“Sean, the blonde with the great ass? She’s a themby this week,” said Pete.

“How do you know?” asked Jeff.

“Dude, because I’ve got game. I asked her, uh, them, if she still liked guys, or what.”

“What did them say?”

“‘Yeah, but only, you know, gay men.’ So you know what that means.”

“Blowjobs,” asked Larry, tentatively.

“Anal,” shouted all the other guys.

The residents of the Lodge had developed black market channels for obtaining booze and pot, two of their three mainstays. Their efforts to obtain regular pussy, though more diligent, were far less successful.

“Those sub shop girls are all batshit-crazy,” said Jeff. “The old guy just rolls his eyes whenever one of them goes off about the ghosts or whatever.”

“Crazy pussy is fun pussy, but always wear a rubber no matter what they tell you. You going for another beer, bro? Get me one, too,” asked Pete.

Larry approached the beer fridge. He knew the house beer supply was running low. The beer fridge was an ancient model with a latching door handle. He opened the fridge door wide so as to let light in; there had been no working bulb as long as he’d lived there. There, on the bottom shelf, at the very back, was a lone can of beer. Fuck.

Larry returned to the living room with the can of beer, and sheepishly handed it to Pete.

“Last one, bro,” asked Pete.

Larry nodded.

“Good luck, bro…”

The beer rules were very clear. Whoever took the last can of house beer had to go on a beer run and feed the fridge. Taking was the important part; you didn’t have to open it or drink it to incur your obligation.

Larry, a first-semester freshman, was unable to legally buy beer, like most of the guys who lived in the Lodge. Pete was twenty-two, “six-year plan, yo,” but the rules forbade asking beer-legal residents to go on your beer run. The beer quest was as much about ingenuity as it was about contributing funds and labor. Larry didn’t have a good connection, yet. The weed chick would deliver beer if you bought a bag, but Larry’s bank account was almost tapped out even though it was only October.

“Is the bait store down by the lake still cool,” asked Larry.

“Naw, dude. I tried that last week and the guy kicked me out. Said they’d been hassled by the cops because some Karen complained,” said Greg.

“I don’t know anyone else,” said Larry.

“The Queer,” said Tom.

Butler was still small-town enough to have a designated town Queer. The Queer had a standing agreement with the Lodge – a few minutes of hard, young cock in exchange for two suitcases of cheap beer. Larry had never had a real blowjob before. The toothy, awkward time with Michael on the scout camping trip didn’t count.

“It’s cool. You’ll be in and out in under ten minutes,” said Tom.

“I’m not gay. What if I can’t get it up?”

“He has a stack of porno mags there to get you going. Once he starts working on you you won’t have a problem. Just pretend it’s Ann.”

Like Ann would ever do that. He was lucky if he got her her bra off. And they both had to wear underwear when in bed together – tighty whities for him, because “something might slip out” of boxer shorts.

“Do I have to, like, do anything?”

“Naw, it’s cool. You walk into his garage, and once you’re hard you stick your dick into the glory hole. Probably the best BJ you’ll ever have,” answered Tom.

“Glory hole? No way…”

“Intro to Glass and Ceramics” was a first-year requirement at Butler U, and introduced students to the glass furnace and its fiery glory hole, into which glass-tipped pipes were poked, rotated, and heated to melting as part of the legacy glass-blowing process.

“No, dude, it’s a sheet of plywood with a hole in it at dick height.”

“‘’Twere best it were done quickly,’” urged Pete, pulling out the house burner phone which they used to extract each other from situations with parents, professors, and girls.

“U open? New guy. Needs beer.” Pete spoke aloud as he keyed in the text on the old-school flip phone.

A few tense moments later for Larry, the phone blooped with a reply. The Queer was indeed open. The only thing left was to negotiate the terms of the transaction.

“‘How big,’” asked Pete, reading the message.

Larry flushed with embarrassment. He wasn’t that big, really, at least not compared to the guys in pornos.

“Average, right” asked Pete, keying in the reply before Larry could answer.

The phone blooped immediately in reply.

“‘Come quick,’” read Pete.

“You sure will,” observed Jeff, which produced immediate laughter from the entire room.

“What about my load? Should I bring tissues?”

“He swallows.”

“Okay, bro, you got this. Now go take one for the team. Or give one.”

“Here’s the address,” said Pete, texting. “Get gone.”

“Okay,” answered Larry, pasting the address into the nav app on his phone. The app said it was a twelve-minute drive.

Larry got into the white Buick Rendezvous with the red door which had belonged to his grandmother. The Buick stuttered as it always did, then started roughly. The drive was uneventful, but Larry arrived full of trepidation.

