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Jimmy Inside Me

I am a storyteller. I am a hustler, a wordsmith, a magic-maker, a shape-shifter, the boy next door. I’m not ugly or stupid and I know it.

Jimmy is HIV positive. He shares my daddy’s name and lives in the Castro. He offers me a beer, sits on a leather couch facing the fireplace and pats the space next to him, saying, “Come sit next to me. I pretend to be timid.

James is my daddy’s name, only everyone calls him “Jimmy because people that love you call you things like Jimmy instead of James. He’s a good-looking man, a man who drinks Coor’s Light and says “I love you freely. Jimmy Shook, the man that everyone loves, the daddy that everyone wants to be their daddy. Because he plays with us like he’s a kid too. But we know he’s not a kid and I know I’m special. Because my daddy is the daddy that everyone loves.

My daddy is a firefighter. His hands are dying to be held, calloused and fire-scorched. There is a picture of him holding me in the ocean, waves crashing in the distance, white water gentle on his feet. His abdomen is chiseled out and appetizing, carved in an upside down V-shape from the corners of the collarbone to the grotesquely parallel lines at the pubis. He is covered in hair that is dark and curly, that crawls up from beneath, gently, sternly, politely, and irreverently. We share the same hair patterns and it makes me feel like sex, irreverent, like I own something that must be devoured, that must be sucked and swallowed. Those hairs “ his hairs “ curl and twist on my body like ladders and intersections and maps to ecstasy.

I was his little girl once. He was my daddy. And I was beautiful.

The house in the Castro breeds nostalgia for dead man queers, for lover saints. It feels like a secret place, like a time warp in the soul. The air is filled with a tired history born of the kinds of losses that intoxicate us and we find ourselves searching for a pleasure and pain that could have once been enough to live on.

He asks, “Do you feel comfortable with me? and I say, “Yes. Because “Yes is what I’m supposed to say. Good boys always say “Yes. He asks me about my life and I tell him a story about death because death is in the air and those are the only stories I can think of. He is enamored of me. They are all enamored of me. It’s what they pay boys like me to be “ enamoring, intelligent, articulate.

My mother says my daddy’s semen is like acid in her vagina and I say she should swallow it, just to feel the burn on the back of her throat as it goes down. She will always go to my father because there are many ways to fuck and he will always be there because he knows it. And I’ll be in between them, like a channel, where blood and sweat and cum once flowed.

“Wait here, Jimmy says. “I have something I want to read you, and he disappears up the staircase behind us. I stare into the fireplace, feeling like a traitor, sucking on the lip of my beer bottle. I am getting lost inside my body where my dead lovers and friends and children are coming alive, in this house in the Castro, on Jimmy’s leather couch.

He reads me pages from a war story, a battle story, about manlove, about loss and dead brothers, about the absence in the earth that we always know is there without them, and about our fears of movement into territories where we can’t take them. I watch the hairs of his mustache as they become stuck to the saliva on his lips. I watch his eyes as they turn to pieces of glass in an ocean and suddenly I feel connected to this man and I’m not pretending to be enamoring and I’m not pretending to be a good boy. I’m only pretending to be myself.

I want to be close to my daddy, to inhabit his body as my inheritance. In my dreams I follow his hair patterns, discovering how they lead to the strength and the beauty of a flaccid cock, that dangles and moves with his body and touches softly to the thick, dark, curling hairs of his thigh. Those hairs grow darker and layered upon each other, making me hungry for the taste of body kinship and lust.

I cry on Jimmy’s couch, staring blankly into the fireplace. I stuff my face into his crotch, into the crease between his pelvis and thigh and there I realize that his entire body is covered in the smell of the sweat beneath his balls. He exhales deeply, repeatedly, rehearsing a death rattle as I fondle them with my cheeks, with my lips, with my hair. I feel him getting harder next to my face and I get a hunger for this man that becomes a regular one day. His death rattles turn to cries, man cries that make no sound but that whip throughout the body like an earthquake from within. The hunger is intense and muddied with my desire to soothe him, to eat him, to swallow him and feel him deep inside my throat. It is a hunger that wants to suck the pain out, to suck that thing out, that thing that has taken my friends and lovers and children, that thing that will take him one day too. And I want to digest it, to devour it. I gnaw on his dick like a rabid dog to a piece of meat and he moans, “Boy. Yeah boy. I want you to fall asleep like that, with your mouth on my dick.

