his sexy but almost weird (in the sense of could be dangerous) looks. That’s why Romàn has a harder time playing the game: he has much to learn, he wants to be better, braver, he kind of admires Clay and wants to be like him, sort of in terms of having those kinds of balls.

    But you know where this is going. Inevitably Romàn spots something too interesting. He changes the game’s rules slightly by bending over and retrieving from the bricks at his feet a sheet of paper in the form of a soiled MasterCard solicitation and throwing himself into writing as though inspired.
    In half a minute he hands Clay the note. It reads:

I think you’re totally fucking nasty and I’d love to smack you up. Please say yes.

Romàn’s looking over at the kid he intends it for, sitting two tables off. Thus Clay spots him too.
    From this distance they both have to admit the kid’s extra fresh and all alone.
    “Wow,” Clay whispers.
    “Shouldn’t I?” asks Romàn pretending to get up and make its delivery. “I’ll drop it on the way back from emptying our trash.” He adds, “You think ‘nasty’ is the right word? Maybe ‘frisky.’ Or ‘tasty.’ Or do you think a note’s the wrong approach?”
    Sitting back, Clay makes himself look attractively bored. “He’s too fucking toy.”
    “No no no. I want him. I swear, my instinct tells me it’s right. Help me. Besides, he might even, you know, be . . . The One.”

From a distance they have to admit the kid's extra fresh

    What Romàn is referring to is not the vague prospect of a true relationship but rather their deep secret, his & Clay’s. Namely that they’ve challenged themselves to get a guy to let them torture him – or even not exactly let them – and see where it leads. This was interesting in the abstract but the stakes, if it really happened, are obvious. Romàn is smiling like: Ready? A real triumph for Romàn.
    Romàn’s smile reminds Clay of the place’s name. Picaro. Didn’t some college blowjob he picked up once, maybe here, tell him a picaro was this wayward episodic hero of yore or something, like Quixote only young and . . . well, sort of like Romàn? Clay might be in love with Romàn. About a month ago he even thought of cannibalizing him, which made his love feel deeper, darker for sure. Not like that’s a wrong thing, in fact it’s the ultimate compliment. He wouldn’t do it, he thinks, dine on Romàn, he just gets off on gazing at the symbolism of totally consuming somebody he loves.
    About 30 secs and Clay makes eye contact with the kid, motions him over with a dominating forefinger.

Clay makes eye contact

    The kid gets up on some really long and almost illegal-looking legs and, strangely, obeys. It’s like, to Clay and probably Romàn: now what? Or part that and part: now this.
    “Dude, you might be right,” Clay says, meaning about their secret.
    The boy makes his approach wearing medium-tight mall jeans of a reputable brand (“No comment,” thinks Clay) but his t-shirt sort of makes him. It’s lots tighter than last year’s because tight is starting to be in again in tees; here you can make out ribs and a titless chest. Closest guess, categorywise, would be proto-hipster fag. Furthermore: backpack, water bottle, obligatory phone unit, pretty far from having any facial hair. Hair on head dark, clipped to some fraction of an inch, but maybe . . . yeah, too short for the . . . outstandingness of his ears or something. But killer lips, pale cheek, a marvelous bone structure, and Romàn’s already envisioning the buttocks.
    “I love his ears,” Romàn declares.

The boy makes his approach wearing
medium-tight mall jeans of a reputable brand

They exchange meaningless chatter during which the boy says his name is Zack. Then he gives this weird spelling: X-A-Q. Xaq. To Clay that totally changes him for the worse, but Romàn doesn’t think much of it. To him Xaq’s a knockout.
    Eventually they walk on this place, knowing they’re getting bored but at the same time stoked and horny. They fit in, basically, with the student demographic. The street they choose is chic, not even zoned for fast food.
    Xaq says, “Why’d you guys call me over?” Sweet voice, bouncy eyebrow, like Xaq’s daring them both to smack down and then kiss him. And not his only nod to style, because the front of his shirt reads:


While the back says:


Romàn lets Clay answer Xaq’s query: “Wasn’t our note explicit enough?”
    “Oh. So you guys are gay?”

"You guys are gay?"