# # #

The Queer lived in a brick ranch house with an attached garage. There was an ancient Subaru wagon, older than Larry, parked in the driveway. He proceeded nervously into the dimly lit garage.

Everything was just as described. The plywood sheet with the glory hole was adorned with graffiti from previous visitors, mostly names and dates with some dick drawings. There was a small table with a stack of magazines.

Third down was a vintage issue of Penthouse with Louise Bachelor on the cover, the tall, leggy redhead who co-starred in the Dick Slashballs action movie The Night of the Hyena. Larry had had a big crush on her ever since he started jerking off. He opened the magazine to the centerfold, and there was Louise in all her ginger-bushed glory.

Larry had never seen the photo spread before, and the lurid pictures soon overcame his shyness and he popped a chub. Larry continued looking at the magazine as he unzipped his jeans and unlimbered his dick and stroked himself to full hardness. He then heard a double knock on the plywood, and a finger appeared in the glory hole beckoning him towards the inevitable.

The glory hole was rimmed with duct tape. He inserted his dick into the opening and was immediately engulfed by something warm, wet, and very greedy. Larry closed his eyes and thought about Louise.

Time and space lost all meaning. There was only Louise. Then, like the brassy soundtrack from the movie, the rhythm quickened and swelled into an explosive crescendo.

“Unh, unh, unh.” Larry couldn’t help himself. After a final spasm, he withdrew from the glory hole. He felt something scratch his dick on the way out, like a stray splinter or something. As he zipped up, he heard a gurgling noise from behind the plywood. Maybe his youthful enthusiasm had overcome the Queer.

He headed towards the exit and saw two suitcases of PBR.

“Thanks for the beer, sir,” he called over his shoulder as he left, not noticing the dark puddle seeping out from underneath the plywood.

# # #

There was a party going on at the Lodge when Larry arrived back. Of course, there was always a party going on at the Lodge on Friday afternoon when everyone was done with class.

“Finally.”

“It’s about time.”

“How was it?”

“It was good,” said Larry, not really sure what he should say about the experience without sounding gay.

“Drink up, guys,” said Pete, motioning for Larry to open a suitcase and beer-up everyone before depositing the remaining beers in the fridge.

# # #

Hilda pulled her Honda Element with the magnetic door signs “Maid 4 You Cleaning Services” into the driveway. Hammond’s Subaru was there, but no other cars, thank goodness. She’d arrived a little early one day and learned exactly what the odd plywood partition in the garage was for, and that the rumors about her Saturday afternoon client were true.

She trudged through the people door to the garage, towing her cart with her cleaning supplies and equipment. She turned on the work lights and saw what looked like a pool of blood with footsteps leading away from it.

Hammond decorated extravagantly for the holidays, particularly Halloween. The old homosexual was a prankster and loved to try out new tableaux on her to see if she would fall for them.

“Herr Hammond,” she called out, rounding the partition.

For one brief moment, Hilda was able to believe that Hammond’s corpse, with its head flopped over, was some bit of theatrical trickery that he had constructed for her to get a reaction. But then she saw that Hammond was really, really dead.

Hilda screamed for what seemed like an eternity before she finally managed to call 911.

# # #

Murders don’t happen very often in small towns, but when they do all the Police and Sheriff’s personnel, both professional and volunteer, go on duty. There is a crime scene to secure, and district attorneys and state police forensic investigators to be escorted. Neither Butler township, nor the county had a forensic unit, the yearly number of murders alternating between zero and one.

When NYSP forensics released the body, the first responders all watched the chick from the funeral home as she loaded it up. The local undertakers took weekly turns on coroner rotation.

“You got that all by yourself, honey?”

“Just watch me,” she said as she expertly rolled the Queer’s corpse onto the cot, draped it, strapped it down, and wheeled it out to the van to the silent appreciation of the assembled onlookers. Lady Death, as they called her behind her back, was a hot item.

# # #

Butler public safety rolled up to the sub shop just after closing. By longstanding invitation, first responders in uniform could walk in any time the lights were on, and there was always free coffee and soda for them.

“Man, did you see his head flop back before she covered him up? I thought it was going to fall off.”

“What the fuck,” asked Sean, who was stacking chairs and getting ready to mop up.

“Mr. Hammond, our town Queer, had his throat cut by a visitor.”

“A visitor.” She just knew it was one of the Lodge boys. They were all toxically homophobic and threw around the word “fag” with each other like it was somehow funny. She could see one of them driving out and murdering the sweet old gay man in a fit of testosterone poisoning.

“It was one of the Lodge boys, wasn’t it?”

“Can’t give any further details until the DA charges someone. We’d better go so you can close up. Thanks for the coffee.”

