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is getting stiff thinking of what John would do to him. But John is sitting in the armchair smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring at Joe. John doesn’t look at Joe with any discernable emotion, no sense of meanness or malevolence, no desire, no disdain, no amusement, no boredom, nothing. John is not even touching himself. He is sitting there in his black jeans and green tank top smoking cigarette after cigarette. Joe thinks he can see John’s eyes tearing up, but it’s difficult to tell in the haze of cigarette smoke and Joe’s allergies are beginning to act up, his eyes are watering, he cannot breathe easily. John is still sitting and looking at Joe, his gaze unflinching, unerring. Joe is not bored, he is not turned-on, he is not scared. He is chained to a pole, in a dog collar, in a pair of y-fronts, his hands bound a little too tight.

    A few lines of good coke in the restroom at last call, then we are at his place. He sets up the rim seat in the middle of the living room. There is an alarming pile of dope carelessly and showily dumped on the coffee table. “Want to watch a video?” he asks, popping a tape into the VCR. The box is plain black and says “Russian River Weekend.” The screen flickers to life and it is a scene where a hunky guy is shitting on a pudgy guy. They are in a motel room somewhere, presumably Russian River. The pudgy guys is smearing the shit all over himself as if he were icing a cake. You almost want him to start making little rosettes around the neckline.
    I am seated on the rim seat, not the kind you find in medical supply stores—those are always too high—but a makeshift thing made up of a toilet seat attached to four sturdy stool legs. “Made it myself,” he declares proudly. He lies on the floor and crawls under me so that his face is under my ass, and the rest of his body is sticking out from between my legs. The scene on the television has now moved on to two guys squirting their enemas out onto a third person. The third person takes the stream of brownish fluid all over his body and in his mouth. All this in the motel room somewhere in Russian River. The clean-up must be hell. I always thought a Russian River weekend would entail some river rafting, a barbecue, going for the really good fried chicken at that one restaurant, and perhaps a leisurely walk in the woods with the dogs, but obviously, I was mistaken. Or we have very different travel agents.
    He starts kissing, licking, and with gusto poking at my puckered hole with his tongue. The narcotics in my bloodstream make my head torque in strange pleasurable sensations. It does what the poor choice of porn doesn’t do.
    Someone is in the hallway. I can see the vague shadows swaying back and forth in the dark passageway. The person is watching us from behind the stairs. “Who’s that?” I ask. “Roommate?”
    He replies between slobbers. “It’s my mother.” His iguana tongue, lick, prod, lick, suckle. I’m not sure how to react, what to say. “It’s okay,” he reassures me. Lick, poke, circle, lick, prod, suckle, suckle. “She has Alzheimer’s, she doesn’t know what happening. She’s not seeing a damn thing.” He continues eating my ass out, sticking his tongue as far in as he can go, lapping and slurping boisterously.
    His mother sways a bit more and comes shuffling out from behind the stairs. I try to make eye contact with her. I think she sees us, I could have sworn she looked me in the eye. I’m almost certain that she smirked. But she sways and shuffles off into the kitchen in her bedroom slippers.
    I can hear a familiar rustling sound coming from the kitchen. I can see his mother standing unsteadily at the kitchen counter. She has emptied the bowl of sugar packets onto the counter and is picking them up one by one, shaking them to tamp the sugar down the packet. With great difficulty, she tears open the