[Breeder] The Other One

[TheBreeder]

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During the first three or four months of my relationship with Earl, during my mid-teens—and by extension with his boyfriend, Jim—I always felt as if I were in competition with the unseen entity known as ‘the other one.’ There were a few hard facts I’d gleaned about the other one, just from how he was invoked in casual conversation between the two, from time to time. I knew he was roughly my age. I gathered he lived in the same vague area of the city, when they would talk about how it was a ten-minute walk from their place back to his home. And I guessed from Earl’s comments about how I was his blond-headed boy that the other one was probably brown-haired.

I can’t say the jealousy I felt when the other one was mentioned was anything more than theoretical. I knew Earl liked his boys. Back in the nineteen-seventies, I might add, the notion of an adult man enjoying sex with a sexually-mature youth not yet of voting age didn’t carry the hysterical edge or the knee-jerk cries for incarceration and blood that it does today. To most people it might have carried an unsettling ‘ick’ factor, but no more than homosexuality at large. No, it was a very different time, and I wasn’t bothered that Earl had a taste for younger flesh. After all, I was still doing anyone and everyone in the parks and restrooms, when I wasn’t at Earl’s place.

Most of the sense of competition came directly from the back-handed comments Jim would make from time to time. “The other one’s more fun,” he’d complain, when ordered by Earl to take his joints to his room. Or, when Jim would mount me and stab at my ass for a minute with his hard little prick, “The other one’s a better fuck, don’t you think?” From Jim I gathered that the other one was more likely to go along with Jim’s suggestions, to flatter Jim, to curry his favor. Whenever it involved sharing a joint or popping some pills before, during, or after sex, the other one always came out ahead, in Jim’s eyes. But then again, for all I knew, Jim was equally as snide with the other one when they were fucking. Even in my teens, I could tell Jim had that kind of personality.

From other men at the parties Jim would throw, though, I got the impression that I was better fuck. I knew (and still well know) that men will say all kinds of things when they’ve got something desirable between their legs, but I would get a thrill of a special kind when one of Earl’s buddies would whisper into my ear, “Yeah—you’re a lot hotter fuck than the other kid. I like the way you give it up.” Or, as they grunted into me, they might confess that they’d fucked the other one, but had saved their loads for my hole. I already cherished the thought that while the other kid was relegated during the parties to the mattress in Jim’s third-floor garrett, I was cushily installed in the master bedroom. The star role, as it were, seemed to be mine.

Knowing that staved off Jim’s barbed words. Most of the time.

It was on a regular weekday afternoon at Earl’s house that he asked a question of me. By then I’d worked maybe two or three of his parties and knew what to expect from them. I’d collected my money from the tip jars; Earl had helped me open up my savings account. I remember I was in Earl’s bed, legs in the air while he handled me like a wheelbarrow. He was in mid-fuck when Jim loped in, cigarette in hand. I was aware of him watching us from the doorway for a long time, and could smell the stink of his tobacco clouding the room more and more with every passing moment.

Maybe he’d been warned by Earl that day not to interrupt him at his pleasures. I don’t know. I do know that unlike other afternoons, Jim didn’t interrupt the sex with his mundane observations and concerns. He waited until Earl’s cock had released a huge load of semen into my bowels and slid out, still red and throbbing, before he picked something between his front teeth and said, “So did you ask him?”

Earl didn’t even look at him. “Not yet.”

“Are you gonna?”

Earl stared at the wall over the bed, obviously annoyed. “I intend to.”

“So ask him.”

“I’m going to.”

“So ask him!”

In my memory, Jim and Earl seemed always to be having these pointless back-and-forths that often blossomed into full-blown arguments. I always remember Jim starting them. Admittedly, I’m biased. I worshiped Earl in those days. He was the handsomest man I knew. When he paid attention to me, a blush would form at the very tip-top of my skull and travel down my spine, leaving me flushed and tingly and out of breath. Jim never had that same effect. I didn’t like him. I didn’t trust him. In many ways, I felt his emotional and maturational superior.

Earl sighed, though, and gave in. He fell onto his side and hugged me close. From the doorway, I could hear the faintest hiss as Jim took a long, heavy drag on his cigarette. “You know I’m having another party a week from Saturday,” Earl said. I nodded. “Some of the guys coming want to see you and my other boy.” That news didn’t surprise me. Usually most of the guys at the parties I’d done had visited either me or the other one, or more likely both. “Together,” he clarified. “While guys watch.”

Oh. That thought hadn’t occurred to me. Unlike a lot of kids, I wasn’t interested so much in others my own age. My peers frightened me. They said mean, blunt things that adults never did—well, most adults, excluding Jim. People my own age saw me as awkward, socially undesirable, a nerd. Men saw me as desirable, exciting, someone they wanted to have. Kids my own age were likely to betray me, as I found out with my friend Mark. I would’ve soon as pursued sex with another fourteen or fifteen-year-old as I would have developed a fetish for humping a refrigerator.

So I didn’t like the sound of it, much. I preferred thinking of the other one as someone whose path would never cross with mine, a soul confined to Jim’s bedroom when I was in the house, or who only visited when I wasn’t there. No, I didn’t want to do it at all. I didn’t give voice to the doubts, though. Instead I asked Earl, “Would you get off on it?” He nodded, his eyes locked with mine. His dick stirred against my pubic hair. “Yeah,” I said, trying to sound casual. If it pleased Earl, it would please me. I’d learned that lesson quickly. “I’ll do it then. Sure.”

From his smile, I knew I’d said the right thing.

The day came of the party. My memories of the time before I met the other one that day are kind of hazy; it seems unlikely that I would’ve walked into the house and right into the other one’s waiting arms, but that’s the way I vaguely remember it. In my memory I’m naked, though—which seems to tell me that I’d at least been in the house long enough to remove my clothing and very likely play with a few guys before meeting Earl’s other boy.

I do remember Earl walking me into the living room where the act was to take place, though. Some of his party guests milled in other parts of the house, too occupied with their own deeds to care much about two teenagers going at each other. There were men eating Jim’s indifferent finger foods in the kitchen, and the sounds of laughter and grunts from below stairs. And in the living room sat six or seven men. Jim sat on the leather sofa, his arms around two older and larger men on either side, his legs spread and resting over the right knee of one and the left of the other. He was smoking a cigarette and smirking. The other men regarded me with stares of arousal, blank and hungry. I was just a fuckhole to them, nothing more. I didn’t mind it so much.

The other one was already in the living room, lying down on a comforter either Earl or Jim had spread on the floor. His hair was indeed dark and long, hanging into his eyes and past his ears. His eyes were a puppy-dog brown, but bloodshot and covered with the sleepy, droopy eyelids of the very stoned. His body was skinny and pale, with only a wisp of dark pubes. Earl nudged him with his foot and caused those lids to open, very slightly. The boy looked at me from his side, measuring me. Judging me.

Earl introduced me by name, but the other one was too quick for him. “Hey,” he said, laughing to himself as if he’d been told a private joke. “I know you.”

“You do?” Earl wasn’t often caught off-guard. He looked at me. “You two know each other?”

“Yeah,” I said, looking at the boy and feeling stunned. Rooted into place, more likely. I wanted to flee, but I knew I couldn’t and wouldn’t. I looked at the boy I’d known four years before, and with whom I’d starred in an original biblical musical. The boy I’d suspected had also endured the director’s clumsy advanced, though we’d never spoken of them. I cleared my throat and attempted to sound casual. “I know Topher.”

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