I spent hours there nearly everyday. His mom always fixed us nice lunches and snacks, better than the powdered milk and peanut butter sandwiches served at my house. These visits to Jake’s went on well into the horrid days of puberty.
One summer’s day, Jake, myself, and two of his younger neighbors lounged in his den, watching the big screen television. He pulled out a black VCR tape and stuck it into the player, which sat on top of the TV. The images digested were like evil candy for my young mind.
The set for the skin flick was plain, black plastic curtains for a backdrop. The actors were above average facially, maybe even pretty to a minimal degree, but the activities performed couldn’t be described with simple words. The sexual acts were foreign to my young, fertile mind. I sat gargonizing with my mouth agape, attempting to hide my erection underneath a sofa cushion. The other three laughed, joked, and clumsily humped the air.
My mind slowed. I didn’t want to miss anything: A girl screwing with another girl! Fingers, lips, and tongues, shooting in and out of glorious pink holes. An ugly, scruffy guy doing two girls in a naked game of Twister. Black dildos, leather, and flesh used and abused in ways I’d never imagined.
I couldn’t comprehend what I was witnessing. It was brand new. My widened eyes were sore from being forced open for so long. My legs were crossed underneath a small throw pillow. I was embarrassed but intrigued. The planted seed had been watered. I was transforming into a young, male beast, hungry for more. Few things saved me from seeking out these perverse acts: severe acne, and the lack of confidence in communicating with the apple-eaters.
I became lost in the visual maze of demonic images flashing before me, desiring more. I wanted to soak in this black magic by myself. My groin hurt. My forehead burned. I tried my best to play it cool and did a poor job, twitching and grabbing my groin, but Jake didn’t notice. He was busy being a dirty comedian, doing his best Eddie Murphy, throwing pelvic thrusts while pantomiming different sexual positions.
We were virgins. Catholic schoolboys with plain, green uniforms forced home by eight o’clock curfews. Masturbation and hickies were the sum of our sexual exploration. Jake was the cool one
We heard footsteps coming from the garage into the den. It was his father, Mr. D. His father loved to beat me up anytime we came in the same vicinity. It was sure as sugar flavored sugar, when he saw me, a fist party would ensue.
“I need you to distract my dad,” Jake begged.
I had no choice but to take one for the team. The door sprung open and Jake’s father entered.
“What up Mr. D! What the hell you looking at!” I ejaculated loudly. I was a notorious smart-ass, which brought out the fighter in him.
“Joseph. I can’t believe you’re in my living room trying to be a tough guy,” he returned.
He flung himself over an ottoman between us. I covered myself, preparing for impact. He tackled me onto the floor and pounded me with hard man-punches to my ribs and back.
“How do you like that, you little bitch?”
I didn’t like it. Oh the pain. The beating seemed to last forever.
Stealthily, Jake crept to the VCR and ejected the tape. Mr. D delivered a few more blows to the ribs and one to the chin for good luck. My hard-on was long gone. Mr. D violently evicted us as I caught one more molly-whopping in the front yard, fulfilling his blood-lust. That afternoon was my initiation into the voyeur’s world of video and flesh. From that point, it all changed.
The thirst had me under its powerful control.
David Michael Joseph is a writer, poet, and filmmaker from the great state of New Jersey, now living in Los Angeles, hoping to breathe a breath of fresh air into the literary world. He has a passion for story telling and poetry. He also has written Exodus from the River Town, his first collection of short stories. Many times he had infused the two elements into his films. He has made four short movies including Festival selections and winners Shadows of Sepulveda and C.A.k.E.