Eighteen – Chapter 11 Part 2

Finally, we’re alone in his room. Jace goes home with Tommy, and Max is with Winston at my house.

“How can I love you, if I’m just one of the crowd?”

“Come here, lover. Listen to my heart,” I order.

He scoots over on the bed, laying his head on my chest.  As I put my arms around him and my heart rate speeds up, my chest starts to purr. He tries to make himself purr with pitiful results. I laugh at him.

“It’s not something you can turn on and off,” I explain. “I get freaked when it won’t stop.”

“I love it,” Jack complains. I knew not to say he isn’t the only one. There’s even Gerber in a corner of the Whiskey.

“I guess I’m too uptight to just let go and have my body take over.”

I never thought of it that way. At first, I was afraid I was having an epileptic seizure.

“Don’t worry about your sexual proclivities and technique. You have to stop being so insecure. You still resist coming into my heart for fear you’ll find I’ve rejected you or find you inadequate.”

“I’m such a nerd,” he admits.

“l bet you tried to nerd off with Isaac over Christmas, didn’t you?” I accuse him.

He turns bright red. “It was so lame. We both wanted to be the bottom.”

I can’t stop laughing, visualizing them holding each other’s dicks,  both unsure how to proceed.

Somehow this makes both of us horny. I pretend to be Isaac and act insecure and unwilling to admit I want him.

“What’s wrong?” Jack asks when I fail to jump him.

“I’m Isaac, a pitiful nerd, in need of a blow job,” I squeak.

That’s all it takes to get him started. I twist his pebble hard nipples as he takes my straining dick into his mouth.  He writhes and squirms as I torture his tits. His teeth snag on my shaft, making me writhe in actual pain. He keeps nibbling, taking out his frustrations on my dick. I shove it deeper into his throat. Now he is nibbling on the top of my ball sac. I shove first one and then the other testicle into his mouth. He tries to spit them out. Back and forth I rock into him. He isn’t breathing, choking on my dick. I think about us being found together; Jack, blue from lack of air and stiff from rigor mortis, while I’m unable to escape the jaws of death. I quickly change positions. Jack is shaking as he chokes, but not complaining. I pull out, causing his dick to erupt, some S&M trigger. He looks embarrassed.

“Tommy’s right. You’re so mean,” he accuses me.

“From the size of your ejaculate, you must like it that way.”

“I want you to love me.”

“You’ll never know how much I love you unless you trust yourself to be in my heart. Why do you think I’m having sex so much when we are apart? I miss you.”

“You need to have sex with someone 73 years old to replace me?”

“He’s only 72.”

Jack is indignant. He can’t let go and be in my heart. I’m leaving in the morning and may not see him until the start of spring semester. It’s more important that he learn how we can be together psychically than just a one night stand by which to remember each other.

I lay there with Jack’s hand on my throbbing dick. “What do I do?” he asks.

“Don’t ask me. Ask your heart to be in mine.”

He tries so hard, but it is like Robby, unable to see Max; or, Minehan telling Jace to fuck him, when he can never let that happen. Mind control doesn’t work on your heart. These computers that let Stephen Hawking speak will never sound human; computer code and mind control have no soul.

Jack finally gives up. I instantly appear in his heart.

“Just let me in and I’ll fuck the shit out of your heart.  Someday you’ll let go of the control and be able to love me back.”

I remember the last time I mad crazy fucked him. We writhe together on the bed without touching. He geysers quickly. I tease two more orgasms out of him, before I let myself cum. I’m laying on my back with my eyes closed. When I finally finish, I look over and realized Jack has been staring at me the whole time.  We are both covered in spent jism. I giggle. He looks aghast, but finally giggles himself. After S&M, we indulge in psychic sex. Both ways are perverted but highly satisfying.

We run to the shower and clean up. Jack wiggles his butt and allows me entry for regular doggy-style gay sex.  Jack feels better that we’re back to normal. He sleeps in my arms the rest of the night. In the morning, we skip wake-up sex for Isabelle’s Eggs Benedict, eating with Mummy and Daddy. He comments that we were not in the Sunday Herald Arts Section.

“But that Anita Bryant woman is still ranting about your sex lives. She says you pervert classical music by using an electronic piano to play Rimsky-Korsakov.”

