Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) (15 page)

"Are you referring to Dennis?" Kevin whispered.

The "boy" nodded. "The ... one ... who ... killed ... me." He wrapped his arms around himself and looked tenderly, emptily into Kevin's eyes. The "boy's" face was swollen and bruised, but his fogginess made him as easy on the eyes as a puffy cloud.

"Dennis used to be great," Kevin said. "We were lovers when I was a kid. He'd get distant on me and kind of rough sexually, but I didn't care, even though I was miserable in general. Because Dennis listened. He respected my fantasies, probably because he has weird ones himself. Julian never cared. I had a nervous breakdown two months ago; Julian took me in, but that was pure obligation. He hates me. I drive him and his lover nuts. But I guess I'm not answering your question."

The "boy" shook his head. Maybe he'd started crying. Yeah, why not? Sure. Cool. The idea gave Kevin chills. A boyshaped cloud raining. Weird. But how would that look? Kevin couldn't imagine. "Shoot." So he had the "boy" cover his face with his hands. "Don't cry," Kevin sighed, secretly willing the ghost to grow hysterical. Then he got an idea. "Hey," he added brightly, "tell me what it was like to be murdered by Dennis."

"Oh, it was gross," the gray boy wailed through his hands. "I-" Wait, Kevin thought. He'd have an accent or something. Start again. "It was gross," the "boy" reannounced in a coarse accent, somewhere between German and some sort of Irishy brogue. "First Dennis-" Kevin fast-forwarded him through the speech, not knowing how to describe a violent scene. Now what? He couldn't decide. Anyway, he was tired of the ghost idea. He killed it off, lay back, and stared at the splintery wooden ceiling. After an indeterminate number of bland, drifty thoughts, he stood, straightened his clothes, and scaled the mill's central, spiral staircase. It was at least ten degrees colder up where Julian and I were sitting. "Brr." Dimly lighted by one crumpled clip-lamp, the room was a lot like the other floor, only totally unfurnished, sans bathroom, and covered with dust like the bag in a huge vacuum cleaner.

"Sleep well?" I asked, startling Kevin out of a forgettable daydream.

He tiptoed across the room. "Okay, I guess. Aren't you guys freezing?"

The instant Kevin sat down, Julian jumped up, stretched, yawned in a totally phony-ass way. "I'm gonna go call that kid," he said, eyeing Kevin dismissively. "Have you got a phone, D.?"

"No, but there's one at the corner. Turn left when you go out the door. Tell the kid we're in the windmill. He'll know it. Here's the key." I fished around in a pocket, threw Julian what looked like a particle of light. "And a Dutch quarter. For the phone." Ditto.

"Who's `kid'?" Kevin asked once Julian had split. He could see in my eyes how enamored I was with him. Still, the crush or whatever seemed kind of ironic or something, Kevin couldn't quite tell, which made it a lot less nerve-racking, though obviously, and he could never forget this, that crush shared the same brain with scary ideas like exploding boys, necrophilia, etc.

"Some boy Julian met on the train. You didn't see him?"

"Yeah."

It was as if my blue eyes had been hit with a spotlight. Each iris framed a white, upside-down, wavy teardrop. "And your verdict?" I demanded.

"First, what are you guys planning to do? I mean you're not going to murder him, right?"

I looked away. The eyeball ghosts vanished. "Julian doesn't want to. So I guess it'll just be three-way, or ... a four-way if ... " I glanced at him. "Otherwise, you can hide out up here, read..."

That sounded innocent enough. "Let's see," Kevin said. "Well, you want to know who the boy most reminded me of?" He could feel himself blushing. "A guy Julian and you had a three-way with millions of years ago. I used to watch you guys screw through the keyhole sometimes."

"Wh-which guy?" The light had returned to my eyes, but it was all twisted up. "I mean ... do you remember us saying his first name was Henry?"

"No." Kevin scrunched up his forehead and tried to think, but I was acting too interested. "Gosh, let's see. Uh, he had long black hair. Skinny. He had sort of a baby face. He seemed really drugged."

"That sounds like anyone we ever slept with." My shoulders slumped, head dropped, face dangled loosely. "We had such specific tastes," I continued mournfully. "I still do. But Henry. Shit. Didn't I ever tell you about these fake snuff photographs?"

Kevin shook his head. "No, I don't think so," he said, but his memory was notoriously flaky. "Describe them to me."

