I Don't Get It

I DON'T GET IT

I don't get it, still. Alan says not to worry, he says just fucking enjoy it. And I gotta admit, I love the looks I get--we get, I guess--sometimes, like when we walk into some parties and there's new people there.

I mean, look at us: I'm six-foot-two and 185 pounds of solid muscle. Even in sweatshirts, I get the look. Nobody messes with me; hell, I walk down the street and everyone just sort of eases to one side or the other. Sometimes, I get the feeling that some of these guys would just love to lick me all over--which I wouldn't mind, some of them, at least.

And Alan, well, Alan's a supernerd. That's what I called him, first time we met: SuperNerd! I swear, he'd blow away in a good wind. On Alan, jeans look like, I dunno, sweatpants, maybe. His hair won't even stay combed, and he wears these glasses--his eyesight's not that bad, but he buys these cheap black plastic frames that just scream "NERD!!!" I haven't any idea what it is about him--was about him, the first time we met, that I didn't just walk right through him, or something. Without even meaning to, I mean. I'm not a bully. I sort of was, in high school, until that day. No, I gotta be honest: I was a bully. See, I used to mess with Alan because he was a nerd, back then.

I messed with him for most of my sophomore year, and my junior year, until that day I saw him coming out of one of the side doors to the school just when I was trying to get my bike running, and I was pissed mostly at the bike and I just yelled "Get the fuck out of here, faggot! Before you wind up in the trash bin again." See, I threw him in the trash bin maybe a month after school started last year and again my Junior year. And instead of taking off like a scared rabbit, this time he just turned to me and looked me right in the eye--and I'm a good six inches taller than Alan, so I don't know how he did it--and he says, "I know you're gay." Just like that, like "I know it's Tuesday," or something. How the hell did he know that? Nobody knew that. Nobody! Except me.

Right then, I almost killed him--I mean, not deliberately, but if I'd hit him, I would have broken something important, at least. But he just kept looking at me, right into my eyes, and he looked like maybe he was crazy. Like you see a little dog and it gives this creepy growl at you and you know it's gonna tear you apart if you get too close? So I said "Am not," and he just kept looking at me and not even blinking, and--this is the part I really don't understand, even yet--I just sort of crumpled. I have lost a few fights: I grew up in a rough neighborhood where everybody lost fights until they learned how to fight, and even then... But I never crumpled like that, ever. And then he said--Alan said--"Sit down" like maybe a teacher would and you know if you don't you'll be in detention forever, so I did, right on the fucking pavement.

And he kept looking at me and he said "You pick on me, so everybody will think you hate gays and nobody will know you are gay. But That Won't Work With Me." It was like that, the way he said it. "You ever hear of gaydar?" he said, and I shook my head no and he said, "It's where you can tell somebody's gay no matter what they say, no matter how they hide it. And I've got it. I know, Lonnie!!" And the way he said all this, I knew it was true, like he could see into my head, almost.

And then he just stood there, looking down at me, while I just kept getting smaller inside, for I don't know how long, and then he crouched down and said, "From now on, you're going to do as I tell you. Understand? You are going to stop being an asshole bully. You are going to do what I tell you, when I tell you. You are going to bust your butt and get your grades up, Lonnie, because from now on, I own you. Say it!"

And I wanted to! I opened my mouth but I couldn't make words come out. I couldn't even think, really! "Say that I own you, Lonnie. Just say that." He said it like he was encouraging me to run one more lap, or something, but gentle.

"You...you own...you own me." And there was this little part inside of me that was screaming, "What the fuck are you doing?" at the top of its lungs but I almost couldn't hear it because of what I was saying. "You own me, Alan. Sir."

And Alan put his hand under my chin and sort of pulled my face to his, and he kissed me. Right on the lips. Not some big sloppy kiss, just a...a kiss so gentle it was like a butterfly, maybe, if butterflies kissed. And then he stood up and said did I have an extra helmet, and I did, and he put it on and said I should run him home, so we got on the bike and it started right up--surprise!-- and away we went. He had his arms wrapped around me, because it's a big bike and he's not a big guy, and I took him to his house and he gave me back the helmet and he said, "You just don't mess with me, or anyone, tomorrow. I'll see you after school. And bring the books you need for homework. Understand, Lonnie?"