    Clay responds with a condescending sigh: “Maybe. But we prefer Power Tops. Or Boy Daddies. I guess Faggots is Ok.”
    “Cool,” says Xaq blushing, also smelling to Romàn somewhat rank with boy hormone, which plays directly into one of his singular erotic interests.
    After a few more conversations about music and other sexually muted topics Romàn invites Clay and Xaq over to his place, a path they’re already following actually. Romàn lives in a room with a bathtub over a garage in somebody’s backyard, the somebody being this black lady professor whose nosey 15-yr-old mixed-race kid spies on Romàn from his tree house and doesn’t think Romàn knows it. Down on the ground the boy treats Romàn like a celebrity or something simply because he’s in a band.
    When they get the new kid to Romàn’s they smoke him up and also drop some stimulant capsules Clay has a bottle of, followed by a muscle relaxer. Next Clay puts on one of their own “studio” efforts by which Xaq’s casually impressed. It’s no surprise when Romàn turns back around from searching for his handcuffs to find Xaq and Clay rolling around on the mattress kissing and starting to grind.
    Romàn calls this place a loft but what it is is a stuffy sweatbox with exposed rafters and a slant ceiling that constantly bashes your skull whenever you stand up. It has a nice bathtub though, over in the corner in front of the toilet. Now the two get shirtless and Clay sticks his hand down Xaq’s ever-burgeoning & sort of quivering butt, which peeks out over his red & black plaid boxers. Romàn loves watching. He feels it’s because he really gets into things visually. Or maybe he’s just insecure and even chickenshit about actually becoming intimate with strangers, but anyway that’s how it is at present as evidenced by Romàn’s personal claim on his chat profile that he’s orally curious, anally interested and possibly uninhibited. In other words exCatholic. All of which is a ruse because he’s not that innocent.

He’s orally curious, anally interested and possibly uninhibited

    The spanking of Xaq sort of gets started behind his back, meaning their subject didn’t know what Clay & Romàn had in mind till it announced itself to his revealed ass in the form of Romàn & Clay’s alternating palms in sync with their demo. Of course they’ve depantsed him and also Xaq seems willing to allow Clay to perform variations on his rectum with a thumb and then two spit-lubed fingers. Meanwhile Romàn keeps watch, maintaining a tight hold on Xaq’s dirty white-socked ankles.
    Another minute and Clay’s completely nude and aroused, but Romàn hasn’t removed anything yet, perhaps feeling that he’s less an “I” than Xaq is a “thou.” Or is it just the drugs? And on Clay’s drugs you might as well count on being brainfucked for about an hour or so.

    Seven minutes later Xaq’s dark head has begun to wobble from the effects of the pharmaceuticals. Maybe Xaq should be thinking: I’ve been dosed and there probably shouldn’t be two strange guys shoving stuff up my butthole.
    Clay asks, “Are you, like, against what we’re doing?”
    “I can’t feel it that much, I guess,” Xaq mumbles.
    “Well then . . . can you feel THIS?” Clay says ripping a chain dog collar out of Xaq’s butt.
    “Ow . . . Fuck . . .” Xaq kind of giggles, “What was that?”
    A pretty skanky smell wafts out with the chain. Wow, cold steel and sort of intestinal rot.
    “We wanna tie you up now,” says Romàn.

"We wanna tie you up now."

    Romàn loves seeing Xaq from this angle, his brown head rolling like a ball and this perfect view of his ass, which is one of those that spreads wide and runs deep. He tries to savor the smell. A boy’s butt happens to be the darkest mystery to Romàn. So much that he can’t put it into words. He hates it, for instance, when a guy in Xaq’s bracket shaves his crack, like, fortunately, Xaq does not. It’s merely a refreshing mustache surrounding the hole and a perfect gathering of caramel-colored gossamer embracing his taint and lower balls – the nakedest place there could ever be on a boy!

The nakedest place there could ever be on a boy

And sweat has started to ooze too. Romàn licks his lips, slurps the crack. Tastes like candy apple. Then Fritos.
    But something’s amiss. The still life of Xaq seems to suggest they move the agenda along. So Romàn reaches under the mattress, brings forth two sets of cuffs, which he jangles in Xaq’s sort of bony, really druggy face. “You mind?”
    “Are you gonna really hurt me?”
    Somewhat distracted in disentangling the chains, Romàn answers, “I think so.”
    “Cos you should . . . I dunno . . . put some more music on or something”
    It’s true, the noise ran out some time ago.
    Clay’s back from pissing. He backhands Xaq’s ass hard. “You got it.” He bounces off the bed looking really excited, judging from the obvious, and announces, “Buff Bataille!” typing it into Romàn’s laptop, while the other two thrill to the spectacle of Clay’s almost perfect ass cheeks bending over and spreading wide -- like they were witnessing an amazing car crash.
    But Clay’s body is no accident. When he straightens up and turns around his cock is super rigid, like a slightly upturned springboard.

Clay's body is no accident

    By now Xaq’s pretty out of it, it looks like to both of them. So Clay goes ahead and says to Romàn, “Maybe we shouldn’t torture him. Look what a total fucking pussy he is with his drugs. Hey X-A-Q, are you a fucking freshman?”
    Xaq giggles, rolls over, sits up, his cock little more than semi-hard. He’s looking shitcanned, so Romàn asks, “Are you okey?”
    Xaq brings Romàn stupidly into focus: “How come you have your, you know, clothes on?”
    “I dunno. I think I’m, like, bisexual or something. Only not the way you’re thinking. Oh never mind. It’s like another weird kind of sexuality or something. Shit, I don’t know what I meant by that. Just forget I said it. Do you want me to?”

"How come you still have your clothes on?"

