Hot Gay Erotica by Richard Labonte

Author:Richard Labonte
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2010-08-16T00:00:00+00:00

Ad libitum Da capo

KNIVES AND ROSES

Sean Meriwether

When your eyes close, that night slams into your mind. The skinny thug moving toward you, the gun in his hand quivering, You fucking faggot, a shot eclipsing all sound. Eyes open, the vision of him hangs sharply before you, a flash of light in a dark room. It never fades.

Your boyfriend, Richard, asks when you’re going to let it go. It’s been three months, he says. I hate seeing you like this. You close your eyes and turn away.

You’re back behind the bar, the junkie with the gun rushes in the front door, chaotic energy jerking his sinewy limbs. The dark pistol vibrates as it rises to meet you. Give me your cash. A nervous laugh explodes from your throat. His pinched face sours and the gun connects with your head in a blinding tang. You drop to the dirty floor and he stands over you, larger than life. Don’t you fucking move. You taste copper and snot and you don’t move.

The kid bangs the cash register open and wads the cash into his fist, slams the fist into his pocket; an exaggerated turn, every muscle in his body moving, and the gun is inches from your throbbing face. You fucking faggot, he says. It echoes in your head, louder with each repetition, purging up memories of your high school locker room.

You avoid the dark orifice of the gun and study the tattoo scrawled across the chalky underbelly of his arm, a long blade inked from wrist to elbow swarmed by angry roses. Each rose-bud is puckered like a virgin’s asshole, and a slim blade projects beyond its tight lips—an orchestra of potential pain. The black lines are jagged, the red already fading. Amateur, you say to yourself. Distinguishing feature to tell the police. You have three seconds to study it before the blast knocks you back.

The gunshot is like the clap of huge hands; not loud enough to cause the spreading burn in your shoulder. You touch warmth with your opposite hand, your fingers come away red and sticky and you stare at them like you stared at the tattoo. This is important , you think. I’m bleeding. You look into his confused blue eyes—they’d be beautiful in another situation—and he says it again, Faggot.

Your eyes pop open and Richard is staring at you. He worries about what you’re thinking. You tell him to leave you alone.

The police interviewed you in the hospital while you were hooked up to monitors that you could hear but can’t see. You told the two cops about the tattoo, its image so clear in the blur of events that it took on surrealistic importance. The cops promised to catch and prosecute the punk bastard to the fullest extent of the law, but they were going to need your cooperation. They urged you to come down to the station and look at some pictures. One cop handed you a card and told you to call when you were ready.

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