We all laugh. Next we go to my house to say goodbye to Mom, Dad and Winston. It appears that Max had come home for good, with Jace mostly at Tommy’s.

“You know, Dad, You’ve always been skeptical about Jace still being in my life.”

“I understand you need to believe that.”

“What would you say if Max is staying here now, to be with you?”

He gives me his most angry look,  but underneath I feel he might really want it to be so.

“You are still so weird,” he comments.

“But it’s true. Just ask Winston.” I turn to Winston and ordered, “Where’s Max?”

Winston barks at Max who was sitting quietly waiting for his next hit.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Dad argues.

“Winston just told me where Max is sitting. You can’t see him because you refuse to believe it. But you can feel him. Just call him over.”

Susan is watching us incredulously, unable to believe Dad can be so gullible. Of course, Dad refuses to try. I call Max over. “Shake hands with Dad, Max,” I order.

Max thinks this trick will get him second-hand smoke. He lays a paw on Dad’s hand. Dad jumps up so quickly, I think he’ll go through the roof.  He glares at me. “Enough of your tricks. I miss that dog and don’t appreciate you making fun of me.”

Once Max hears Dad say that he misses him, he jumps up and puts both paws on Dads chest.

“Enough,” Dad freaks.

“Sit, Max,” I order.

“Can’t you just accept that Max will always love you, Dad. Don’t worry about ghosts and spirits. I know they don’t exist in your world.”

He glares at me. Max whines. Dad hears him and looks conflicted.

“Okay, Tim. I know your imagination has been the key to all your success. If you want me to believe Max is here, I’ll try. But it won’t make up for missing you,” as he pulls me into a hug. Susan  smiles at the progress her hubby is making in becoming human. I pull her into the hug. Jack insists in joining, which breaks the spell. But it’s our finest family moment.

 

Off we go to the airport in the pink Cabriolet. I make him put up the top and give him a blowjob in the parking lot. I nibble on his dick just enough to get even and cause him to explode prematurely. We were still teenagers.

Our goodbye is long and slightly tearful. Jack promises to trust me more after I have demonstrated what happens when he doesn’t trust me. I add my three-way roommates at the Chelsea, Paul and Monte, to the list of my cheating, with Jake and Burroughs. I knew I need not make a full confession just yet. Maybe it would spark his curiosity to find out more. All he needs to do was look in my heart. It doesn’t lie. By the time we finish saying goodbye, no one in the gate area thinks we were just family or friends. It’s 1977. The Bicentennial of the Revolution, 1976, is now over . Get used to it.

It’s a relief to be going back to LA and Hollywood.  How had my life become so complicated? I was juggling lovers at home – three girlfriends, two boyfriends, and an old geezer, plus the three-way twins. Maybe I need to be more discriminating. LA is fun and no one cares who you fuck or who you don’t. I’m the ‘New Kid in Town’ again.

 

 

I’d even had a four-way with Jack Nicholson. My exploits with Belushi leave a trail of co-eds and groupies. What about Gerber, good for humping in a time of need? With Tony and Jimmy, it’s more about meeting Doug’s needs and running around teasing the Santa Monica Blvd johns. I fall asleep on the plane, coming out of a nightmare as we descend into the LA Basin – all my fucks gang up on me and are chasing me through the streets of Hollywood. I can’t find the Wreck in order to escape them.

Exiting the jetway, I spot Jake waiting for me. I rush into his arms for a hug.  It’s a relief that I don’t start purring or vibrating. He seems disappointed. I assure him it’s a positive that I don’t  meltdown when I get near him.

“But it is so cute,” he explains.

“Look how much trouble it got me into.”

He laughs. “Welcome back to la la land where no cares if you vibrate.”

“Me, the human dildo.”

“No, you’re such an animal, an armadillo.

“That’ll be my new song. Or how about a band called the Armadildos?”

“You could wear rubber armadillo suits.”

Joking reminds me that it’s Sunday afternoon, time for locals only at the Whiskey. I figure Jake is maxed out on our rock n roll circus. He drives me to the Canterbury, agreeing he’ll only come up for a few minutes. Two blow jobs later, he drives me to the Whiskey. I spot the Wreck parked at Tower Records  – Nicky and Alice are at the show. I kiss Jake goodbye, thanking him for picking me up. We agree to go out to dinner after work on Monday.