# # #

The Lodge boys were deep in their cups. Steve had just distributed a round of beer. The bottle of Jack Daniels was going around. Pete was loading a bud of Pineapple Express into the bong when they heard a loud banging on the front door.

“Butler Police Department, open up, we have an arrest warrant for Lawrence Kroger.”

“Shit, it really is the cops,” said Tom, peeping out through the blind.

“Go peacefully and don’t say anything to anyone until your parents get you a good lawyer,” said Pete walking towards the front door.

# # #

Larry was scared, drunk, high, and in the back of a cop car. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and he was strapped-in to one of the rear seats with a seatbelt harness.

Finally, a cop got into the drivers seat.

“Okay, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”

Finally, the cop stopped talking and grabbed up a hand microphone with a curly wire and talked into it.

“Dispatch, this is unit seven. I’m inbound with a detainee.”

“Roger that, seven.”

# # #

“Mom? I’m in jail. They think I killed this guy, but I didn’t. I need bail money and a lawyer.”

“Larry, I paid your tuition. Your father has far more experience with these things than I do. Call him.”

“This is GlobalTel Inmate Call Services. The party to whom you were speaking has disconnected the call.”

# # #

“Uh, hey, Sherry. This is Larry, I’m in big trouble. Can I talk to my dad?”

“FRED! Your loser son is on the phone. He fucked up again. Pick up, already…”

“This is GlobalTel Inmate Call Services. The party to whom you were speaking has disconnected the call.”

# # #

The small town jail thing wasn’t all that bad. Larry was searched, though not invasively, had his belt, shoelaces, wallet and phone taken, and was locked alone in a cell with a cot, and a combination toilet and sink that smelled of pee.

There was no light switch, and the metal-caged ceiling fixture hummed, buzzed, and flickered. Every so often a cop looked in through the wire mesh window in the door.

Larry alternately worried and examined his dick. The cut went across the entire underside of the head, very straight and shallow, like a paper cut. He washed it as best he could in the sink using the little bar of hotel soap. It didn’t seem to be infected but he wasn’t sure if the things he was most worried about would show up that way.

They had asked him if he needed immediate medical attention when they brought him in, but he’d told them “no.” He was afraid that asking for that would incriminate him and was hoping he’d get bailed out.

A drunk chick was brought in during the middle of the night. First she sang, then she screamed, all the while puking, and cursing the cops. The smell of drunk sick wafted into his cell. Finally, he drifted off on the hard cot for a couple of hours, then was harshly awakened by a cop banging his club on the door.

# # #

Breakfast was handed to him through a slit in the door on a paper tray. Toaster waffles with a syrup pack and a margarine square, and a cup of almost-hot water and a pack of instant coffee. Pretty much what Larry had every day at the Lodge.

Apparently everything hinged on something called an arraignment where he’d be brought before a judge, and have his bail set, and hope his father would pay it.

The boredom was incredible. No phone. No internet. There was nothing to do but worry about his legal and medical situations. The cut on his dick was closed and it was slightly inflamed, which only added to his worrying. Every time he touched his dick he got hard. He tried thinking about Louise and masturbating, but then his thoughts would turn to the pictures they showed him when they had brought him in and questioned him.

# # #

“Wake and shake, Kroger. Your lawyer’s here.”

“Mr. Kroger, I’m Angus Weintraub, your attorney. Your father hired me to represent you. First, have you said anything to anyone other than your name, address, and identifying info?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? This is important.”

“I’ve listened to all those YouTube ‘don’t talk to the cops’ videos.”

“Ah. Good. Normally my clients have spilled their guts, figuratively, of course, by this point. So, they found you at your home, 1096 Broadway. Tell me what happened after that.”

“They brought me here and showed me pictures of this dead guy and asked me if I knew him and where I had been earlier. I said ‘I want a lawyer.’”

“Good, good. Nothing else? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no small talk. They did ask me some medical questions here, like if I was epileptic or diabetic or anything. I said ‘no’ to all those questions. I hope that’s okay.”

“That is all very okay.”

Suddenly, there was a rap at the door, and a cop came into the room.

“Mr. Weintraub, Mr. Cohen from the DA’s office wants to talk to you.”

“One moment, Mr. Kroger. I’ll be back.” Weintraub stood, closed and grabbed his briefcase, and exited the visitor room.”

# # #

“Angus.”

“Ian.”

“Normally, I’d be offering your client second degree murder with a generous plea bargain now. But the victim, Mr Hammond, had security cameras, and we’ve recovered evidence pointing to another person. There’s also a cold case from Buffalo four years ago of a throat-slit gay, similar circumstances.”

“At which time my client was a high school freshman in Maryland.”

