Read Hyena Online

Authors: Jude Angelini


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For Julie. I figured it out too late. For my daughter, Assia.

For my friends and family who raised me.


top gun

shower me with your love


squeaky clean

my morning

used and abused

collateral damage

animal planet

maps of africa


straw dogs


big red


karma chameleon





the predator

crazy sexy cool

say anything

the i.e.

eating out


white chocolate

gorilla piss



captain caveman

this is sparta

board games

jude the dude

street meat


gingerbread man


a brand-new you


about the author

top gun

my face out the window, gone off Percocets and ketamine. This motherfucker crosses the street in front of me looking just like Goose from
Top Gun
. I’m thinking that was fucked-up how he died, leaving a wife and kid.

I say, “Rest in peace, Goose.” And the cab drives off.

Earlier at Jeff’s high-rise apartment, I copped some drugs from a Dominican with a silver briefcase. Jeff got the MDMA, I got the vials of Ketamine. I cooked the K in the oven. He had some Australian chick licking the Molly off his fingertips. Just the three of us. They’re rolling, I’m not.

She said she doesn’t do K cuz it makes her lose control.

I tell her in that case, do as much as you want.

She does as much as she wants; Jeff does, too. We’re chopping it up with his cheese knife, snorting the lines with a wrinkly one-dollar bill; it’s all the Dominican left us. This goes on for hours, rolling and K-holes and she’s grinding her teeth, rubbing
her thighs together. I tell her to come cuddle, but it’s awkward. She don’t even know me. She gets up and we pretend like it never happened.

It’s around then I realize, she’s not fucking me solo. Either he’s gonna fuck or we’re all gonna fuck. So how bad do you want it? Bad enough to see your homeboy naked, hairy ass and all? I smashed chicks back in the day with cats that are like my brothers. Toss ’em up, one in the mouth, one in the vagina, it’s nothing. But I don’t know with Jeff.

Shit, if we can be all the way honest, it’s kind of what I prefer for threesomes—two dudes and a chick. With two dudes, I can focus on the chick. With two girls it gets complicated; I don’t know where to look, who to pay attention to. I’m trying to eat pussy and smash at the same time. Shit’s hard, like doing algebra.

I tried it once with Annie and her homegirl after a night of whiskey and muscle relaxers. I couldn’t get my dick to stay hard. I even ate two Viagras, nothing. I just ended up eating them out and we’re hitting each other.

She’d be like, “Eat my pussy, bitch,” and slap me upside the head.

And I’d be like, “Yeah, take that, bitch,” and smack her across the face.

I usually don’t go for all that bitch shit, but since I couldn’t get my dick hard I figured we were on some aggro dyke shit, so I let it slide. When they came, they excused themselves and went home with no eye contact. I’m standing there buck naked, limp dick, thinking about how we just murdered my roommate’s new couch.

That was the last threesome I had. I don’t know if I wanna jump back in with hairy Jeff and the assless Australian, banging it out doggy-style while he’s getting head, shooting me a thumbs-up. I feel like he’d wink at me midstroke, like, “Yeah, we’re killing this, bro!” and I wouldn’t know where to look so I’d look down at his nipples and a piece of me would die inside.

So I bail and Jeff fucks and I’m in the cab thinking about Goose. We would’ve had to have been best friends like Maverick and Goose to run a busto on that chick, or she would’ve had to look like Nicole Kidman to get me to double up with him. But she’s not that cute and we’re not that close and that’s okay. I’m nodding my head to Modest Mouse on my iPod looking at the East River as the cabbie drives over the Williamsburg Bridge. I kinda wanna tell him to turn around. But I don’t.

So I link up with Brad and we rage all night just like the last six nights. Popping pills and doing K. We’re on his roof watching the sunrise and talking about aliens. New York looks like a Nintendo game, like Megaman. Shit gets real digital on this ketamine.

“This place ain’t natural,” I say. “We been around for thousands and thousands of years on this planet, and now they got us walking on concrete. What the fuck is that? Shit, I couldn’t tell you the last time I walked barefoot on some earth, touched some dirt. Shit out here, you gotta take a fucking train just to lay on some grass. They trying to kill us out here.”

New York is nice to look at, but I’m ready to go.

We’re back down on the fire escape taking rails of K to the face. I’m swabbing the blood out of my nose with wet Q-tips,
giving him the ketamine pep talk to get him motivated. He’s like a bunch of my friends: creative and talented and not doing shit.

He’s scared. I recognize it, cuz I’m scared, too. Doing shit is scary, waking up is scary, getting up every morning, looking in the mirror, and trying to like yourself is fucking hard. I get it. I keep telling him, “All you got to do is do!” I’m saying it over and over. “All you got to do is do!”