    Xaq’s eyes open about a quarter. “What.”
    “Get naked or . . . I mean, do you think I’m cute or handsome or whatever?”
    “I kinda like your . . . eyes and . . . arms and stuff.”
    “Really? I really, like, adore your ears. That’s an anagram for arse, which is what Brits call your ass . . . that movie about that playwright guy that knew the Beatles & his boyfriend hacked his head to fucking hamburger with a claw hammer.” For some reason Romàn starts laughing like an imbecile.
    “Dude . . . like what happened to that ass hound guy? Aren’t you, you know, gonna mess around with me?”

He's found a candle

    “I’m right here. Spread those fucking legs, dude,” says Clay from behind. He’s found a candle amidst the trash on the floor and sparked it up. It’s one of those fat ones, orange in color and pretty squishy from the room’s soaring temp. But first Clay scoops Xaq’s balls out from underneath him, pinches the red, veiny chicken skin of his sack and applies one of those big paper clamps.
    “Wow,” Xaq says craning his neck to peer over his shoulder, “that feels . . .cold.”
    Romàn has used the intervening moments to finally get naked, realizing that inside the cup of his jockstrap underwear is already wet and sticky with pre-cum and testicle sweat. Surveying Xaq’s crack again provokes a rock-hard erection. He realizes he’s been over this territory before but it’s so amazing when it’s an ass this hot and available. But why? Maybe It’s that tangy stink of sweat mixed with ass. Maybe what’s so hot is that Xaq’s not even mature enough to shave but his ass has its own private Edenic garden, deep within a crack that opens up like a threatening bear trap. In fact, if Xaq were to fart Romàn reckons he would relish it. Romàn thinks, If Clay weren’t in charge I’d like to just conventionally top Xaq for a while, such as in a grainy amateur porn, and naturally get in on video.

He conventionally tops Xac

    But Clay’s taken the lead. At first he merely dribbles hot candlewax on the approximate summit of Xaq’s ass mound and the sweat and lube that already coat it make the liquid wax trail down into the crack and disappear in the dark. “Now watch this,” Clay says touching the flame to the upper slope. A quick line of contained forest fire shoots crevice-ward then fizzles out.
    Xaq slobbers, “That tickled.”
    “Fuck you!” Clay yells, getting more pissed off by the second. “That was supposed to hurt.” He parts the ass wider with fingers and thumb then splatters a load of hot wax directly over Xaq’s pink & purple spider.
    Romàn watches semi-repulsed while Xaq merely giggles again, even though now the smoke from his singed ass crop decidedly stinks.

Xac merely giggles again

Finally Romàn shoves Clay aside and raises Xaq to his feet, not as an act of mercy but rather to suspend him from the crossbeam with a set of cuffs. Once he’s accomplished this he’s gratified to find Xaq’s dick is even stiffer than his own and huge, engorged beyond his navel. Pubic bush politely trimmed. Jeezus! Ribs italicized in sweat. Armpits offered up like a righteous supplication.
    Now Xaq and Romàn are standing eye-to-eye, Xaq stretched vertically so he has to balance on the balls of his feet. Looks like his eyes are starting to clear a little. Must be the stimulant taking over from the downer. Xaq’s hungry peepers go down on Romàn’s massive boner. He sincerely begs, “Could you please piss on me, sir?”

“Could you please piss on me, sir?”

    Romàn’s never been called this before. It definitely gives him a selfie boost. “Easy peasy,” he says -- he’ll worry later about what this will do to the floor – and showers the naked captive with what urine he’s got, which turns out to be lots. At about the same time Xaq shivers out his own piss at Romàn. A direct hit on both sides as they begin reflexively uttering, “Fuck yeah!” and such things to each other.
    It’s almost a ceremony of love.
“Fuck, dude, I didn’t know I liked this,” Romàn confesses more to himself.
    “Me neither.”
    But guess who’s back. Just at this tender moment. And bearing what torture implements he’s managed to forage from the chaos on the floor and Romàn’s few hiding places: rubber hose, jumper cables, soldering gun, replica Nazi Iron Cross, half gallon of base primer house paint, wide leather mastiff collar, cracked bong, 2-inch threaded PVC bulkhead fitting, monkey wrench, foot and a half of rusted barbed wire, a crowbar.
“Dude,” Clay spits directly in the boy’s doomed but goofy face, “I’m gonna fucking make you cry if it kills you.”

He was destined to ascend to paradise

So it’s possible that, in the end, Xaq’s immaculate ribcage was transformed into a mighty pair of wings -- as he was destined, inevitably, to ascend to Paradise.

 <Go here for the previous R&C story, and here for the next one>

Dangeris F.A.G. (his nom de plume) lives deeply and obscurely in the American fly-over, between north and south, where he teaches creative writing at a college and is happily about to retire -- he is older than he oughta be. This is the second part of a short story collection built on Romàn&Clay's character. More will be coming.