I nodded.

"Say 'yes, sir, I understand.' "

"Yes, Sir, I understand."

"Thanks for the ride home, Lonnie."

"You're welcome. Sir." And I watched him until he got inside, and then I went home and lifted a fifth of Jim Beam from where my dad hides it and got fuckin' drunk.

I was really hung over, next day, but there was Alan, between first and second hour, and it was just the two of us, somehow, and he said, "You look hung over, Lonnie."

"I am."

"Remember who you're talking to, Lonnie."

"I am, Sir."

"Don't forget your homework, Lonnie."

"Where should I meet--"

"Don't worry, Lonnie. And don't be late for class."

"No, Sir." And then it was noisy, so I turned around, and there were all these people in the hall, like normal, and I turned around again and Alan was just gone. So I took off for Algebra, so I wouldn't be late for class.

I hate Algebra, and English, which came next, and then PE, which was usually a break. But I was hung over, remember, and we were in the gym playing basketball and everybody's sneakers keep squeaking and everything echoes and by the time I hit the showers, I thought my fucking head was going to split in half. And then History, which I also hate. When the teachers aren't yapping and putting things on the board, the were asking questions that I didn't know the answers to, or springing surprise quizzes, which ought to be against the law.

So I was in no mood for any shit by the end of the day, and I headed for the parking lot and there was Alan, sitting on my bike like he owned it, and I was pissed! But the closer I got, the less pissed I got, maybe because the pissy part was behind me, at school. "Hey, Alan," I said, and he smiled, which felt really good, somehow.

"How'd classes go?"

"Okay."

"Really, Lonnie?"

And this feeling came over me like...anyhow, I found myself staring at the pavement and I said, "Lousy, Sir. Like always."

"We're going to fix that, Lonnie. Starting today. We're going to my house."

So we did. I didn't argue or say anything, not a word, just rode him to his house and followed him inside and up to his room--which looked a little bit like a library had exploded in it: books and shit everywhere. "Sit," he said, pointing to the chair in front of his desk, and I did, and he pulled a chair up next to me and said, "Where do you want to start?"

"I don't, Sir."

"Okay, how about English. What's the assignment?"

"There's a poem and some questions, and Mister Perry knocks your grade if the answers aren't complete sentences."

"Read it to me."

So I open the book and stumble through the first line to where it says "Files-on-Parade," and I just howl, "That's fucked up! Poets are fucked up! What the fuck is filesonparade supposed to mean!?"

Alan says, "You aren't a very good reader, are you?"

And I should have been pissed, but I wasn't. "No, Sir."

"You follow, and I'll read." And he starts again at the beginning: " 'What are the bugles blowin' for?' said Files-on-Parade.' That's a foot soldier," Alan says, interrupting himself. " 'Files-on-Parade' is a foot- soldier. A file is like rank and file, row and column. Kipling calls the guy 'Files-on-Parade' because he's just any new recruit--anonymous. You know what 'anonymous' means?"

I was going to say "Yeah, sure," or something, like I would do, but his eyes caught me, and I sort of hung my head down. "No, Sir."

"It means nobody knows his name. Nobody knows who he is. He's just...a new soldier. Just joined the company."

"So he doesn't know shit, yet?"

"Right. He doesn't know shit."

And we worked our way through the poem, and at the end Alan says, "Why do you think Danny Deever did that? Shoot that other soldier while he was asleep?"

" 'Cause Deever's a coward."

"What's he afraid of?"

"The guy he shot, I guess."

"Why?"

We went around on that, for a while, until I finally said, "Hey! Maybe the guy was giving him a hassle, and he knew he couldn't beat the shit out of him, so he shot him!"

"What do you mean by 'giving him a hassle,' Lonnie?"