He says “my dick like he’s from Texas, like the “k is stuck to the bottom of his tongue, and it makes him sound even more like he’s a man with a heart.

My mother says the neighbor kid from the Rome Street house forced dad to go down on him when they were young. It’s difficult to picture my daddy on his knees. The image makes me feel lonely, and powerless, and lost. I prefer to imagine the neighbor kid’s ass up against a tree, his cold pale skin rubbing up against the bark, his eyes closed, pain and joy on his face as if he were going to cry.

I imagine the heat and the sex of my daddy’s working-class man hand on the hairs of my head.

I imagine that I can feel his palm cover my skull and that my hair flops on my brow as he touches me, that my own hairs stick to the wetness of my prepubescent lips. I imagine that he pushes me, guides me, slowly down along his abdomen where the hairs brush against my face, growing thicker and thicker as I make my way down onto my knees. It feels good on my knees, with my abdomen flexed, my sex pulsing. I imagine that he pushes me to that place always hidden underneath his Levi’s, that he unbuttons them but only enough for my face. He lifts it out of his jeans so that it rests softly at the base of the fly. And once it’s there, I can rub my lips against it, my eyes closed, my sex guiding me with a new kind of vision, one that is marked by oxygen and carbon dioxide. I fall in deep lust with the age of his man-ness. I can feel it getting harder against my face, never in my mouth, always rubbing my lips, my cheeks, the dip from my brow to eye sockets. And I can feel its warmth against my ear. I want to pull it closer to my face with my hand. But I don’t, knowing that it will compromise the beautiful shape and the magical power it generates from inside, a power that I want to intoxicate me, overcome me, and to render me like a doll in his big rough hands. I take the life of it, the hardness of it up against my lips. The cream pours from it’s head and I lick it from the inside of my lips and off the sides of my cheeks. I brace my hands to grab it and I’m electric all over. I relish in the warmth of the cream that I spread like finger paint across my face and I watch him spray himself all over the mattress, like fountains of water in the summertime, his juice blinking in the sunlight creeping between cracks in the mini-blinds.

I was his little girl once. He was my daddy. And I was beautiful.

Jimmy and I smoke cigarettes on the porch and I can still taste his dick on my mouth. “Boy, you cold?, he asks. But I don’t answer because I’m trying to remember the feeling of his dried cum, sticky on my face and down my throat, coated in his sex. He turns the shower on while I finish my cigarette and gets a towel from the closet. When I step into the tile shower he cleans me with a soaped up sponge. He rubs against my chest, matting my hair to my skin, over my face and lips, down my legs. “Turn around, he says. He rubs the sponge down my back and my ass and my ass crack. And then he takes his hands and rubs them, covered in flowing water, along my shoulders and down the rest of my body. And he does it again, moaning. I surrender to the electricity. I watch the soap dribble off my skin and to the ground. I fondle his dick with my hands, hanging on it as I lower myself to my knees in front of him. He stands in the stream of the shower water and the taste of his dick is mixed with soap and with water as it flows across my face and into my mouth. I pull on his balls and his dick, sucking it with my mouth like I am milking water from within him. I suck the head of his dick like a bottle, a bottle that won’t give. I feel a dribble on my tongue, the taste of salt, a smell like no other and suddenly the piss flows into my mouth as if a fountain has broken. I suck and swallow until my mouth is full. I hold his piss in my mouth, tasting it on every inch of my tongue. I swallow it in two gulps, smelling the salty flavor as it goes down. I pull his shooting dick out of my mouth, pointing it against my forward, against my eyelids, my tongue. The hot sour piss rolls along my skin with the shower water streaming above his head and it’s mixed with the taste of soap and hard water.

Jimmy wraps me into a towel and carries me to his bed. He uncovers me and rubs his dick against my legs, closer and closer to my crotch, leaving traces of the fluid inside him. Its mark is cold and brisk on my skin, matting my hairs together. He takes the head of his dick and rubs it against me. I moan.

