Archive of Our Own

Scott likes to know where his boys have been and who they’ve been there with.

He thinks it’s something his father believed in, too. He was the one who taught Scott how to spot which fruit at the grocery store was the right one to pick; how to smack the bottom of a watermelon to see if it’s got sweet or bitter juice, whether or not to take home a cantaloupe with a leaking soft spot, and where exactly to stab his nail in an avocado to see if it’ll be ready by the morning.

Are you watching this, Scotty? Atta boy! Good boy!

Maybe all the men in his family knew these little tricks–but it’s too late to ask any of them for anything now, not at his age. He thinks he’s got an uncle somewhere in New York, maybe a cousin up in Quebec. He might’ve seen them at the funeral years ago, but no one had advice to give him– just a good head pat and a kiss on the cheek. Even now, Scott thinks they’d give him the same thing. Even now, Scott picks the wrong fruit.

But still, it’s easier these days to pick his boys.

He can see the filth with his own eyes rather than having to ask around about it, or to feel the rotting skin under his fingertips once he gets them to bed–their purple bruises, their oily makeup rubbing off on his hands. Some of them even try to hide the filth under tattoos, bad stick-n-pokes–try to make it look like they got the gashes and wounds on purpose, for fun.

From time to time, they’ll even try to slice the filth out, with sewing needles or box cutters, filling in the festering gaps in their noses and mouths—their ribs and thighs—with toilet paper and stolen doctor’s office gauze. They’d only confess the disease crawling in them when (or if) they began leaking pink-juiced blood and milky pus right before they could get their lips on Scott.

They’d eventually cry underneath him, repeat how they’re sorry for deceiving him, how they only wanted to be touched for the night, how it’s been so long since someone even let them sit on the same mattress, that they can’t even ejaculate anymore, they don’t have the energy to. Not enough water goes to their cocks. They can’t stomach it.

Sorry, man. They’d say, just like that. I’m so, so sorry, brother.

If Scott felt bad enough–if he drank enough–he’d let them slide a condom down their tongues and lick at his face until their tears dried and dicks hardened.

But he hasn’t felt bad in a while, not for months.

And he’s more careful now. Now, he’ll meet with someone at a bar instead of under a street light. The straight ones are better than the homo joints; the counters are less sticky, drinks are cheaper, and fewer policemen are walking around the doors with a hard-on meat-packed in their pants.

The younger ones–he learned with time–were more careful, quieter. They had colleges they wanted to attend, dorm rooms already packed for, and internships lined up when summer hit down south. Some of them even insisted on double-wrapping their cocks because of how bright their futures were, while others only wanted to jerk off into their fists and blow kisses across the room. They were a good waste of his money.

It was the older fairies Scott had to watch out for—the ones who liked the taste of hospital food; donated canned peaches, pre-chewed basmati rice plopped down on robin-egg-blue trays, their families visiting with boxes of cake and soft cookies. They liked shitting in diapers and getting changed by warm volunteer-nurse hands, who in return got to smell the strawberry-sweet baby powder that kept pubic hair from sticking to their hipbones.

Scott figured he’ll be there with them soon enough. He had it in him to wait.

When it got late enough into the night, the boys Scott wanted would appear almost out of nowhere, emerging from the dull grey concrete like rabbits pulled from a magician’s hat—their eyes as shiny and black as polished stones. He recognized some of them from the “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?” or “HELP BRING ME HOME!” advertisements on milk cartons, newspaper articles, and the 7 O’clock news, still dressed in the clothes they wore in their old yearbook photos.

And even though they try to grow out their virgin-blonde stubble into beards that don't quite connect to their sideburns, even though they try to gel back their hair and wear their pants tight around the ass—like the fags they’ve seen their mothers ignorantly rub it to from their Playgirl magazines—Scott recognizes them.

Anyone could if they cared enough to look at fairies for longer than a nervous glance, too scared that they might be spat on, or that a little drop of boy-sweat would melt through their shoes and they’d get that infection that makes you want to suck cock and shed 50 lbs in one week.

Yeah, Scott needed to call the cops because he would never see them again, and they would never see him again either. They’ll disappear, and a new batch of kids will take their place on the streets; that’s just the way it is. He makes promises to himself that one day he will make an official report to the police station from a phone booth, describing them perfectly, their updated heights and weights. But he never does. He’s always too tired. And after all, it’s not his problem; they're not his kids.

Not in that way, anyway.

Instead, he’d approach them. Tell them hello, that he’s a friend of a friend of a friend, and give them something to eat—something meaty or starchy: burgers, 26-oz steaks, chicken salads, macaroni and cheese, lobsters with the eyes and whiskers still intact, spending a good half of his time removing the tails off of shrimp, deveining their small thread of brown guts so that he could drop their pink, beer-battered bodies into the boys’ hands. It was the kind of food his mother used to let him order on vacations to get his legs and arms fleshy, making the waiters clap for him when his plate was so clean that it looked like there was never anything on it to begin with.

He gets his appetite from his grandpa. Do you remember him, baby? Do you remember your Pappy?

“You got any family?” Scott would ask, watching them drink their Dr. Peppers straight from the glass, their straws plucked and on the restaurant floor. He already knew the answer, because no mother would let her kid go out with his shoes untied, and no father would let them walk with such a bad slouch— at least his wouldn’t.