I run into the pit area and am instantly surrounded by my new friends, the LMPs, Safety and his coterie of chubby girls, Craig from the Bags,  and people from Orange County I’ve never met but just want to be excited  about something. Nicky and Alice hand me the Wreck’s keys.

“I suppose we’ve lost our ride,” Nicky complains.

“Just when I’m at work, but you never get up that early,” I wink at him.

He punches me on the arm. “You gots to build some muscle, boy,” he always has crazy advice.

I pull out one of Robby’s specials, accepting that my popularity has more to do with my unending supply of joints than any personality traits. High school dealing proves to be good training for adulthood.  After getting everyone high, we start dancing to the recorded music being played by the sound guy in the booth. He has cool taste with many of the new English bands. The new Sex Pistols single has come out, ‘God Save the Queen’. Everyone is all excited, bouncing around.

 

 

The LMPs want me to sing the Sham lyrics to ‘Kids United’. After the first verse, everyone joins in. The band waits for us to end, as we have everyone jumping up and down, with our arms around each other.

 

 

We keep it up, with the sound engineer keeping the band powered down. Finally he plays the newest Sex Pistols song ‘Holiday in the Sun.’ I become all sentimental (or mental) thinking it is me, escaping from cold, wintry Boston.

 

 

It was what I need – ‘a reason, the Berlin Wall.’

Songwriters: PAUL COOK, STEVE JONES, SID VICIOUS, JOHNNY: SEE, ROTTEN
© BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC

The show is halted while we turn it into a punk disco.  Finally the band walks off stage in disgust.

“Come back,” we yell, not wanting to ruin their moment of fame.

 

Nicky and Alice grab me, pulling me outside on the sidewalk.

“Ya can’t help yourself. Back five minutes, ya havta be the center of attention.”
“It’s called performance addiction. Here, smoke this,” I hold out a joint, ‘you can be the center of your own attention.”

“Fuck that shit,” Nicky never smokes. Alice takes it and lights it up. We quickly have a crowd on the curb.

“Better go to Tower and hang by the car,” Nicky is keeping an eye out for cops. 

I put the top down, noticing that the electric motor is burned out. It has to be done by hand. The Wreck complains, with squeaks and groans. I’m not about to be denied. It’s the last time the top is up. There are about ten of us hanging out at Tower. The manager comes out and takes our photo.

“Are you going to bust us?” someone asks.

“No way. We’ll use it to show that real people shop at Tower Records.”

We feel elated, being called ‘real.’ We’re really the dregs of society, at least in our own minds. I’m liberated from Harvard exceptionalism. I’m entitled to hang out.

We never go back in the Whiskey, instead heading for Oki Dog. I have the munchies. Oki Yoki is pleased to see me back. It’s another slow Sunday night on a holiday weekend. We all get oki dogs after promising to entertain the cruisers looking for rent boys. We have no instruments, so Nicky starts pounding on a round plastic picnic table, while I sing ‘Bob Dylan don’t bop tonight’ to Helium Bar. Nicky yells at me to stop singing and he sings the correct lyrics. Like most drummers, he can’t sing. At least I learn the correct lyrics: ‘Bop to Helium Bar tonight.’ Since it’s a one line lyric, everyone learns it and joins in. Nicky thinks he’s the conductor. We all promise not to tell John Denney.

One of the johns parks in the parking lot. Instead of going to buy an oki dog, he tries hitting on one of the LMPs, Steve, the battered housewife.  All the LMPs jump in to ‘save’ Steve, who looks conflicted. The john escapes with a minor beating. He outweighs the kids by 50 pounds but is terrified. Oki Yoki is pissed that we are scaring off his clients. The real hustlers are mad that we’re cutting into their trade. We all go over to Astro Burger. I have to pay. It’s worth it, as they have onion rings.

“Yer a rich bitch, ain’tcha?” Steve observes.

“I have a job. I actually get paid to do this.”

“What? Beat up faggots,” Eddie asks.

“No. Get bands for a movie.”

“I heard you rejected the Weirdos.”

