[Breeder] A Very Bad Day

[TheBreeder]

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One of my blog readers asked, on formspring.me, the following:

am I correct in assuming (a) that your father is still unaware that you’re a whore & (

that you’re still not out to him?

It’s one of those yes or no: do you still beat your wife? questions with which it’s impossible to win, so let me just say this about that. If having an actual sex life instead of masturbating to internet porn makes me a whore, then yes, I’m a total whore. Thank you for noticing!

The assumption is not correct, though. My father is forever tied up in the events of the first of the really bad things that have happened to me over the years that I tend to call The Six Worst Days Of My Life. And the first really bad day of my life went a little something like this.

I led an elaborate double-life in my teens. To my family I was the perfect child. I got straight As in school and eventually graduated as valedictorian. I excelled on my SATs. I played multiple musical instruments, participated in band and choir, did every extra credit assignment, and participated in every extracurricular activity I could in order to plump out my college resume. I played tennis and lacrosse and swam competitively.

And yet from middle school on, I was sucking dick and getting fucked in restrooms and parks across the city every chance I got. I’d tell my parents I was going to the public library to study, and I’d spend hours in the basement there, hunkered down on the floor feeding on dicks beneath the stall. I’d travel with my mom or dad to their university offices, ostensibly to research one of those extra-credit projects in the library, but mostly so I could research how much cum I could take through the second-floor men’s restroom gloryhole. In good weather the long, healthy bike rides I’d take in the great outdoors instead of staying inside and watching TV like my contemporaries, were more likely than not to end up in one of the local parks or along the riverfront cruising spots, where I’d lock up the bike and spend hours pedaling the air while guys held up my legs and fucked me.

I was adept at juggling the two lives. I’d get all my schoolwork done during classes and lunch, so that once my extracurriculars were taken care of, my free time and weekends could be devoted to sex chasing. My parents both worked full time and at odd hours, so I looked after myself. For my purposes, it worked out well.

I planned to spend the summer of my fifteenth year as I’d spent the previous three—cruising for dick and perhaps scoring some quick cash in my favorite cruising spots. I’d wake up early in the mornings, hang around the house and read or watch television until eleven, and then hop on my bike and spend the day in the parks, not returning until around seven for dinnertime. Sometimes I’d head out again after that. Most days I’d head to Bryan Park, a spot perhaps a mile from my parents’ house known for its spectacular banks of colorful azaleas in the spring.

The front half of the park was where the rednecks parked their trucks and drank beer in the picnic shelters; the back half was where the cruisers drove endlessly up and down the road or walked trails where one might spy naked bodies fucking in wooded, out-of-the-way places. The two demographics rarely overlapped. Though I liked it, when they did.

And they did to a certain extent, that Bad Day. Usually I liked positioning myself down by the duck pond near the entrance to the park’s cruisy drive. From a spot beneath a tree where I pretended to read, I could scan the men driving in to the park, pick out the ones I liked and played with before or the new guys who looked hot, and either let them pick me up and take me somewhere to play, or trail behind them so I could lean in their car window and talk about the things I wanted to do for them.

The morning of the Bad Day, I arrived late to the park, for some reason. Figuring that most of the action was taking place either in the dank restrooms at the road’s end, or on the trails behind, I rode my bike into the shady oaks and chained it in the picnic shelter.

Several cars were already parked near the restrooms. The men’s room was a mold-infested and grubby spot that today I’d shudder to enter without a bucket of disinfectant, but in those days I didn’t care. Two guys were already sucking each other in one of the two stalls. One of them looked at me when I walked in, but didn’t bother to close the stall door. I remember wearing yellow Ocean Pacific shorts with a running stripe down one side that day, and some kind of white T-shirt. I liked the shorts because they had an elastic waist that could easily be slid up and down my legs without much notice. I pulled them down my nuts, started stroking my already-hard cock, and watched the two go at it.

My dick was almost at full growth by that age, but that wasn’t what most men wanted from me. The guy getting sucked quickly changed from his buddy’s mouth to mine. I sucked him and swallowed the load as my reward. For the next hour guys came in and left—a steady stream, with never less than two or three waiting their turn. Most of them wanted head. I’d gobble and slobber over their dicks with my eyes closed, sucking and slurping until they’d shoot a wad on my lips. Some of them fucked me. They’d me over toilet in the far stall, rub their hands over my ass, and work their way in.

By two in the afternoon I had three loads in my hole and more in my throat, and still had two guys working on me. The little bathroom stunk of sex and cum. It was hot; the only ventilation came from the opening door and a pair of little horizontal windows louvered open over each toilet stall. I don’t remember much about the two guys, save for that they were from the rougher, redneck side of the park. One was grizzled and had eyes bloodshot from booze or pot, and wore a plastic trucker cap (it was back in the days before that particular item was the hipster’s badge of irony) that fell from his head as he fucked me. “Ain’t never fucked no boy before,” he kept murmuring to himself the entire time. He came noisily, as if he was hacking up a furball, and left his load in his ass with the three others.