“We’re dropping charges and releasing him. Tell him to be careful and that he may have to testify.”

# # #

Larry smelled like shit when they released him. His car was in an impound lot, somewhere, and there was paperwork and probably money to get it back. The Lodge was only a few blocks walk from the jail, and he just wanted to get back there. But he knew he needed to see a doctor as soon as possible and headed towards the campus medical clinic.

He walked past the sub shop and saw some of the patrons and staff giving him the stink-eye and getting on their phones.

It was still early when he got to the clinic, and he only had to wait a few minutes before he was taken into an exam room.

“Okay, I want you to know that anything you tell me is absolutely confidential, unless you plan on harming another person.”

That made things easier for Larry, but also let him know that by now the entire town had heard the news.

Dr. Rosales examined his penis briefly with a gloved hand while a male nurse stood by with a clipboard. This was the first time his penis had been touched by a woman since he was in diapers, and he was afraid he’d get hard since the doctor was an attractive woman. He stared at the ceiling and thought about a frozen arctic wasteland.

The doctor was very matter of fact. “Normally the risk of HIV/AIDs transmission is minimal for the person receiving oral sex, since virus particles don’t express in saliva. But since there was contact between open, bleeding wounds I’m going to prescribe anti-retrovirals for emergency prophylaxis, as well as antibiotics for possible Syphilis or Gonorrhea infections. We’ll call you when the blood work is back. Please pick up the prescription today and finish the entire course of medication and come back for follow-up blood work when you’re done.”

# # #

The drugs were really expensive, and he had to call his dad to pay for it.

Sherry answered the phone, as she always did. Before she put his dad on, she reamed him out.

“Listen, you little shit,” she hissed, “Fred is supposed to take me on a cruise. You better not fuck that up.”

# # #

Larry arrived at the Lodge a few minutes later and climbed the three steps up to the front porch and turned the doorknob. Well, tried to turn the doorknob, and for the first time found the door to the Lodge locked. He knew the doorbell didn’t work, and that it was early in the morning by house standards. His only choice was to bang on the door, which he did more forcefully than he had ever done anything in his life. Eventually, Greg answered the door and let him in.

Larry took a long, hot shower, and crashed in his room glad to be surrounded by familiar sounds and smells of home – for some values of home.

# # #

Larry awoke disoriented. He checked his phone and saw that it was Sunday afternoon. He was hungry and thirsty, and so wanted to get high, which he realized probably wasn’t a good idea, but fuck it. He stumbled down the steps of the old house.

When Larry walked into the living room he got a standing ovation from all the guys there, the first time he had ever been celebrated like that in his life. Greg cued up “Smooth Criminal” on the sound system, and Larry made a victory lap of the room before Pete gave up The Chair for him and put a beer in his hand.

Larry told the tale, and upon the insistence of the guys told the tale again, and then they all asked to see his dick, so he showed them, and then answered numerous questions.

“Doctor Rosales is hot, yo.”

“Latina MILF doctor examines your dick. I’ve seen that porno.”

“So, what’s necrophilia like?”

Larry found his beer empty.

“You want another one,” asked Pete.

“That’s cool, I’ll get it,” Larry answered, happy for a break from talking, and stood up and ambled into the kitchen.

He opened the fridge door. There, on the bottom shelf at the very back was a lone can. No, this couldn’t be happening. No, no, no…

He couldn’t come back without a beer, but the cops had told him very explicitly to keep his nose clean when they released him. Which meant no more beer runs. And, as they guys had pointed out already, one of their sources was offline. Permanently.

All of a sudden he heard Jeff laughing and saw the other guys were either in the kitchen or standing in the doorways, doing variously good jobs of containing their laughter.

“Gotcha,” said Jeff, at which all the guys broke down laughing.

“Larry, you’re exempt from beer duty until you’re legal, since you always fuck it up,” said Pete, rolling in a wheeled cooler full of beer.

“But you’re still on the hook for weed,” reminded Tom.

# # #

Ann dumped Larry after she heard about the blowjob and murder.

“I just can’t even,” is all she would say, acting offended that he would even ask why.

The blood tests all came back negative, and when he called his dad to share the good news got bitched at by Sherry for wasting money before she put his father on the phone.

Later that semester Larry finally got laid, on the floor of the Sparklette 24-hour Coin Laundry by Samantha, a goth chick in his Art History class who wouldn’t even talk to him before. And she gave blowjobs, though nowhere as good as the Queer.

END

Author’s Note: I’d like to thank Mojeaux for her ongoing mentorship and encouragement, editing, and the master class in text tags. I’d also like to acknowledge writers Doug Kenney (RIP) and Chris Miller whose works have (obviously) been a big influence on my writing.