Razi and the House of Usher, or: Rimbaud's headache

By Dangeris F.A.G.


(Romàn & 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. Romàn & Clay get on perfectly well. This is Part V of a series of shorts):


Days later,  Romàn is hovering naked over the center of his own chaos in his sweatbox crib atop a two-car garage. He’s not high exactly but he’s still reeling from days of low-end partying. Squatting over a clear place in all the crap he lets himself drop backwards, unfolding in crucifix position—only horizontal. His feet and hands  feel for stuff: a pair of cum-hardened underwear, someone’s beer can ashtray, cracked bong, belt he’s been using for slapping the willing on the ass or allowing them to lash him, somebody’s soiled t-shirt stuck to a stiffened rubber, empty popper bottle, wad of paper towel—or is that balled up notebook paper where he rejected some attempted lyrics?

 He’s just emerged from a tepid bubble-bath, where he’d also fed on the remains of a box of cinnamon Pop Tarts. His mind wanders into the future as far as tonight, and his thinking goes: I can’t figure out what to wear.

I can't figure out what to wear!

    He doesn’t really have any place to go anyway. It’s that eerie part of the day, around 4:30 p.m. in the middle of the week. But he’s digging the feeling of his bare bod starting to cool and dry while also beginning to sweat. Knowing he’d eventually go for it, he grabs down on his nuts, feeling his tool engorge. Jeezus, being a guy’s fucking sweet shit sometimes! Fingers encircling the miracle,  Romàn squeezes his eyes shut and edits into his favorite video scene lately: an orgy in one of the old Aspen series, this one blond in particular who’s so ass horny he shoots way early from a measly fingerbang on the couch. Instinctively the first two fingers of his left hand worm their way up his tightening, hirsute butt slit. Perspiration and the body oil of his scented bubble bath take care of lube.


Romàn, Romàn!

A minute later, and pretty close to getting off,  Romàn hears his name. Was that for real? Or just some self-centered hallucination? His conscience? (He was a Catholic.) He drops the ball and gives it a couple seconds, deciding his superego probably wouldn’t summon him by name in the voice and form of the guy he’s visualizing. Then he hears it again, only this time it’s “Yo, Ro-mahn-O!”

     Romàn comes to his feet in failing erection and stumbles to where he’s sure the kid’s voice came from. Which leads to the place’s weirdest feature: a sliding glass door to nowhere -- step out and you drop. The landlady, Dr. something, told him she intended to build a deck out there but for sentimental reasons couldn’t deal with chopping down the major oak tree standing ten yards in front of it.  Romàn has his mattress just inside this leafy aperture because it’s his only natural light source and if he wakes up alone he likes to see something living. Could he be one of those artists who doesn’t crave solitude? Anyway, the tree’s where the landlady’s kid Razi likes to scale up and spy on  Romàn.

Soon as  Romàn reaches the door the tree starts thrashing kind of violently, like it’s in the path of an understated hurricane.

     Romàn’s boner’s gone to shit.

    The branches stop shaking. “Wassup?” he says. The kid’s barely visible through the foliage. Screams he: “You jaybird fuckin’ badass naked yo!”
    “You got a Mohawk,”  Romàn can tell. He tries not to giggle. Also Razi looks near-naked himself.
    “Word, motherfucker. Think I’m not seriously aware?”
    Truth is: this “loft” used to be the kid’s domain until his mom, a single black professor, needed the money or something and rented it to  Romàn. Likely Razi thinks the premises are still his, because  Romàn’s sure Razi breaks in when he’s not here and cops his choicest shit. For instance:

1.    Selections from his rare vinyl collection,
2.    Notebook containing his latest original songs,
3.     Romàn brings home only the skankiest beer but, even so, much of it disappears.
4.    He came home recently to discover his computer on when it wasn’t supposed to be. That time, he checked his history and, sure enough, the log indicated the fucking klepto had downloaded and copied not only  Romàn’s bookmarked porn but also his own self-produced videos with hookup guys who didn’t mind being documented having sweaty sex on cam. Razi also peered in to his private, personal, innermost writings, entitled “Rimbaud’s Headache.”
5.    Furthermore: some weed and Adderall, some ripe underwear, definitely his leather jockstrap, and most recently  Romàn’s armless orange jersey, an original, reading FUCK DYKES on the front and I HATE NEW YORK on the back.

The underwear even reappears, laundered.

Weird thing: except for the beer, computer data and drugs, Razi always brings the stuff back. The underwear even reappears laundered, smelling like a dryer sheet.  Romàn thinks it’s sort of cool that Razi borrows some intimate apparel, but what about the fact that he’s seriously underage?
    He decides to address Razi frontally: “Quit trying to talk thug. You cop my orange sleeveless, dude?”