The redneck lingered around for a couple of minutes when the last guy shoved his dick inside me. I remember it had a huge mushroom head, but a skinny little stem. I didn’t much care. I was in heat, rapt in my own little daze at the sensations of dick after dick in my holes. I was clutching so hard onto the toilet hardware that my fingers were striped—white in some places, deep red in others. The redneck rubbed his jaw and stumbled out the door, leaving me along with my top.

I still have an impression of him as being kind of doughy in shape, bald, and blue-eyed—one of the butterballs that Virginia’s good at serving up. I’d certainly never seen him before, nor me, but neither of us cared about that, either. He was enjoying a piece of ass and I was into my third hour of non-stop sex when the awful thing happened.

I didn’t hear the police announce themselves, though I suppose they did. All I know is that through the rush of blood in my ears and in my cock I heard the restroom door slamming against the wall with a bang, followed by sounds of footsteps, and of loud voices and yelling. Something hit my back. I stumbled forward and banged my head against the tile wall. When I blinked and looked up, I saw a pair of feet dangling out of the little window overhead. Damned if the butterball hadn’t used me to vault to the top of the partition, and then scrabbled his way out of the ventilation window. I, in the meantime, was left behind with my yellow OP pants on the ground and semen dripping down my legs. I was dazed; my forehead had a slight cut and was bleeding. A polite officer stood in front of me with his hands on his hips, regarding me as if I was the most disgusting thing on earth.

I’m still confused about what happened next. There were questions, and demands to know what I was doing. The male officer was so offended by me that he could barely look at me; a female officer did most of the grilling. I was so much in shock that I can’t even remember what I said, but I know it wasn’t much. Some instinct of self-preservation told me to divulge no more than my name and address and phone number, and not to commit to much else. I ended up sitting in the back of the police cruiser that sat outside with flashing lights, wondering how in the world I’d been so unlucky.

I was scared. I’d never before been so scared in my life. I’d been vaguely aware that there was always a danger of being caught in those places, but it had seemed so remote and unlikely that I’d forgotten to watch out for myself—and this was the result. I didn’t know what was going to happen. Would I go to jail? How long would I have to stay there? Would they publish my name in the newspapers? I thought I’d read somewhere that they printed the names of homosexuals in the newspapers, for everyone to read.

While I waited, and sweated, and stunk up the squad car, the police officers chatted with each other. The woman pointed up to the window through which the guy who’d been fucking me had made his unlikely escape. While her partner paced with his arms crossed, she walked around the building. Finally they both returned the car, got in, and started the engine.

They ended up taking me somewhere far worse than a police station. They took me home. I don’t know whether I looked young and pitiful enough, or whether with the dried blood on my forehead made it look as if I’d been forced. Or perhaps, and this is my theory, the crime back then simply didn’t merit an uproar. It was a different era, after all, and a time in which a lot of these things were either overlooked or swept under the table. All I knew then is that while I sat in the police car with the male officer, who sighed every ten seconds as if he’d rather be anywhere else, the female officer sat in my house with my father. My mother, thankfully, was not at home.

After what seemed like an eternity, the other officer and my father came out of the house and stood on the front stoop. The male officer let me out. When I approached the door, the female officer said that she’d told him everything I’d been doing, and that they didn’t want to have to see me again. She seemed to want some kind of answer, so I nodded and mumbled something. I didn’t want to look either her or my father in the eye.

The worst part, though, was afterward. With the door shut, and the police car gone, the silence between my father and I was deafening. We were on the precipice of a conversation I never intended to have. I was numb, however, and frozen, and unwilling to make the first move. In fact, I remember feeling certain that I’d turned to stone, and might remain in that rigid posture against the front door for the rest of my life.

At last my father spoke. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

A long silence followed. “Were you doing what they said?”

I nodded, but the lump in my throat prevented me from saying anything.

My father would have been not much older than I am now, on that bad day. And this is how cool he was: he walked over to me, took me in his arms, and gave me a soft, considerate hug. Then he rubbed my shoulder, held me at arm’s length, and said, “Please be careful.”

I think that shocked me most of all. I’d expected to be reviled, and instead he showed me kindness. For the first time since I’d arrived home I looked into his eyes, where I saw a multitude of emotions at war. There was pity, and fear, and flashes of anger. Mostly, however, I saw sympathy. “You should clean up before your mother gets home,” he advised. In answer to a question I could never ask, he responded, “There are some things she doesn’t have to know about.”

That was the soft landing to my very bad day. We didn’t speak about it again, though there were certain consequences, a couple of years later.

Monday night, I was taking my dad to a Thai restaurant on the far side of town. We had to drive down the long hill along which the park lies, and I let my gaze slide sideways to the waterfall visible from the road. “Yeah,” said my dad, looking in that direction too. “You know, they blocked off the road that leads through the park.”

“Oh really?” I asked casually. Very casually.

“I guess there was stuff going on they wanted to discourage,” he said. “It’s a pretty park, though.”

“It is a pretty park,” I murmured.

And that’s really as close as we’ve come in thirty years to discussing it.

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