“They’ll never forgive me.”

“How come Nicky’s your friend, then?”

“Free food,” I answer. Nicky is eating everyone else’s fries. He remind me of Minehan, without musical talent, except drumming. I wasn’t sure what talent that takes, except stamina and rhythm.

The LMPs are watching the pickup action across the street.

“Get over there, Ennis. Make us some money,” Eddie orders.

Steve looks distressed, but does as ordered, obedient as ever. I feel sorry for him, after he gets no action at all. It’s a slow night. I buy a bunch of fries and tell the LMPs to watch. I go across the street and get the real prostitutes to sing a Capella to Mott the Hopple’s ‘All the Hung Dudes.”

 

 

Traffic picks up, with all the boys singing for their supper. Oki Yoki  looks pleased. I grab Steve and bring an oki dog across the street for Nicky. Again Steve looks like he missed out on something he isn’t sure he wants.

I needed a hetero fix. We drive to Larrabee Studios. Jimmy says Joan is back from the Japanese tour.  The Runaways are in hiatus, so Kim Fowley isn’t paying for studio time. She’s living down the street from the Whiskey. We drive back to Tower Records, telling the LMPs they are on their own. Nicky, Alice and I go and knock on her door on North San Vicente. After pounding for a minute, she finally opens it, looking totally stoned.

She stares at me, until she realizes who I am.

“Tim, what’s up?”

“This is Alice and Nicky. They’re in bands. We want to hang out.”

“Oh, man. Not a good time. I’m pretty wasted.”

“Really?” I grab her and give her my best lip lock.

“Whoa, cowboy,” she complains. “Com’n inside.”

Her all girls-in-leather posse are in a corner, as well as several nodded out junkies on the couch. It’s my first trip to an opium den. There are no surprises, after Joey’s, then Robby and Iggy’s, exploits in NYC.

“How long you been back?” I ask.

“Since Christmas,” she mumbles. “I got my pay from the tour. I haven’t been outside since.”

She points to the shambles that is her apartment. I believe her. Her posse looks at me, hopeful I can rescue their heroine from heroin.

“You’re such a junkie,” I laugh.

She glares at me, and then laughs. “Yer right. Too much cash and too much time.”

“I’m taking you away from here,” I decide.

“I can’t leave. I’ll get ripped off,” she worries.

I look around. There was nothing to steal.

“What can they take?” I ask.

Joan thinks a second. “My guitars and amp.”

“Perfect. We’ll go to Oki Dog and serenade your fans from the boulevard.”

She likes that idea. The posse jumps up, ready to go anywhere after a week of Joan’s nodding. Nicky walks with me to get the Wreck. I drive to her place and load two guitars and a practice amp in the trunk. Alice tries to sober Joan up a bit without much success.

“I thought she’d be more together,” Nicky remarks, apparently forgiving my pot habit, heroin being higher on his list of no-no’s.

“Super dick to the rescue,” I crow. “She’ll perk up.”

“Ten minutes ago, you were trolling queers on the Santa Monica. Now you’re Mr. Straight?”

“Straight is great. Gay’s my fate,” I quip.

He punches me again.  I remembered the no gay rule for being a Hollywood punk. I’ll try harder.

The posse rides in the back, as the four of us sit up front. Oki Yoki is pleased when I show up again. It had been a slow night.

“I found a guitarist,” I point to the half-comatose Joan. “We’ll get these dogs sold.”

He gives me a thumbs up. We plug-in at the side. Joan and I tune together. She’s been slacking on her equipment.

“Let’s do, ‘All the Young Dudes,” I suggest, knowing the boys know the words from earlier. She knows that one. We soon have all the tricks singing with us. Nicky is banging on the table again. Alice does back ups,  echoing the chorus, like in a round. It doesn’t take long for the cruisers to start circling the block.

“Let’s do a song for the boys,” I suggested. “Cheap Trick.”

“Cool,” Joan agreed, “’I Want You to Want Me.’”

 

 

The boys with long hair (all of them) shake it round and round, their asses going in the opposite direction. They are going to cause accidents, as drivers lose their focus staring at blonde boys shaking it on Santa Monica.

Joan grins at all the boys shaking their asses to get laid for pay.

