[Breeder] Cry of the Preacher Man

[TheBreeder]

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(This post is a continuation of Blame It on the Preacher Man, and is the last in the Preacher Man series--though only a chapter in the story I'm trying to parse together, gradually, about my teenaged experiences with Earl.)

“Fuck me.” I lay on my back in the preacher man’s bed, which was a hard, uncomfortable mattress more akin to a sheet-covered bookshelf than anything comfortable. The man’s pillow lay beneath my straw-blond hair, rustling like a pillowcase of sawdust. “Tell me you want to fuck me.”

“It’s a sin,” said the preacher man. He stood at the bed’s foot, his triangular penis protruding from between the flaps of his dress shirt. He was obscenely hard. I’d already sucked him close to orgasm twice, though I’d backed off at the last possible moment in order to prolong both his pleasure and his agony. “Son, it’s a sin for a man to lie with man as he lies with a woman.”

He didn’t sound convinced in his own words. My legs were already spread and lifted. I hoisted them up to my chest and exposed my pink, sixteen-year-old hole to him. I was being fucked almost daily back then. All I had to do was lick two of my fingers and press them against the entrance. They disappeared to the third knuckles almost immediately. I finger-fucked myself while he watched, and finally repeated my demand. “Fuck me.”

When I saw his dick twitch, and harden even further, I knew I had him. And I despised him for his lust.

I’d come this far with the preacher man with the advice of Jim, who was my mentor Earl’s younger lover. It had been Jim who’d originally made the suggestion that I fuck around with this overly religious man’s head—that I force him to admit to and do things he might not ordinarily allow himself, all while making him feel badly about it.

I’d never been one of those kids who got off on taunting others. I hadn’t been a bully of any sort in school, though I had been picked on whenever I failed at blending in. My experiences with the preacher man had brought out a sadistic side of me that I found surprising. Surprising, in that I liked it. A part of me reveled in the way my mouth, my hands, and my young body were what the older and more corpulent man truly desired, even as he attempted to mouth the platitudes of his religion to convince me I was doing the devil’s work.

So far I’d been successful in getting him to admit aloud that he needed the constant blow jobs I’d been giving him, sinful or not. And I’d gotten him to let me blow him in the bedroom he shared with his unseen wife, whom I gathered worked as a secretary for some sort of charitable organization. I hadn’t seen a picture of her, but I could imagine her from the false eyelashes lying on her dresser, and from the costume jewelry that lay in bunches there, and even from the smell of her perfume still lingering in the air, accumulated over time like the tobacco stains on the preacher man’s own fingers. Those fingers played with his dick now, skimming the skin back and forth with tiny jerks.

“Stop it,” I told him. He obeyed. Inside me, a demon-headed being opened its mouth and roared with laughter. “Come here.” He stepped forward. “Give me your hand.”

An expression passed over his face. Confusion, perhaps. Shame. He presented his hand palm up, like a student expecting it to be struck with a ruler. I grabbed the warm flesh, which felt like so much chicken sliding off the bone, and guided it to my hole. His fingers made contact with my anus. I rubbed the tips over the irregular opening. “It’s soft, like pussy,” I told him. He opened his mouth, I knew either to protest, or to beg me not to use such words with him. “Fuck it.”

“I can’t,” he said, trying to willing himself to back away. He couldn’t, quite. I continued moving his hand over the hole, while passively he let me. “I can’t.”

Every little triumph with the preacher man I’d scuttled back to share with Jim. Little conspirators, we were. At the time, I didn’t know exactly why I was doing it, though now it’s plain enough. I wanted Jim to like me. I was young enough to be thoroughly uncomfortable with Jim’s dislike of me. His obvious jealousy of my relationship with Earl, who’d begun their relationship when Jim was not much older than I at that time, was not something with which I could easily live. This secret we shared about the preacher man wasn’t ever going to make us buddies, but it gave me the illusion that someday I might curry Jim’s approval.

So I’d tell him that I’d gotten the preacher man to say aloud that he liked my mouth on his dick—no, that he needed my mouth on his dick—and Jim would smirk and tell me I was giving that nasty piece of shit exactly what he needed and deserved. Jim would still roll his eyes at the sight of me, and treat me as if I were the turd that a dog dropped on the living room carpet that he certainly wasn’t going to clean up. But it was something. I was desperate for something from him.

Though I shouldn’t have been.

Through some gymnastics I’d managed to maneuver my hips so that they pressed close to the preacher man’s dick. “Put it in,” I told him. “Just a little. Just the tip. Put it in.” I kept up a stream of orders, all like that, all simple, all orders he’d want to follow, as I grabbed onto his dick and tried to get him to fuck his first hole. “Come on,” I urged. “It feels good. It’s okay. I won’t tell. Only God will see. He doesn’t mind. He wants you to be happy. Put it in. Come on. Please, I need it. You need it too.”