The tree shivers and stops


  The tree shivers and stops: “I been like lifting a lotta your shit, Romie. But that one shirt’s totally unright for me, I was just into how it looked and smelled like you, but then it got boring. It’s in the current wash, I think. Dude, I can really like check you out from this here.”
    “How long you been spying on me?”
    “Um, maybe like, I dunno, six times?”
    “Are you into me or something?”
    “Rome, I’m like totally in love with you! Wankin’ your big dick & all like that! You so . . . I dunno.”
    “Why’d you bother me then?”
    “Why you think, dude?”
     Romàn thinking.
    “Um, I’m just fuckin’ with you, Rome.”
    “Oh. Are you saying that cos you think I’ll, like, freak or whatever if you mean it?”
    “Well, I’m pretty into you. But I guess I don’t really know if I love you. We gotta get closer, know what I’m sayin’?”
    This isn’t working. Razi in a tree, it’s too much like talking to those talking trees in that biosphere trip from  Romàn’s pointless middle-school days. “You wanna beer?”
    “Seriously?”
    Plopping down on the ground, Razi lets out a war cry in which practically everything in his lungs rips through the air.
    Which makes  Romàn worried that Razi’s too unstable, but then he thinks, That was a pretty cool fucking yell or war cry or whatever.

    When Razi comes upstairs he does have a Mohawk, and face paint in white, red, green and black, in up and downward stripes along his cheeks and jaws, vaguely like tiger whiskers. His skin is very sweet latte but he’s jumpy, twitchy, like he needs his ADD meds. Flashing on  Romàn’s bass, Razi goes for it. His build is vintage twink, tall for a mid-teen, wired all over. And all he’s wearing is sharkskin cutoffs. Places on his back, calves, ribs, upper and lower arms are scraped raw by the tree, even a few darkening blood smears, but on Razi’s body they’ll be healed in seconds. Some of his teeth are pointy. Now he’s trying to flow on  Romàn’s unamplified bass, which sounds like almost nothing.


Vaguely like tiger whiskers


The instrument’s pure shit from being bashed around onstage; nevertheless, he tells Razi, “Don’t harm that or I’ll kick your ass. You want this?”
    “Fuck yeah!” He grabs the can from  Romàn’s left hand.
    “Don’t tell your old lady. What’s up with the face paint?”
    “I been, like, goin’ around this way. I’m gettin’ people to notice me.”
    “What for?”
    “Palestinian colors, yo.” Razi quits riffing it on  Romàn’s Fender to say, “Dude, they kicked me outa St. Aloysius for this here.” (Oh, that’s right, his mom told  Romàn she had Razi enrolled in this private Catholic school.) “My dad’s a Palestinian jihad motherfucker! They axed me the same dumbshit question and I told ‘em ‘It’s war paint, bitches! Aah-ight?’ It’s trippy. Tell you, Romie, I’m gonna kick some ass when I get older. I can kick Mom’s ass already. Hey” – Razi’s killing it on the silent bass again, he’s starting to get too freaky. He actually yells, “Get me in your band doin’ somethin’!”
     Romàn thinks teens are the only people that’re even slightly interesting when they’re not on drugs or their selfie-phones.

   
Vaguely like the colors of the Palestinian flag.


After some beer Razi mellows out a little and eventually lays aside the bass and wanders over to one of the cleaner looking carpet scraps littering the floor. But before anything further he removes his cutoffs and dropkicks them toward  Romàn. No underwear even. Stretching out on his side Razi says, “It’s trippy – I’d like give anything to be, like, what I seen you guys doin’ to that boy the other day. Guess I could really get off on bein’, you know, that guy. You know, that dude you and your boy did all that shit to? Are you into, like, not takin’ your clothes off or what? Cos, I dunno, I mean I see your big ass dick a lot. Which you need to get it up right now. But that time with that total masochist dude, you wouldn’t even get down on his ass. I woulda. And he was like axin’ for it, man. I heard all that shit.”
    “Yeah.”  Romàn’s listening but he’s thoroughly, and at the same time guardedly, scoping Razi as a nude portrait model. “That must’ve looked weird. I got naked later, I think. I guess I fucked him.”
    “Bummer. Shit, I musta crashed. I done messed that shit up.”
     Romàn’s spread out spiderlike on a pretty deflated bean cushion, his genitals draping prominently. “So, do you always think of sex as creating . . . positive tension? Cos I was getting something else that time with that guy Xaq. Like . . . cumming as a form of bleeding. I mean, sometimes I guess I go into total Roderick Usher when I cum.”