“You like that boy? My big dick against your little boy dick?

“Yes, I say, ravished for the feeling of his dick on my wetness. Jimmy kisses me, his mustache burning my lips.

“You like that? My big dick against your little boy dick?

I’m wet and sloppy and he rubs easily against me, dipping in and out and against me. He moans the death rattles again and I say, “Fuck me.

“You want me to fuck you boy?

“Fuck me! I say louder.

“You want me to fuck you?

I’m crying.
“Yes, fuck me. Yes, daddy please fuck me.

“Please fuck me, I moan. “Please fuck me¦

I float up and out of my body, seeing myself underneath Jimmy on his bed. I cry. Tears with no sound trickle down my face and there is a voice in another world, on another bed, speaking calmly, moving like a phantom in the expanse between earth and sky. It’s like an ocean of milk rushing over my skin. It brushes the hairs of my forearm, ghostly, and tries to soothe me. I am restlessly moving my body, as if my skin is improperly formed to fit the muscles. There is something haunting and dangerous attached to my insides. It stretches itself inside me, against me, threatening to pull me outside my body. It’s like a million tiny voices screeching on each nerve. I want to find the voice and wrestle with it. I want to fight that thing, to hurt it. I want to stand in the face of it and laugh.

“Yeah boy, he moans and smiles. “You like that, huh?

My mouth is dry and I can’t speak. I lay on Jimmy’s bed, underneath his heavy body, his big dick on my little boy dick with my face turning from side to side, tears making a mess against the sheets.

“I want you to fuck me, I whisper.

The voice repeats itself in a rhythm, a pattern that haunts me. And I would make my body move but for the weight of Jimmy on top of me. I lay flat on the bed, my fingers outstretched like tentacles, and I feel the hardness of the head of his cock rubbing against me where the lube and the liquid and the sweat and the continuum between us has run dry. I cry, “I want you to fuck me.

Outside, through the filter of the screen door and the smoke that burns from lonely cigarettes, I smell my memories in the heat, dancing around me, thick and molded, lukewarm like half-dried laundry. I imagine that I am falling out of the sky like rain, and onto my body, onto my knees, onto the floor of his tile shower, and that my throat is bottomless and all the liquids flow into me and inside me.

There is a girl with me in the air above my body, a little girlboy. She cries and I hold her hand and run. Our palms flap against each other in the frightening air of that other place. That place where the thing is, the thing I want to devour, that I want to battle in the heavens. Eye for eye. Tooth for tooth. Blood for blood. I want to be covered in it, to spread it against my skin like war paint and dance a bloody primal victory dance with it’s decorative mark on my skin a sign of annihilation. I want to touch that blood, to hold all of my anger in my hands, and to dissolve it.

The girl and I laugh or we cry and there is a wind that stings our cheeks, leaving red circles on them and making our noses run cold dribbles of clear mucus. Everything around us is ambiguous and I am lost without my body. In the heavens, in the air, we run away from there so fast that we reach the edge of the sky and we almost fall off.

“Okay, I whisper. “Okay, okay.

“You like that? My big dick against your little boy dick?

I curl my body into a ball and I pull her underneath me. We reach our arms to the edge of the sky and we hold on tight.

Jimmy slaps his dick against me. Whether I am wet or not I don’t know because I am not my body anymore. “You’re a good boy, he says reaching his palm around my neck. “You make daddy feel so good.

Suddenly her body disappears from me, over the edge of the clouds. I follow her, tumbling weightless to a sea beneath us.

“Okay, I say. “Okay ¦ okay, I cry.

I chase her in the waters, diving deeper and deeper, until, with Jimmy inside me I feel her dissolve into the water molecules, becoming one of them, all of them.

Jimmy moans on top of me. The moan is a stuck “k Texas moan and I can feel his heart on my chest. I swim inside her, unconscious, inside the waters of my girlhood. She evades me and I try to chase her. Until my hands are not my hands and my feet are not my feet, and all I can feel is Jimmy inside me.

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