He whimpered, helpless. His yearning was so great, and writ so plain on his face. I was wearing him down, slowly, inexorably.

“Fuck me,” I begged. “Slide it in. Put it in me. It feels great. I love it. Fuck me, just like you fuck your wife. Fuck me. Fuck—ah!”

I wasn’t prepared for the savage stab that put an end to my exhortations. Unlubed, unprepared, he thrust into me. I was glad I’d used my own wet fingers on my hole a minute or two earlier, so at least there was something. Once the stars in front of my eyes had passed, I looked up at him. He was just standing there, his short dick buried inside me as deep as it could go, not moving.

“Go in and out,” I told him. “You need to go. . . .”

He didn’t need to do anything. Without any thrusting, I felt his dick swell and ebb, swell and ebb. He was shooting inside me already, put over the edge by having his dick inside a teenager for the very first time. His face turned beet red; his eyes closed and his hips clenched. His nails dug deep into my thighs until it was over.

Something startling happened. At first I thought it was the sound of a train engine, approaching outside from far away. We weren’t near any railway lines, however. It sounded like the whine of a distant siren getting louder, or something whizzing from space and breaking orbit as it plunged to earth. It took me a few moments to realize it was coming from the preacher man’s chest, and that the sound he made was some kind of uncanny keening.

I still had his thick, yellow-tinged semen dripping from my hole when I tried to sit up. “Hey,” I said, trying to find out if he was okay.

He shoved me back, so hard that my head rebounded against the sawdust pillow and up again. Then he fell to his knees at the foot of the bed. His hands covered his face, and tore at his fine, sparse hair. His face had been deep red at the peak of his sexual arousal. Now it was streaked with purple and white. His fingers rubbed at his face as if he were trying to erase it, to render it unrecognizable.

He was crying. Tears flowed from his ducts. Fluid dripped from his nose. That high-pitched, uncanny noise kept coming from his chest, on and on. He didn’t seem to pause even to breathe. If ever was the time to exult in what I’d made the preacher man do, it would have been then.

But I wasn’t.

I didn’t feel any kind of triumph at all. Instead, I felt horror. Horror at what I’d done. Shame at not how low I’d laid him, but how low I’d gone to do it. I felt utterly and completely like the little shit I really was, at that moment. I sat there in that stuffy and acrid bedroom utterly horrified, and unable to move for what seemed like a year, while I watched the man have a nervous breakdown at the end of his bed.

Then I slipped off the mattress, gathered my clothes, and slunk home on my bike, never to return.

Here’s the thing: the preacher man was a dreadful hypocrite. Sure, he convinced himself that others were sinners and that he was one of the righteous, all while getting blow jobs from a sixteen-year-old in a public park. Yeah, he was trying to make me feel miserable about my sins by quoting the Bible at me while he ignored his own shortcomings. For all I know, he went on to make the lives of many a man a misery, after. Yet it really wasn’t for me to shame him, like that. I did it, and I’d wanted to do it.

I wasn’t the kind of person, ultimately, who rejoiced in the misfortunes of others. I didn’t get off on seeing a man in his late middle age breaking down in tears as he confronted his real self for the first time in his life. What's more, I really didn't understand who would. Who could.

Facing the truth isn’t a bad thing in and of itself. It never is. But I knew then that for me, that wasn’t the way to go about it. I didn’t want to make that call again. That night, alone in my room at home silent save for the whirring of the giant house fan we kept at the top of the stairs, summers, I still heard that terrible noise, deep from within the man’s chest. Physical pain is one thing. This wail was something else. It was the sound of a soul in torment. I never, ever wanted to hear it again.

I didn’t speak of those uncomfortable moments at the side of that bed to anyone. Not until now, anyway. I never told Earl. It was one of those things I witnessed that was too primal, too raw, to share.

Jim asked me how it was going with the preacher man the next time I saw him. “Oh,” I lied. “I got tired of him.” I didn’t share the man’s breakdown with Jim. I didn’t elaborate, I didn’t invent. I shut him down, even as I knew that any respect I might have won from him with my exploits in cruelty might evaporate for good.

It did. Any giddiness we might briefly have shared in our collaboration dissipated like a soap bubble. It always made me wonder if what was to come later was my fault, in some way—as if perhaps, if I’d kept Jim occupied, he wouldn’t have meddled in Topher’s life the way he later did.

But that’s another chapter in another story.

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