    Razi doesn’t say anything.

     Romàn watches himself get an erection. “Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to bleed, you know, for real, like from a gun, an exploding bullet blasting out your intestines and organs and liver and all that shit”

    Sitting up, it’s obvious Razi’s already gone full boner. Which is exciting because Razi doesn’t care if it’s exciting, and you wouldn’t know he’s uncut because his dickhead’s popping out of its sleeve and it’s already leaking precum. “You totally trippin’, Rome. You freakin’ me, man. You do too much drugs or some shit.”
    “I have to!”  Romàn cries, “I’m in a band!”

They have pretty interesting sex.  Romàn’s not into guys this young ordinarily, but he’s always wished to tap a true virgin, which he reckons Razi is. As for the underage part,  Romàn’s mentor Clay asserts that breaking the law is a good enough reason to fuck somebody. After all, there’s only a few years’ difference in age, maybe 7 or 8. So he’s careful to lube and work on Razi’s unaccustomed anus digitally for what seems an adequate but truly enjoyable prostate exam. When positioned on hands & knees, Razi’s solid ass cheeks form a wedge, then funnel down to absolute metacenter.


They have pretty interesting sex

During these preliminaries Razi hums and alternately curses, and when he does his anal noose strangles the base of  Romàn’s first couple fingers. Wow! But one of  Romàn’s favorite things is the odors involved – in this case Razi’s body is redolent of tree, milkshake, viscera, possibly fear.
When  Romàn’s penis makes its arrival it’s maybe 3 times the bang his fingers had been.

Razi, on his end, travels to another world, featuring sparkling, kaleidoscopic colors. In his right hand his junk nozzle feels like sticky candy, a slippery bathtub toy. With every lunge past his undefended gate Razi experiences a whole vision: winged angel, daily bread, perfect shit, driver’s license, proof of age, Sister Mary Twatclit, Father Davenport, smoking gun, juvie judge, Coltrane solo, G.I. Joe, mounted bareback Indian warrior, suicide bomber, cruise missile, Yukio Mishima, Jesus, Diablo, cockring. . . .


The right hand on his junk nozzle feels pretty candy.

But then  Romàn stops fucking him.

Razi opens teary eyes. He’s on his back, on the mattress, legs splayed, toes curling, cracking. He brings  Romàn’s sweaty brow and friendly face into focus.
“Don’t cry. I’m almost done.”
“Nah. Don’t get done, Rome! . . . Who’s cryin’? I’m feelin’ this shit . . . for real. Damn, dude, stick that shit back in!”

 Romàn sticks it back in. (Clay’s gonna love it when I tell him about this.) He only popped out because he was getting close. He’d been thinking, This is super-rape, I’m giving this kid his maiden voyage, first holy communion, his virgin blood & body bath. Possibly it’s that symbolic, which is why  Romànis being so solemn about it. But why is Razi crying again? Can he be so forward-thinking in his theology that he’s actually impersonating the martyr in order to write all this down in his silly selfish psycho-journal?

Already  Romàn’s feeling the magic again, the splooge rising in his . . . -- Shit, I just took a bath and went forth to wank on the floor when . . . this happened. “Fuck yeah!” he blurts—hoisting the boy up toward the rafters, completely off the ground, to meet him in his triumph—while Razi’s making wild animal noises—that is, if an animal was being bounced into air with this hard rhythm, this piston-thumping ferocity in its jimmy. The naked boy weighs almost nothing in this context, like he’s just a balloon, and he’s really having fun bobbing his Mohawk forward and back while the Palestinian colors blur in surrender. Even the little puffy farts escaping Razi’s tightening butt gasket indicate true love and trust.

Already, Romàn is feeling the magic again.

Maybe what explains Razi’s exuberance is he broke into  Romàn’s personal files. A lot of this may be guesswork but  Romàn wonders if Razi saw that thing about when he killed his little brother, or his narrator did. Probably. It’s left ambiguous. Funny how this masterpiece resembled in some ways the present scenario. As it happened, Nico, the little brother in question but only by a year, had reached the age where he was racing around the house naked and out of control in the vicinity of their shared room and back & forth to the bathroom for what Nico swore were legitimate reasons.  Romàn the writer decided that what Nico needed was discipline and supervision (emphasis on “super” and “vision” and “discipline”), all of which were unforthcoming from the distant, negligent mom & dad -- and that’s the last time the ‘rents were mentioned.  Romàn couldn’t help noticing that Nico’s groin hair had finally grown in, which signified his entry to “the dance.”