I’m hugging him, telling him I love him.

I woulda ran a busto with Brad.

It’s six thirty in the morning. I go to bed. I got a flight this afternoon.

I call Assia from the airport. It’s her birthday. My old boss Tony from the pager store told me that no matter what, you always gotta see your kid on her birthday. When old people tell you shit, you should listen. I kept that up till her grandparents moved her down to Florida. Now I give her phone calls.

I call Assia, but she doesn’t answer. I leave her a message on her birthday. My daughter gets a message. I tell her I love her. I tell her I’m proud of her. I tell her fifteen years ago on this day when they pulled her out of her mom, her head was all pointy and I was pissed-off with the doctor that they messed up her head. I tell her they told me it’s just from the birth canal and that her head would be okay. I tell her her head turned out just fine and I couldn’t be happier with her. I tell her I love her, I tell her goodbye.

I get on my plane and fly.

shower me with your love

studio, little punk rock, porn chick. She had the sunglasses on, dark hair with the bangs, tats and all that. Stood about four foot somethin’.

I say, “Look at you. You adorable little young thing, get in my pocket.” She’s laughing.

We’re on the air talking about all the nasty things she’s done: fucking and sucking and all the run-of-the-mill shit. Then she starts talking about pissing. Pissing in cups, pissing on dudes, dudes pissing on her. The whole nine.

I tell her, “That’s hot.”

She’s like, “Yeah it is.”

I’m talking shit. “Bet you won’t piss on me.”

She calls my bluff. “I’ll piss on you.”

We go to music.

How we gonna do this? Do I lay down and have her do it on my chest? I look at the carpet; it’s filthy. I tell her to do it on my leg.

I’m outside the studio, looking for a garbage bag to catch the piss.

“Tully, where the trash bags at?”

He gives me a look, tells me where to go.

We’re back in the studio; the song’s done. I’m in the chair, garbage bag down, pants rolled up. She straddles my leg, pulls her skirt up, and pushes her panties to the side.

Surprisingly, my dick’s hard as hell. This shit’s kinda sexy to me. I guess I’m the kind of guy that likes to get pissed on. Like a toilet.

I’m a toilet.

I put the mike to her crotch.

She goes. A long, hot, steady stream of piss hits my leg, runs down my ankle, down my foot, to my toes and onto the bag. It’s making a pool.

“I shoulda gave you a forty!”

“Yeah, right?!”

I wipe up with a paper towel; we take phone calls. Cats are saying I’m crazy. Crazy like a fox. They’re calling me a bitch for letting her piss on my leg. Call me what you want, but you’re calling.

Show’s over.

I’m like, “We should do ecstasy and fuck. You wanna do ecstasy and fuck?”

She smiles, “Yeah.”

Can’t do it at her house; she lives three deep in a one-bedroom apartment. We end up at my house. I feed her some E
and take some myself. We’re making out in the bed. My heart’s racing, I get flush, the E’s kicking in.

She wants to fuck.

I’m doing it all slow and sensual, ecstasy style. Taking my time, like I’m doing something, making love and shit.

She wants it harder, so I do it harder. Now she wants it harder than that. So I’m fuckin’ her harder than that. She wants it harder still.

These porn chicks and their hard fucking. They come into the studio and we gotta give ’em vibrators that hit like jackhammers cuz their clits are so blew out.

I’m three minutes into fucking this chick and I’m already sweating. I’m sposed to do this for another three hours? I’m holding her little baby legs in each hand by the ankles, smashing till my dick is numb. This is some bullshit.

My dick goes soft in five minutes. I blame the E.

“Hey babe, it’s the E. The shit made me go soft. I’ma take a Viagra.”

“You sure you okay?”

I’m burning up sweating, heart jumping out of my chest, pill popping trying to fuck a porn star like a porn star. “Yeah.”

I take a Viagra. We hit the living room; she wants to hear Lil Wayne.

We’re laid out on the shag carpet, I’m going down on her, rolling our asses off. It’s euphoric. I’m feeling warm all over. There’s no place on earth I’d rather be right now, than in between her legs. Then it hits me—Lil Wayne is so fucking good!

She cums.

I feel the heat between my legs; the Viagra’s kicking in. I get on top, we fuck for a while on the floor. Take a break. I love drugs. This is the best. We’re talking about life and shit like that. You know. Really vibing.

She gets up to pee.

I’m watching her little naked body as she runs down the hall.

Something’s off.

Her gait’s not really a gait. It’s more like a waddle. And her torso’s longer than I remember, her limbs are shorter than I recall, and her head’s big as hell for her body.

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