"You know, like...being a bully." And my stomach did this weird thing--probably because of the hangover--and I looked at Alan and I said, "You aren't going to shoot me, or nothing, are you?"

"Why would I do that, Lonnie?"

"Because...because I bullied you?"

"No, Lonnie. I'm not going to shoot you. I'm going to save you."

"Like church!?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Better." And he leaned real close, like when you tell secrets. "Suppose Danny Deever shot that guy because the guy was queer."

"Huh?"

"Why would he do that?" Alan's voice was real quiet. "Why would Danny Deever shoot a guy because he was queer? Why not just ignore him, or beat him up?"

"Because he was afraid of him, we said!"

"Why?"

"Because...maybe he was afraid of getting raped? Danny was, I mean."

"Is that why you bully kids? Because you're afraid of them?"

"No! Fuck no! It's because they...it turns me on, I guess, sorta."

"What does, Lonnie?"

"Beating up queers."

"Why?"

"Because..." and my stomach did that thing again, "Because they know, maybe."

"Know what, Lonnie?"

And I just look at Alan and start bawling my fucking eyes out until I can talk again and I say, "But how did you know, Sir?"

"I told you: gaydar."

"Really?"

"Some. But mainly because I looked at who you picked on. Because they turned you on, didn't they?"

"Maybe, Sir," I admitted, after about an hour or so. At least it felt that way.

And Alan kissed me again. "And I do, too. Don't I, Lonnie?"

And I would have torn his face off for saying that, but it suddenly felt that it would be so fucking much easier to say, "Yes, Sir," so I did, and the next thing I know my head's in his lap and I'm crying again, but it's different, somehow. It's like this big lump of hurt just popped and went away.

"We should get back to your homework, but I want you to do something tonight, Lonnie. I want you to start writing down what happens when you go to bed. Write down everything. Especially your dreams, Lonnie."

"But if I--"

"Everything, Lonnie."

So I did. And boy did it ever not make sense! It was like "I stared at the window, at the light from the street, yellow because there was a shade. And I do that because I can see pictures in it, shadow pictures sort of, and I play with" and I don't write the next part down. I just can't. But Alan says I gotta write down everything. next night I write, "I see these...pictures, sort of, and I jack off." And the next part I write down and it's dreams about stuff, and Alan makes me tell him about the stuff, which is like I'm a knight, and there's a dungeon and I'm all chained up, or there's Indians burning me at the stake, like, or these little kids and I'm a little kid and they're doing...stuff. And Alan says, "What stuff?" and I can't tell him. I can't, not I won't, I can't because I can't remember I swear.

So one night, about a month later, we just finished a history assignment about the Civil War and Alan says, "What would it be like if you were a slave?"

"I'm not black!"

"Doesn't matter. What if you were a slave? What if you had to do what your Master told you, no matter what?"

"I'd run away."

"You can't."

"I don't know, sneak up behind him and stab him with a pitchfork?"

"You can't. You can't do anything to escape, or to hurt your Master, understand, Lonnie? Take off your shirt."

"Yes, Sir. But--"

"Take off your shirt."

And I do. See, when he tells me to do stuff, sometimes, it's like...maybe it's his voice, or his eyes and I'm hypnotized or something.

"Hold your hands out in front of you, Lonnie."

"Yes, Sir." And I do and he has this piece of rope and he ties my hands together, and I should probably do something, but I just watch his hands, and the rope and how he ties it, for a while, and then I say, "Hey! That looks like a dream I had!"

Alan just smiles. "Can you get away?"

So I try, some, but he did a really good job. "No, Sir."

"So you're a slave, and you have to do what I say. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Say 'Yes, Master,' slave."

"Yes, Master," and it feels...right, somehow.

"Put your hands up in the air." I do. "Now kiss me, slave."

And I do that, but it's not like butterflies, it's like where your tongues touch, and Alan holds my head and my hands are tied up so I can't do anything but kiss back.

After we separate, Alan says, "Take off your clothes." And I do, which is kind of tricky with my hands tied up, and especially my pants and underpants because I've got a hardon, and I should be embarrassed, or something, but I'm not, really. I've got a pretty decent-looking dick.