Romàn decided that Nico needs more discipline.


A series of fierce battles ensued and in no time it surfaced that Nico really enjoyed being immobilized and scared. While grinding his teeth in heroic submission, he begged to be brought to his limits. Okay, thought  Romàn. So they became sweetly bonded as  Romàn/older bro started relieving Nico of his hypertension. And as Nico’s sexual “nature” evolved the kindness and understanding part of the equation mutated and things became experimental – in the region of gnawing, chewing, some light bondage and abuse, the introduction of various small penetration toys.
Unlike  Romàn, Nico had a killer young athlete’s body. And neither was  Romàn backward in his role as jailor/despoiler. He was the intrepid “global” explorer, so eventually he moved it down south to Nico’s equator, to the parts that needed little further stimulation, frankly. They worked each other up to skin-breaking and then the inevitable blood-letting.

 Romàn was literally shocked at himself throughout this writing; he suffered fits of wrenching sentiment over the dimensions into which his imagination was plunging him. One time he was the delicate surgeon removing a bullet from Nico’s brave hip, just below the holster belt. At other times  Romàn played a more sadistic role and had to gag Nico before his screams brought the police. Though the blood-letting began with a fingertip it evolved to some of the hidden places: shoulder blade, heaving ribcage, quivering thigh, any place on his ass that wasn’t part of the rectum wall or sphincter tissue. He actually pierced Nico’s scrotum with a sewing needle and hung one of Mom’s earrings.


At other times, Romàn played a more sadistic role.

And so it happened. One dark and stormy night  Romàn woke from a stuporous dream. Nico had been there and alive a minute ago, it seemed, their legs and arms overlapping, but now he was gone. Gone into the cold distance. Everything quiet as the tomb. As if leaving a scent or trail of blood, Nico had left the distinct impression that his brother was meant to seek him out and protect or even rescue him from the dastardly whims of The Other. Groggy, as if in a drug state,  Romàn got up on shaky legs and went searching for Nico, or Nico’s corpse – for some reason he expected the worst – passing along endless corridors and peering into countless dark chambers. His chest began to pound moments before he arrived at the last chamber in the maze. He was scared shitless and nearly lost it when it all came back, what he and Nico had been doing moments before he blacked out.

Just around this corner. . . . Now he could recall vividly the exact locus, the final, blood soaked spectacle of Nico’s body. It would be draped over the love seat, an arm thrown back to hide part of his laughing face . . . Check that . . . the shrieking mouth  Romàn now remembers seeing was actually a gaping incision in Nico’s throat, from which most of the blood was flowing.

When he turns the fateful corner and slowly approaches the rubble of Nico’s body his stomach turns. After all, he cannot not look, not return, revisit and somehow come to terms with what he’d done to his beloved little brother. All the blood is seriously real! Oh God! He flips Nico over to discover the pretty boy’s once-proud ass ruined beyond recognition. It’s what he’d feared most. Who could’ve . . . ? Look. Look what the rest of the mediocre world has lost. It’ll never look like an ass again. It’s not an ass at all now. More like . . . our mom’s blackberry cobbler.

Anyway, that’s enough of it to tell it’s just stupid melodrama, intended to attract a certain adolescent gay male readership. But if Razi read it then maybe it did what  Romàn understands was his authorial intention. Besides, while doing the gothic nightmare was scary, it also made  Romàn, through the many long days and hours of composing his, to date, masterpiece – it made him totally suffer the guilt he was pseudo-suffering. Most of all, he had to admit he’d always wanted a little brother like Nico.


So, now, here he is, Romàn.


So now here he is,  Romàn, getting ready to hose his nut into the coal black grotto between Razi’s powerfully clenching legs. Just like God, or Satan, was pulling the strings. Razi’s O-ring has formed an inescapable vacuum sucking in  Romàn’s punishing, bruising cock. He’s definitely going to blow his seed in 3-2-1 . . .
“Don’t cry, dude. I’m almost there.”
So you may imagine how this far-from-innocent juvenile cries out in his delirium while his warm sticky smelly spunk ropes out to everywhere: hanging from his nose and eyebrow, striking even the slanted ceiling above -- when simultaneously  Romàn’s own seed jets through Razi’s love canal and blasts even deeper inside, maybe as far as Razi’s dizzy loopy wacko brain.

It’s been perfect as to timing and almost everything else. Intimate and personal. Definitely felonious. And  Romàn has no regrets beyond wondering, once he regains his post-coital mind and breath: What now?

<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 fifth part of a short story collection built on Romàn & Clay's character. More will be coming.


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