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Lady Boy

Subject: Thug Joe Gay Adult-Youth Thug Joe he will save the world. You gotta help.” “Hey, I don’t care what he said about his DNA – you payin’ for playin’ now girl.” I walked outside while she squatted and groaned. Strangest thing outside that night – shooting stars and something like a spotlight came in the east. I scrambled to my feet thinking it was the fuzz answering a noise disturbance complaint. Wasn’t but a few minutes before the `forms came and asked what was going on. “Pregnant teen. Got paid to bring her for the census, and she’s about to add another citizen to the rolls.” I stood to the side with a smirk. “Yeah, who paid ya’?” “Didn’t get his name. Sounded like he was from Lebanon.” I didn’t need this hassle. “We’ll be by later.” He shot me a look like I was lying. … Now, I didn’t have to stay and considered taking the donkey to dodge the headcount. Out of my noble generosity, I left the food, a few shekels, took the donkey and started home. By now it was late, the partying in Betel had started, lots of singing, noise — rugby team musta won the cup. Didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the night I damned myself to eternal hell: Shoulda known better — a guy on the road met me, his clothes were incredibly clean. He sounded like an insurance salesman needing to meet quota at the end of the month. Begged me to go back and marry the gal in Betel. Offered me all kinds of honors, fame, statues — my life recorded for all to read into the centuries. “Be a father to the little boy, he bears glad tidings of great joy.” “Not my kid, and not my job.” I grunted. “Marry the girl, you can divorce her discretely later. You know how it goes for the women.” “Child support, then alimony for years? Didn’t you hear me? The kid’s not mine.” After a few moments of thinking, “You’re a carpenter, right?” “Yep, one of the best.” “Wait till Chinese imports flood the market.” He snapped and walked away. … Moved back home to Yifat and opened my wood shop again. About the time I turned seventy or so, it was harder to work, harder to keep the income up with zonguldak escort all the cheap imported furniture from the east. Had to rent out the extra space in my hovel. A likely renter came by — extremely old man, Persian. Said his name was Mr. Melchior from Tehran. Had a regal air about him, highly educated and a twinkle in his eyes. He took the space and brought his bag. We sat in the cool of the evenings, watching the passersby on the street and talked. Found out he was a criminal, still serving time. “Yeah, whadja get pinched for?” “I was making a delivery and stole some of the goods.” “Yeah? What were you haulin’?” “Gold.” He looked to his feet and shook his head, “Even royalty his needs, and I got a good deal on a virgin outside Isfahan. You know how it goes.” I really didn’t. Never had much interest in women, only diddled around at the lumberyard with a few Sumerians; Nubians were the best. “Was she worth it?” “He. He was a ten-year-old shepherd who played the flute. And, yes, it was good for an Athens minute. Then, my life went to hell.” “How?” This man had exotic tastes. I’d never considered boys before, they looked wormy to me. “Not your business.” He looked away. I suspected male malfunctioning under his velveteen robe. … At that time in history, our entertainment was attending the traveling evangelists — different pagan cults, some more enticing than others. A few were quite humorous. Magic tricks, small explosions and smoke; trinkets and charms offered by them could heal scabies and promote income. Mel and I went on Saturdays to watch the fun. He scouted around the edges of the crowd, with his hands in his deep pockets looking for a distracted boy who might want a few coins for a little time. Ah! Men in uniform; I stood near the guards in their pleated skirts and buckskin boots sniffing silently. By this time Mel looked around a hundred years old and a shekel is a shekel to a street kid. Occasionally he got lucky and found a boy to accompany him home. I was a heavenly host, offering the boy a bit of bread and tunalı escort tuna while Mel would become flustered, flinging his robes around and breathing hard. His anxiety was building, his eyes flashed and his rod plumped… I got the pattern down quickly: Mel’s hell was a strange one. He’d become excited as he rubbed the boy’s skin, calling them all kinds of sweet things, real silver-tongued he was. Getting everything lined up for a good licking, he’d faint dead away. Stayed that way, looking like he died. That’s where I came in and pleasured myself and the boy on Mel’s dime. Wormy boy or not, I had to keep Mel around — I hadn’t seen that much action in years. … Wasn’t long before my escapades with Mel and his mini-escorts reached the desk of the big boss. Got the memo in a dream — beautiful dream. There was the face of a boy, sprightly lad with dimples and the faintest glow in his hair. Yes, he was a beauty. Hard pulling the sheet off my pubes the next morning — such a gorgeous boy in a wonderous dream. Later, I was in my shop, whittling chopsticks, when I was visited by the stunning tyke, the kid from my dream and he was even more luscious than I remembered. Said he would accompany me through the ages. “I’m yours. Always will be.” He gave me an impish smile. “I’m a trollop.” He blushed. Quickly I went to Mel, to tell him. Had to yell through the door, he was busy with his morning constitutional and hated being disturbed, “Hurry up. We got a gift.” He was excited and delayed his regal sit-down. Mel was agog with the boy, “The virgin flautist, the shepherd boy from Isfahan!” He exclaimed and wanted to take him right then, and he did. I learned through thrill that Mel would never need any sleep medication. Attempted orgasm worked better than opium. … That boy did stay with us through the centuries. Hell is like that, eternal and all. None of us aged any further, another kind of hell. By this time, I was looking forward to a pine box in the cool darkness of earth. My hell was living with that boy through the decades, tunceli escort centuries and ages. The hell he brought wasn’t fainting away when I became aroused, that was Mel’s torture. My torture was quite different. The three of us moved though those times, Europe, China, Australia, and wound up in Brooklyn. Mel started giving Ted Talks on retribution and forgiveness, toured the seaboard as a motivational speaker. Couldn’t help but think he was trying to get back into good graces; didn’t work. Bought a van to haul his body from the restrooms in the city park after another try at climax. Poor Mr. Melchior, he was a horny bastard. That left me with our angelic gift. For the first part of the year, I’d rent the kid out to Klezmer bands for bar mitzvahs, weddings, whatever. He had a voice that melted hearts, a body that ignited lust in the most reserved characters and skin that positively glowed. He was a humble musician, no diva, no tantrums. He was hell. … “Leave the stinkin’ drumsticks outside or wear `em out your butt. Get over here, my feet are cold!” During the last half of every year, he started into full-blown damnation mode. Absolute, stinking, mind-grating hell: “Pa-rum-pum-pum” — if I hear it one more time, I’ll strangle him. I strangled him over that “King Wenceslaus” crap, but it won’t stop. For decades it was “Jesus Refulsit Omnium.” That one drove me to a deep depression. Started with the benzos. But if I hear “Entre Le B�”uf et L’âne Gris” again, I’ll attempt suicide for my fiftieth time. Suicide works no better on me than strangling the kid; eternal hell. Through the centuries it was “Bleak Midwinter, Harking Angels, Rocking Around A Tree…” Don’t mention Bing Crosby — I’ll puke. Jose Feliciano? I doubled the meds with “Fleas Navidad.” But this year, this year put the rasp to my eardrums with the “Pa rum pum pum – pum pum pum pum.” Constantly. In the house. In the mall. On the radio. In the streets. It’s true — you can’t escape hell and it was particularly heated with this year’s drummer boy. I just know I’m going to get a yuletide rap. Shoulda married the gal and disappeared to Cairo, anything but this. Then again, my little trollop was a good boy six months out of the year and a full-time master of blow jobs. When he wasn’t in a dead faint, I had a friend in Mr. Melchior and, well, maybe headphones… Fin

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