And then Alan stands up and opens his fly and his dick comes out and it looks a little bigger than mine! Maybe it's because the rest of him's small, like I said before. But he takes it out and tells me to put my hands on it and make it hard. Which I do, because mine's already hard, so it's sort of like a locker room, except I get to touch the cock--and I kind of freak when I think that, but Alan just keeps saying "make it hard," and I do and it gets harder and harder.

And then Alan says, "Kneel down so you can kiss my cock," and I do that. I mean, I don't really even think about it. I just kiss it, right on the tip where the little slit for piss is.

"Lick on it."

And I do that, too, and my own cock feels...I can't explain it. I really want to play with it, but I'm playing with Alan's, and he's the boss.

He's the Master.

I'm a slave, and my cock's so hard it fucking hurts! And I start to think about those dreams and suddenly it's Alan in the dungeon chaining me up, and the Indian looks like Alan, and the little kids...they still don't have faces, really.

"Take it in your mouth, slave."

And I do, and Master Alan pushes it in until I feel like I'm going to barf, and then he pulls back, but just a little, so it's sitting there, and I hear Master Alan say, "Good slave" over and over again until he pulls it out. "You're mine. I own you, don't I?"

"Yes, Master Alan." And that little part of me inside my head is still saying, "What the fuck are you doing?" but I don't have to pay any attention to it, because my hands are tied up. And after that, we go to Alan's house almost every night and work on homework until suppertime, and I go home, except some nights I get to eat supper there.

That's another part that's weird. Alan's mom and dad are...they don't get it, but Alan says we're friends, so that's okay, except--like I said--they're surprised, because I'm actually taller than Alan's dad, even. And the food's pretty good, not like take-out pizza or Chinese, like we usually get at home. And my dad says I should make sure my friend knows we don't have enough money to be feeding him, too, which I guess must be true, because he's always going on about money and how my mom spends too much, but I don't know where she spends it, because she's always saying he doesn't give her enough.

Alan says his folks aren't like that. But they don't smoke, so maybe that's part of it. Oh yeah, and--I still don't believe this--when they realized that I was running Alan home on my bike every day, they got him a jacket and his own helmet, and they gave me some money for parts so I could get the bike running better. How's that for decent? The jacket's leather, but not all with zippers and stuff, and it makes him look almost built, from the waist up, anyway. And somehow, I'm starting to think he's kind of cute.

By spring break, my teachers are all saying I'm doing so much better and they knew I had it in me and stuff like that, but it's mostly that Alan's teaching me--well, making me learn stuff. My dad used to wallop me when he got my report card, and that was fucked, but when Alan does it--spanks me or whips me, it's because I deserve it for fucking up and since I did fuck up, it's fair. And sometimes (secret) I fuck up on purpose because it hurts, but it's h.o.t.

So by the time it's spring break, we're together a lot. I mean, there's even shit going around at school. So one day we're talking, and I'm naked like usual now and Alan says there's two ways to deal with it: just ignore it, because nobody's going to say shit to my face, or I can wear the collar--and chances are they still aren't going to say shit--except maybe the assistant principal, so we decide I'll just ignore it.

Oh, yeah! Alan got me the collar for my birthday, in February. It's like a dog collar, except it locks, and I put it on when we get to his house and don't take it off 'til we come down for supper, or I'm leaving.

When he gave it to me, we had this talk about what we were doing, and about how he made me feel and how I felt about being his slave, and I like it! Never in a million years would have thought that my dreams--okay, by then I was okay telling Alan my dreams about "Spartacus" which is this old movie about gladiators and shit, and how it turned me on, and he rented it and we watched it--me naked. And he showed me some dirty pictures of guys--built guys, like me--tied up and stuff and I got hot really fast, and so did he.

And then I saw the faces on the little kids. I was on the playground, on the ground, and they were all over me, hitting me and stuff, and I could have got up and maybe beat them up but I didn't, because it didn't hurt all that much and they did it to other kids, too, sometimes. And they were cute.