“Hey, don’tcha know that ‘Love Hurts’ when ya bend over?”

 

Joan runs out to the curb and taunted the cruisers, “Don’t You Want to Touch me.”

 

 

Traffic comes to a halt. I hear sirens. We throw the guitars and amp into the Wreck and go to get our reward – oki dog supremes – extra chili, extra cheese. The Sheriffs arrive. We pretend to be innocent diners.

“Okay,” they recognize me. “Your concert is over tonight.”

We pretend to look offended at being interrupted from our dinner. The cops laugh. Oki Yoki brings them their oki dogs. No one is arrested for having fun. We end the evening singing a Capella ‘Ain’t That a Shame.’

 

The Sheriffs join in, thinking we’re doing Fats Domino or Pat Boone.

Joan has perked up. We jump in the wreck and drove down to Larrabee Studios, but it’s closed. Business is slow with the Runaways breaking up.

“Why’d you break up?” I ask, not able to imagine ever giving up success.

“Cheri’s a bitch, the other two are pussies, and I’m the junkie.”

No argument there. “What’s next?”

“I’m taking a break.”

“Break’s over,” Nicky crows.

“Argh,” she groans.

“No time to slack off. Let’s go.”

We jump into the Wreck and head for the Canterbury.

“I’m going home,” Joan gives me directions.

“Back to junkieland? No way. You’re coming home me with me,” I insist.

Nicky and Alice giggle, happy to have me back in heteroland.

“But. But, what about those lowlifes at my place?”

“They’ll leave once you haven’t provided their next fix.”

I turn to her posse. “Where should I drop you.”

They are just happy Joan is off her binge. I take them to Beverly Hills where one of them lives.

As we drove back up Santa Monica, we all sing ‘Cherry Bomb.’

 

 

Nicky remembers someone has given him actual firecrackers. We toss a string of them out at Oki Dog. The troops scatter. Yoki Oki shakes his fist at me. I wave.

 

It’s just after midnight when we get to the Canterbury. Alice and Nicky have an agenda, much similar to mine. Joan is bemused. I’m pleased that her bag of tricks, including the strap-on, is still at North San Vicente. No need to be distracted from hetero fucking. It will be all me tonight. I’ll make sure to prime the pump before getting down and dirty. I don’t want her missing her posse.

“Nice,” Joan comments on my Spartan one room place.

“Functional,” I reply, swinging the Murphy Bed  around and dropping it on the floor.

“Oh, no preliminaries?”

“Oh, I know what you need,” I announce, sitting her on the bed. I sit next to her and put my hand up the back of her tee-shirt. I start scratching the cool, clammy skin. She moans in appreciation.

“Keep doing that.”

“Lay down on your stomach,” I order.

She is quick to comply. We lay together as I work on her back, scratching up and down. She completely relaxes. I pulled the tee-shirt off. She isn’t wearing a bra. I pull her jeans off, leaving the panties for later. After about five minutes, she starts responding to my fingernail massage.

“How did you know to do this?”

“My cousin’s a junkie. He taught me when he was coming down.”

“So, you feel I’m like your cousin.”

“No way. He lacks tits,” as I pinch the flaccid nipples. They perk right up.

Joan shiver. I scratch just below the folds of her tits, making her writhe.

“Stop. Stop,” she complains. It was too much stimulation.

I return to scratching her back. Then, I run my fingernails through her hair. She responds by rolling her head side to side.  We keep at it, a slow tease to bring her down from the heroin high and slowly ramp up her sexual desire.

“So, did your cousin take advantage of you?” Joan has a perverted twist of mind.

“Naw, but I fully took advantage of him.”

“When did this happen?”

“When I was 14.”

“Oh, my god.”

“Don’t worry. He made sure I learned to appreciate girls.”

She wants to talk as I work on her. I relate all my experiences with Joey.

“He’s the one you came out to rescue last spring?”

“Yeah. He’s running a club back East. We played there several times while I was at Harvard.”

“Maybe we should have a band,” she suggests.

“Yeah. The Runaway Perverts.”

We giggle. I go to work on her feet. It tickles and makes her laugh more. I run my fingernails up the inside of her legs. She writhes like a snake, twisting and rolling on the bed. I sing in a sotto voice, Tom Petty’s ‘You’re so bad.’