"Dennis, you, hmm, stand at the foot of the futon." Julian pointed there. I lumbered over, eyes fixed on the bedding's new centerpiece, a kid's bowed head. "And, uh, Chretien?" The kid looked up from the purple shoelace he'd been fingering nervously. He looked stoned. Julian still felt a little too wowed by the kid's beauty. "You're amazing," he announced, and glanced over at me. "Very us circa 'seventy-four, 'seventyfive, right, Dennis?" "Definitely." I nodded, eyeing the kid. "He's exquisite." Chretien crinkled his nose, wiped it off with a pale purple sleeve. "And so endearing," Julian sighed. "Anyway, Perfect Young Being, could you get naked and lie on your back for us?" "Or else!" I added, shaking -a fist.

It was like time speeded up for cheap, comic effect. Within a second or two Chretien had undressed, flung himself onto the futon, and buried his face in a pillow. Yum. "Hey, Julian!" I hissed, indicating the heap of discarded purple clothes. At their top was a perfectly circular dent like a nest, and inside it, a mock treasure trove-green chewing gum pinched in a thin paper cloud, two condoms, coins, half-smoked joint, student ID card with a scared-looking kid in one corner. Julian immediately snatched the card. "When was this photo taken?" he demanded. Chretien scrunched up his forehead. "1988," he answered in his sludgy accent.

The boy in the picture was even more stunning than Chretien himself. "D., in your letter you mentioned something about-Oh, wait, Chretien, you should be lying on your back now, okay?-about the way Dutch guys age poorly, right? Because this kid, as nice as he looks nowadays, is prettier in this picture. See?" Julian passed me the card over Chretien's chest, which was pretty much sterling. A great, complex rib cage. Maybe his nipples could be a teensy bit bigger, the shoulders, um, wider ... "No," I said, tossing the card back, "I think in this case it's the objectified-people-look-better syndrome. Photos are perfect by nature. A kid's just, well, workable?"

"Mm," Julian said, studying Chretien with that thought in mind. "Anyway, we're starting. Are you as stoned as you want to be?" The kid's forehead crumpled. "Yes. Can you tell?" he chirped. Horrible accent. Everyone laughed simultaneously. Nice. "D., take his face. I'll . . ." Julian positioned his grin over Chretien's groin. ". . . start here. Mm." Whitish blur. My ass blocked his view of the kid's upper half. Julian bobbed for the balls. Once, twice ... A ball oozed down the back of his tongue. "Mm." The kid's crotch smelled very faintly of ... pecan pie? Julian opened one eye to make sure I wasn't turning psychotic.

He parted the kid's lo-o-o-ong legs. That pecanesque smell wafted up. He'd forgotten how strangely profound cute strangers' tastes, odors, looks, etc., could seem at first. And how satisfying it was to hear some cute boy's voice transcend language. "Mmrmph," Chretien said. Julian jabbed his tongue into the craggy brown asshole. "Rowph, mmrm." He jabbed, jabbed, jabbed. .. One of his watery eyes fixed on me. I seemed my old self, just older. Chretien: "Ohmglugm." Maybe Kevin was right. Julian hauled in his tongue, cleared his throat. "Having fun, Dennis?" My head jerked ambiguously. "Hey," Julian continued, motioning me over. "Maintain please. For old time's sake?"

When I climbed off Chretien's face it was a huge messgreasy, drool-splattered, wide-eyed, inflating, deflating, tomato-soup red. Pubic hairs littered his upper lip like a cheesy mustache. "This kid's asshole is truly spectacular," Julian whispered. "Or are my standards just shit after jerking off with my lover for three years? Here." Julian moved his head slightly to one side. Mine aligned. He, I closed in on the crinkled-up gorge-ette. "No, the thing's definitely right up there," I said, force-blossoming it with my thumbs. Julian leaned down, sniffed. It smelled ... touching, somehow, as if he was in range of some dated hit song.

He licked Chretien's hole, inside, out, nostalgically, almost religiously. "I ... love ... you," he said, not really able to help it, but smearing the words so Chretien and I couldn't hear, because it wasn't true. Then he leaned back. I guzzled awhile. Chretien rubbed his cock lazily, eyes flitting around the room. "What are you thinking, kid?" Julian asked. Chretien peered between his splayed legs. "About ... um, you both, and me." That voice. Ugh. "... How I feel like myself with you," he added. Whatever that means, Julian thought. "And you, Dennis?" I unplugged my tongue. It was muddy. "Not much. Good. Great, even ... mm ..." My mouth squashed on the hole.