The way I think it is, I got all tough and butch because I was scared shitless and the best way to deal with that is to be the toughest guy in the 'hood. Intimidate. But--and this is the secret--I always thought I was really dumb, inside. Hell, I don't even know how I got as far as high school! But Master--Alan, that is, because we're not playing right now--Alan proved to me I wasn't as stupid as I thought. I'm not as smart as he is: he's like a fucking genius (and he's a genius at fucking) but he doesn't get all nasty about it. He helps me! He explains shit! He's like the best damn teacher ever, and that all makes me feel safe. Finally. And the great thing is that I make him feel safe, too.

Sometimes we mess around in his attic, which is full of stuff they don't want to throw out, but there's this old bed, and there's cross-beams under the roof, and Alan got some old belts and we punched extra holes in them so he can strap me down, and even some pieces of chain--actually, I found those out in the alley behind my place--so we can chain me up like on a chain gang, or something. And there's always the ropes, which is my favorite, for some reason. Sometimes he ties me up spread-eagle, when he's going to whip me with this whip he got at the State Fair, like a horsewhip, or with one of the belts, and it hurts like hell and I get so hot every once in a while I just shoot, without touching my cock or anything.

And he has me do fix-up chores around the house, because I know how to do a lot of that stuff and his folks pay me, but Alan keeps the money because I'm his slave. But he spends a lot of it on us, anyway.

So one day, we want to go to the movies, and we're half-way to the mall and we realize I'm still wearing the collar, and the key's back at the house! So it's too late to go back, so we go to the mall with me following Alan, and I get this idea and I put my hands behind my back! And people are staring, or trying hard not to stare, and we can sort of read their minds and it's pretty obvious that some of them are turned on, but they don't say anything, but these other people say things like "How disgusting," and I just look at them like "do you want to make something out of it?" which they never do, except this one bitch complains to the mall cop, and he comes up to me and sees my hands aren't cuffed or anything and he asks if I'm all right and I give him this big smile and say "I feel great!" And he smiles and I see his hand go to the thing on his belt that's got his handcuffs in them, and then he turns red and nods at us and I guess he told the bi--the lady that there's nothing wrong and it's all legal, or whatever.

After that, whenever we want to, I wear the collar, like I'm proud of it, and I am because I've got the balls to do it, and fuck you if you don't like it! And then, Senior Slave Day comes around. I haven't been wearing the collar at school, because Alan's pretty sure that's against school policy, but it's Senior Slave Day! The way it's supposed to work, Seniors get to "buy" slaves--underclassmen--with a ten-dollar donation to the annual Red Cross drive, and slaves gotta wear silly clothes and stuff, but we decide to switch things around. I wear these really ragged jeans, and we put some belts around my chest like a harness, and I wear the collar, of course. And Alan leads me around on a leash. So these Student Council types get all in our faces because Alan's supposed to be my slave, but we just tell him Alan paid extra for a Senior (which he did: forty bucks!). And the next year, Alan tells me they changed the rules so you could buy a Senior for forty bucks, but only one and they could "buy" their freedom for forty bucks. Leave it to Alan's crowd to make the rules complicated.

But the weird thing--another weird thing--is that there's jokes about us having sex, but nobody thinks it's true! The school counselor called me in and checked, and I told him we were just a couple, like other couples except for the detail that we both had dicks but so what? And he said, "Well, be good to each other, and if anyone gives you serious shit, tell me." How's that for cool? And needless to say, nobody gives us shit.

And this blows everyone's mind--even the assistant principal, and my folks and Alan's folks--everybody: I get into the University! Seems Alan's been saving more of my chore money than I thought, and a chunk of his allowance, and Alan's dad buys my bike, so it's Alan's now, but with all that money I can pay for my freshman year. My folks are all bent because I've got to buy textbooks and shit, but we work a deal that if they can find me a job for the summer, I can pay them back. And Alan found out about this scholarship I may be able to get for my sophomore year. I'm crying again, in Alan's lap, and he's stroking my hair and answering, "I love you, too, slave."