[Breeder] Incriminating Evidence

[TheBreeder]

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During my teens and twenties, I kept the sheaf of papers in my journals. I left them folded up, tucked in the middle of one of the spiral-bound college notebooks in which I recorded my life, until I began to worry that someone might pry and find the damning evidence. I moved them from my diaries to a Greek textbook, which I thought would be surely the one place no one would ever think to snoop.

When I sold the Greek textbook the bundle of papers moved to the inside of one of my LPs until I nearly had a heart attack the day a friend wanted to listen to the record where they were hiding; they resided in a book on stagecraft after that, and then in the back of collection of Restoration poetry. In my early twenties, so the story went in my head, I destroyed them. They were too damning to keep. They were unnecessary, and sure to bring me nothing but bad luck. When I spoke of them to anybody—rarely, if ever—I always said that I’d shredded them before I’d gotten hitched, that they were lost to me, and good riddance.

Then, last weekend, as I was going through my old journals from 1983 to look up a name I’d forgotten, they fell out of a pocket. A folded sheaf of ripped-out notebook pages, ten or more, nestled in another twenty pages of photocopier paper. The entire batch was weathered and yellowed with age, and covered with the most minute of my scrawls.

It was the complete list of all the men I’d had sex with, from the time I was twelve until shortly after I turned seventeen.

For a minute I was absolutely stunned. How in the world had this relic of my past survived? I’d honestly thought it had been ripped into a thousand pieces twenty-five years ago, yet here it was, whole and unscathed and written in such tiny print that it was almost impossible for my middle-aged eyes to read.

I’d begun compiling the list of all my tricks about six months after I first got fucked. December 17, 1976, to be precise—the entire first page of entries is in the same hand and written with the same pen. I don’t know what possessed me to start cataloguing every sexual encounter a few days before my thirteenth Christmas, but I do have a dim memory of thinking it was important to keep track. I wrote down everything from those first six months in one long sitting, alone in my adolescent room, rock hard the entire time, stopping only when called down to dinner and then picking it up again immediately after.

When I say I recorded every sexual encounter, that’s exactly what I mean. With the uncanny precision of a future accountant or a catalog librarian, I recorded everything in the tiniest handwriting possible. I’m talking some serious Lord’s-Prayer-on-a-grain-of-rice microscopic script. I wrote down not only the date of every encounter, but a number of other characterizing details. Name, if I got one. A brief description, if I didn’t. Age, if I could tell. Where we met and where we played. Each encounter got a number. If I played with the guy more than once, I’d cross-reference so I could see how many times I’d been with the guy.

I started recording every sexual act with a symbols that I could only decipher now by picking out encounters I remembered, recalling what I did during them, and figuring out that the + sign meant he sucked me, while the - sign meant I sucked him. An 0 meant a simple handjob; a @ was my subtle way of saying that I got fucked.

The dollar sign meant something else. Industrious little beaver that I was, I managed to record every dollar amount guys offered me in exchange for my attentions. The first six months are kind of sketchy on details, but after I started keeping the list, I kept a tally not only of how much I got for each encounter, but a running total of how much I’d grossed to date. The cumulative total continues for about three years, when I reached a point that it seemed embarrassing to go on.

Some of those details, though. Jeez. They bring back memories so sharp and strong that it’s a wonder that I ever forgot them.

Chris. Redhead. 40. Apples. Bryan Park picnic table + - @

I probably haven’t thought about Chris, if that was his name, or his bright head of hair the color of a carrot, since the evening he picked me up by the waterfall in the park I used to cruise near my parents’ house. He smelled of green apples when I followed him from the tree where I’d pretend to be relaxing with my bike to the picnic shelter up the road. When he pulled me around the corner and thrust his tongue into my mouth by the empty stone fireplace, he tasted of apples, too. I remember how sweet and shy he’d seemed by the waterfall when he’d asked me if my folks knew I was out late. Once we were alone though, he’d been aggressive and hungry, making me strip my clothes off so that he could fuck me on my back, right there on one of the splintery wooden picnic tables. I had marks on my shoulders for a week after he was done slamming a load into me like some kind of rutting bull.