My ass hung over Chretien's pursed lips. He blinked at it, scrunched up his forehead, then licked a little winding snail trail up my left thigh. Julian watched, ate out, and fingerfucked the kid's ass with a ridiculous smile, he was sure. He'd basically given up worrying if I was about to turn psychopath. Still ... "Hey, Dennis," he whispered. One of Chretien's balls was hanging out of my mouth. That looked laughable, but so did everything, probably. "Are you maintaining?" I dropped the balls. Plop. "Sure. Absolutely. But in my fantasies. . ." My throat made the noise of a faraway explosion. "... Wish you were there."

Chretien couldn't have heard that. Julian checked. "Okay, but keep it under wraps, D. Don't . . ." My face had grown weirdly, unbelievably remote. Shit. "Dennis?" Chretien stopped licking my thigh, grabbed his cock, shook it to get my attention. "Suck me, please," he rasped. Julian snapped his fingers. "Dennis!" "Please?" the kid repeated. "Because it feels so very good. And I love you people." He smiled blurrily. At that, my eyes focused again, grew ironic. Phew, Julian thought. He went back to his rimming. God, he loved doing that, even if now, without drugs and youthful idealism, an asshole was just an asshole, not a spaceship, temple, sun, etc... .

... Julian watched his cock plow through Chretien's lips. "... Oh . . ." I fucked the kid's sloppy ass with a condom. "... oh . . . " My face was a foot, two, from Julian's. It reeked of shit. That had smelled so much better in Chretien's asscrack than it did on my breath, though the odors were virtually identical. "... oh ..." Chretien's beauty had heightened a millionfold ten seconds back. He was the ultimate human being on earth now. ". . . oh ..." I seemed calm. Phew. Maybe Kevin was right and I'd never killed people. Still, any second now, I could so easily reach out and strangle ... Shit! Julian kept watch through a rush of intense feeling. "... oh, oh, oh, oh!" Julian spurted.

Kevin woke from a light and grayish sleep into a sharp daydream. In it, he and I were leaning over Chretien's naked back, icing his ass as if it were a cake. But rather than reading "Congratulations" or "Happy Birthday," it looked like a crater, no doubt inspired by those photos I'd carefully described to Kevin some hours back. The mood of the dream was amazingly calm. I seemed happy, younger, and he, Kevin, felt purposeful and creative for once, not just a cute, tense, spaced bookworm. "That's it," he said, still half-asleep. He raised his head off the paperback pillow, stretched his arms. Cool, a prophetic daydream, maybe the second or third he'd ever had. He could feel his eyes glittering. Tonight he, I, and maybe Julian would buy some papier-mache, paint, whatever, then restage those photos with Chretien playing the "dead" kid. And if the daydream was truly prophetic I'd wind up cured or exorcised or something. Cool.

He put an ear to the floor. Chretien, Julian, and I had apparently quit fucking.

He tiptoed downstairs. The steps only creaked a few times very sweetly. Julian was standing at one of the portholes, arms crossed, staring out. Granted, he hadn't slept much since they'd arrived, and the light coming in was a brutal white, but he really looked old, Kevin thought. Not old in a great way like in photos of J.R.R. Tolkien smoking a pipe. Just old, a la Mom and Dad. Chretien and I were asleep on the futon. The kid had draped himself over me like I was a boulder and everything else was a rushing river. His ass did look pretty spectacular, Kevin had to admit, not that he knew how to judge things in that way. Anyway, it would definitely make a nice crater.

Julian didn't hear Kevin approach. In fact, Kevin had to shake his brother's shoulder to get him to turn his head. As soon as Julian did, Kevin pointed up and moved his lips to mean "talk," then wagged the finger around to mean "you and I." He made a fist, squinted at the back of that wrist to mean "now," and arched his eyebrows questioningly.

Upstairs they crouched on the floor in the middle of a cloudshaped black stain, faces close, eyes narrowed, whispering.

"How did it go?" Kevin asked.

"Okay." Julian shrugged. "I hate to say so, but I think you were right about the letter being bullshit."

Kevin nodded, not smugly at all. He made sure.

"But there's a way to be positive," Julian added. "You remember that part where he stashed the boy's corpse in a bell-shaped room at the top of the windmill? Well ... ?"