Dennis Cooper

from Frisk

This part’s a blur.

“You know, it’s wild,” Henry said. He was fondling his way down a hall behind what’s-his-name. ” . . . but I don’t even remember where we met tonight. I keep thinking “party.” That’s about it. Are you as totaled as I am?”

“Probably.” The guy glared over his shoulder. He still looked cute enough to justify what was starting to happen, whatever that was. “Keep your hands down,” he added. “I mean if you need to keep your balance, use the walls, not my father’s African art collection.”

“I am.” Henry focused on the door at the end of the hall. He supposed they were aimed there, because it was open. No matter how low he reached on the walls he kept touching the limbs of wooden statues, so he gave up and clutched at the guy’s untucked shirt.

“Don’t fucking rip it.”

“I’m not.”

Henry flopped on the bed. It bounced around and squeaked for five, six seconds. The guy stripped. He had tiny red genitals, spider-webby blond pubic hair. Not that Henry cared about defects like that. He himself was a big waste of time from the neck down at this point, thanks to uncountable drugs.

“Get that stuff off,” the guy mumbled.

“Oh, am I still dressed?” Henry toyed with a shirt button, twirling this way, that. Within a second or two he was spaced out. ‘mm.” He felt something sharp, fingernails, a hand, the guy’s. It was yanking his underwear down. The pair got snagged around his feet. The guy left them dangling there. Henry’s feet were huge. He raised up, peered down his chest. But blurry. ‘so, uh, I don’t really know . . . what you, like . . . expect . . . to, like, get out of that.” He pointed at his cock and said “that” again, sort of ironically.

“We’ll . . . see . . .” The guy’s face made a rocky landing on Henry’s crotch.

“Oh, okay, go ahead.” Henry let his head drop.