“Nah,” They’d say.

Sometimes he would get a Nope, an I don’t know, a Maybe. Probably. Somewhere around here…

“Do you?” They’d ask in return, every so often.

Scott smiled, always stealing something from their plate before he answered: a fry, a piece of kale, a mushroom.

“Nah,” he’d reply.

After Scott paid the bill, he’d look at the boys in the eyes and nod his head so slightly that anyone else would think he was trying to blink off an eyelash. But the boys knew what he meant and nodded back, their Adam’s apples piercing through their thin-skinned, razor-nipped necks, blushing and smiling.

When they're outside, Scott would already have their dicks in his hand, in some thin alley with a pocket of darkness that makes it look like he could be jerking off anything–a dog, a pig, a cow–but he likes to feel the dick in his hand, whether it’s still got skin hooding over the tip or if it was clamped off evenly when they were born. He likes to feel how much the dick weighs, stretching his hand and letting it leak down to his wrist, the slick mess dribbling over onto his jacket sleeve.

The boys try to moan girlishly at first, a habit they probably picked up from the usual Johns crawling around the area, the ones who steal their daughters’ gym clothes and their wives’ lipstick, getting turned on to the way it clings to badly-shaven hair. Scott hated it and had to grip them tighter to hear their real voices, the little threatening gravel, like they’re ready to sock him unconscious. It’s the only time he let himself smile during— it’s the only time he gets hard.

And when they tried to kiss his neck, their heads lifting from the cold brick wall, Scott would always flinch back, letting go of their cocks, shoving them back so roughly that they’d laugh right in his face before they could curse.

“Fuck you, man. What the hell are you—?”

“Don’t do that,” he tells them. He looks around, pinching at the little bit of skin that they stroked, twisting it. “Don’t touch me.”

And then Scott pulls out a doctor’s card. Slips it into their pocket. Takes out a pen from his jacket and writes his address in the palm of their hand. If they sweated it off in the next hour, he wouldn’t want to fuck them anyway. He likes his boys dry, their skin rubbery and squeaky.

He’d tell them what to do, what exams they needed, what their blood pressure should be, the color of their piss, snot, and the best shade of white for their eyes. How they ought to brush their teeth. How they should check their scalp for those little, oily bugs. How they should clip their fingernails, which shape suited him best, and which way is the best way to scrape the gunk trapped underneath. They needed their assholes checked, rubber gloves at least knuckle-deep into them. All of this will only take five days, he promised. He didn’t mind cigarette smoke, either–it was the tobacco chewing gum he hated the taste of, and that if they did indulge, they would need the cracks of their teeth drilled, stripped, and scuffed.

And when and if they're ready, they can show up at his hotel room that’s already been booked for them one month in advance. If they agreed to his terms, they were to blink twice and remain silent—there was no need to cause a scene.

But all of the boys either try to punch his face in or spit right on it, their lips puckering to go for it.

“You’re spazzing out, man. You’re a goddamn psycho. Who the hell do you think you are? The fuckin’... Queen of England?”— or they’d ask if he was a spy for Brian Mulroney, if he was Faggot Hitler or Kim Il-Sung. Whatever. As long as they’d stay quiet, Scott didn’t mind what they called him. Most of it was probably true, in theory.

Instead, his eyes would focus on the people passing by, seeing who was listening in, and who was watching— mostly only the homeless or drunks (or both) who laugh at him, grabbing themselves through their pants for a second before they walk away. Scott would only ever try to smile at women while he’s with his boys, squeezing their tiny shoulders and feeling the tiny bones underneath. And if they ever asked him who he was speaking to, he had his excuse ready:

He’s my nephew. My little brother. My baby cousin. I am a friend of a friend of a friend. Blah blah blah.

Eventually, when Scott would still refuse to touch their dicks and the air got so cold that their testicles had probably inverted into their stomachs, they would stomp away, promising they’d have someone put a bullet in Scott’s fuckin’ mouth real soon.

But then there they were—of course they were—five days later, knocking on his hotel room door, holding a folder with white sheets of paper, shoving it to his rib cage as soon as he unlocked the door.

“All clean,” they’d tell him, throwing their bodies onto the bed before Scott could get a chance to lock the door again. They’ll undress, spread their legs, and lift their arms to show no hair. “Come on and see for yourself.”

He almost does it. Looks down at their tanned stomachs and sees that they really listened to everything he said, lets them smile at him, and sees that any cavities they had were filled and bleached. They weighed at least five pounds more, full of water and electrolytes. Their hair smelled like strawberries.

He could have reached down right that second and had their faces in his neck, like the way his father would do to his mother, and kiss them over and over and over again. How long has it been since they laughed? Since he laughed? They could do it now, while they come over each other, in the shower, against the mirrored closet. They wanted it.

And then, all at once, Scott would put his shoes and jacket back on, throw enough cash to buy about twenty more hot meals on the nightstand, and leave the room. They’d shout after him, screaming what they thought was his name–Mark, Noah, Liam. Still, he’ll already be on the elevator, with a car waiting for him out front, its destination headed thirty miles in an entirely different direction.

God help me, Scott would think on his way to work, vomiting in the backseat, right into his hands. God, help them.