 

My sister got lucky, married a yuppie
Took him for all he was worth
Now she’s a swinger dating a singer
I can’t decide which is worse

But not me baby, I’ve got you to save me
Oh yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad

My sister’s ex-husband can’t get no lovin’
Walks around dog-faced and hurt
Now he’s got nothin’, head in the oven
I can’t decide which is worse

But not me baby, I’ve got you to save me
Oh yer so bad, best thing I ever had
In a world gone mad, yer so bad’

 

Songwriters: TOM PETTY, JEFF LYNNE

© Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

 

Joan rolls over and sings the chorus with me, over and over.

“Who’s song’s that?”

“Tom Petty. He has all these song that tell crazy soap opera stories. I’ve hired him to work on the movie. He’ll learn how to make films and make his story songs into videos.”

“I wanna do that. Music videos are so boring, just watching the band play. Hire me, too. I need a job now that the Runaways are toast.”

“Really. You’re for sure breaking up?”

“Yup. I hate those bitches and Kim has been ripping us off.”

“Welcome to Hollywood.”

“Hire me,” she demands.

My Hollywood casting couch – the Murphy Bed.

“Okay, but never tell anyone that I hired you in the middle of fucking?”

“Then you better get to it. I’m sick of the tickling.”

She rolls over and presents herself to me. I slip her panties down, giving her butt cheeks a final scratch. She arches and wraps her legs around my waist. I’ve been hard for ages. She pulls down my pants, shaking her head at the fancy briefs.  They are soaked from pre-cum. She licks the tip of my dick through the briefs,  before pulling them down. Giving my dick an appraising look, she smiles and takes it fully down her throat. We haven’t even kissed yet. I decide that will come after we fuck. I slide her legs up to give me access to her pussy. I nose around, realizing that a week of heroin abuse doesn’t include showering. Time to forget niceties. I lick the labia and start probing inside with my tongue.  She’ll have no more of it, insisting on real dick. I’m willing and fully able. I slide her back down, with her legs crossed on the small of my back. My pussy eating has made her nice and wet, plus my excessive pre-cum. I smear her pussy by rubbing my dick head across and into the folds. Joan is already squeezing on my dick’s tip. Time to enter the kingdom of pussy. We rock together. As she pulses, I push deeper and deeper with each squeeze.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.” She screams as I fully invaded her cunt.

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah,” I moan back, thrusting with each word.

Fully inside, we roll back and forth. Her cries become growls as my thrusts reach the furthest depths – her pussy soul. I thrust faster and faster. She comes for the first time. I remain rigid and locked-in, as the orgasm peaks. A flood of pussy juice spurts past my dick, soaking the Murphy Bed. That’s a new experience. The girl can cum. It’s not just lubricant. She’s a gusher. I start to laugh. She’s insulted. I go back to fucking her seriously. Her need becomes growls as a second orgasm approaches. She’s intently staring at me, wanting us to cum simultaneously. I visualize a breaking wave hitting the backwash of a prior wave retreating from the beach.  Her growls reach a peak. Holding her butt with both hands, I go rigid. Her whole body jerks. My dick goes off, deep inside her cunt. The backwash sprays the bed sheets again. My groin and thighs are soaked. We collapse into the pool of mixed fluids, slithering together. I go instantly to sleep, old habits never completely die. It takes her a few minutes to gather her wits. Then she slaps me awake.

“I need a shower,” she decides. “You, too. You smell like rotten hotdogs.” Thanks Oki Dog.

We clean up in the shower. Jack bought spare sheets. I strip the bed and we remake it. I slip into her arms. I go instantly to sleep.

About an hour later, I wake up with Joan shivering beside me. Withdrawal (from drugs, not sex). I start scratching her again. She calms down. I put a blanket over us, continuing the scratching and eventually rubbing her all over. We both fall asleep. 

I wake up with Joan warm and relaxed beside me. It’s time to go to work. Before I leave, I wake her up, saying I’ll be back at noon to get her. She nods and goes back to her dreams. I know they’re about me. What a dick.

 

Next: https://timatswim.com/eighteen-chapter-12/

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