Jim. Dk. hair mustache, 30. License plate LILJIM. Azalea Mall parking lot. - @

Oh, how I remember Li’l Jim, when I was fourteen. He had been staring at me from the window of his battered pickup truck for almost a half hour as I biked around the trails of the park. His mustache was like a bristle brush, and his eyes like obsidian. Like a good little redneck, he sported a confederate flag in the truck’s rear window and wore a red plaid shirt with his 501s. I couldn’t tell whether he wanted me, or whether he wanted to beat me up—not until I finally got up the nerve to bike close to the driver’s side window. When I looked at him, he looked down at his crotch. I followed his gaze and saw six inches of erect and dripping dick in his hand. He’d been stroking himself the entire time he’d been watching me.

He drove us to the parking lot of a nearby mall and made me suck him until he fed me a load. Then he pulled down my pants, spanked me until my cheeks were red, and somehow managed to fuck me on the truck’s floor until he delivered another load in my hole. Then rough, tough Li’l Jim, so cocky that he’d put his own name on his license plate, broke down into tears and told me that he’d never fucked a boy before, but that his wife had given birth to a son three months before and that he was so horny that he hadn’t been able to stand it any more. Before I left, he extracted from me a promise to see him again, but he never showed at the time we set, and I never did see that pickup truck ever again.

? Blond bad skin, 45, chewing gum. Riverbank. - @ $50

“If you wear this and let me fuck you against that tree, I’ll give you this.” One of the blond man’s hand held a blue bandana, twisted into a rope. The other held a bill with the face of Ulysses S. Grant. He’d once been handsome, perhaps, but years of too much sun and tobacco had made him old and rough before his time. I remember nodding and hugging an oak that grew along the path by the riverside park. Both the blindfold and the tree’s bark bit into my skin as he pounded away at my butt with his small uncut dick. When it was over and I had sperm dripping down my leg, he zipped up, then snatched back his bandana without even unknotting it, and thrust it into his back pocket. Then he tossed the bill on the ground before I’d even managed to get my pants from around my ankles. I had to scramble for it before one of the nighttime summer breezes swept it off and into the James below.

Each one of those lines is a story of its own, each with vivid sensations and scents and smells and associations of desire or repugnance. And yet, for every one that I remember with clarity, there are two or three more that mean nothing. Harry, 40, coconut oil green car means nothing to me, nor does the name Arthur Schulman, who gave me gifts of twenty or thirty dollars for mere handjobs, over and over again. There are dozens upon dozens of men whose names and faces I’ve forgotten, just as they’ve likely forgotten the skinny kid from the parks and restrooms who gave them a few minutes of temporary pleasure and respite from their everyday cares. Or, I don’t know. Maybe there are a few Chrises and Li’l Jims with occasional good memories of a really blond, bony, easy kid who made them feel good. It’d be nice to think so.

The story in my head—the one I used to think was true before I realized I’d never destroyed the pages at all—was that after I turned seventeen, I added up the totals from the pages and realized that I’d hit a big milestone number of men I’d fucked around with. One of those big, round milestone numbers. Not so large that McDonalds would’ve changed their signs nationwide to trumpet it. It wasn’t 100 billion or anything. And it wasn’t mere encounters. That is, I wasn’t counting the second or more time I’d see a man. The number that startled me was of the actual different guys I’d sucked off or been fucked by, and it was a startlingly high number. Instead of swearing off sex, though, I decided to forego the bookkeeping from then on. I folded up the list and decided to shred it, so that no one would ever find it and know what a little tramp I’d been.

Only I didn’t shred my records, apparently. I meant to. It seems as if I forgot, or put it off, and then assumed I’d done the deed, once the original impulse cooled.

I’m glad I didn’t, in a way. The evidence of my sluttery is incontrovertible, but it’s a part of me I can honor these days. I did what I liked and enjoyed it. I followed my dick where it led me. And I have stories to tell and to remember because of it.

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