Spit-Roasted
Interconnected Stories About Disconnected People
Spit-Roasted
©2022 Stephen Conway
Click. Click. Crackle. Click.
That sounds like radio-static. Rhythmic. There it is again. Closer now with some Doppler effect.
Click. Click. Crackle. Click.
Turn my head to see the source of the familiar beat. A low-radio voice speaks from the cop car driving past me. It’s scritchy-scratchy external speaker sprackles out the chant “Lets. Go. Rangers” to the same rythym. It’s the voice of my neighbor, Frankie the cop. He’s referring to my Rangers jersey. I was going to bring out my hockey stick too, but decided against it. With kebab on my lunch menu I need both hands.
Reaching for my spit-roasted lamb kebab—the Halal food-truck guys say “shokran.” My reply is “shokran” as well.
“Love your gloves. Safety-first. Keeps things tidy and clean,” I say.
They smile. Nod.
Lamb bag in hand my search begins for a spot to eat. All the park benches are taken up by the junkies and the mentally-ill and the homeless. This solo bike rack will do. I’m starving, Unwrap my kebab. Inhale the aroma. Used my fingertips on my left and right hands to lift the kebab stick to my mouth. Yummy-yum-yum.
That was when—while sinking my teeth into my last piece of grilled sheep—we meet: Twinkie-Boy. Sponge-Bob cake with creamy filling. Twinkie-Boy had sauntered over to my general socially-distanced area as I slid the last chunk of lamb off it’s roasting skewer stick with my teeth. Let it be noted that it was he—he the Twinkie—who had made the first move. Not me. He walked-up to me while my ass was lean-sitting against one of those upside down metal U-shaped things—each end jammed into the sidewalk. An oversized horseshoe with all the luck poured out of it. A genius’s idea of a bike rack.
Yes. It was Twinkie-Boy who came up to me. Backpack on.
“School’s out?” I say.
Twinkie-Boy says “Yeah. Hey. Uh.Uh.”
His eyes dart around as much as his head pivots.
“My name is Ross.”
“Ross,” I say, “as in Bob Ross?”
“Yeah, but no…, but yeah, Ross” he says.
“Where ya’ from Ross? Go to school ‘round here?” I say.
His face tigthens. Doesn’t want me to know much about him.
“Shouldn’t you be hanging out with your buddies after school or something?” I say.
“They took-off after school,” he says.
“Without you?” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “They suck.”
“Sounds like it to me,” I say. “Why’dya think they did that?” I say.
“Probably because… because…uh,” he sputters.
“Yes Ross…because what?” I say peering over the top of my one-way douche-bag shades.
He looks around again. Looks down at his feet. Looks back at me. Trying to see the rest of my eyes behind my wrap around mirror sunglasses.
“Because I suck tusk for trunk,” he says.
“Whaaaat?” I say, “repeat that please?”
Ross Rolls his eyes at me.
“I. Suck. Tusk. For. Trunk,” he says, trying not to be heard by anyone but moi.
“Really? Wow! You? You suck tusk for trunk?” I say.
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Ross says.
“You a republican or something?” I say.
In these neighborhoods, clothing used to be more than a stylistic choice. Used to be a signifier. It was code for your kink. Red bandanas meant one thing, white bandanas meant something else. Blue bandanas meant....well....use your imagination. A generation older than Ross the Twinkie-Boy—I’d only recently heard on the street that the hockey jersey I was wearing had morphed into a new code. Signaled an individual’s preference for some rough man-on-man play. This. Was. My. Lucky. Day. Love it when these younger ones come up with all kinds of new and exciting ways to get laid—don’t you? Wonder if all those hockey fans pouring into Madison Square Garden could see themselves now. What’s going to happen when it gets out that their jerseys really mean something else than team loyalty? Maybe nothing. But fun to ponder.
When Twinkie-Boy Ross approaches me—he seems demure; shy. But then a feeling razes me like a road-rash. He’s a real dirty boy. Dangerous even. Maybe. Alabaster skin. Super thin. A little pale-goth mixed in with emo-culture. Hot. Sorta like that suicide-girl trend back in the nineties. Shook his hand and held it. He let me examine it. Took off my cheap suglasses. Looked him right in the eye and lied. Told him he reminded me of a former lover who’d spurned me long ago. He’d chewed on my left ventricle and spat it out I tell him. Asked Twinkie-Boy if he wouldn’t mind spending a little time with me. Show him the scar over my left pec. He could be the one to help heal this hockey fan’s heart.
Back at my place, my one blue glove drips with lube. Got it from the Halal guys. All glossy in the candle-light. Fits tight. Tight fit. My other hand in a red latex glove—last one I had in the drawer.
“No gloves no loves,” I say to Twinkie-Boy Ross.
Told Twinkie-Boy: strip. He complied. Told Twinkie-Boy: get on the bed. He complied. Told Twinkie-Boy: lay on your side. He complied. Told Twinkie-Boy to bring his knees up a little. So it's like he's in a sitting position while on his side. He complied.
That is when we—the royal we—start fingering his butt.
“How is it darling?” I say.
“It’s a little cold,” Ross says.
His ass was a delicate, closed-up aperture. An ass-perture. It was tighter than a priest’s winking-eye. Tighter than the lug nuts on an eighteen-wheeler. Tighter than a dog’s grip on a tug-o-war toy. With patience and pressure, pressure and patience, the lube warmed-up and his ass relaxed.
“Yesssss. That’s it,” I say. “You’re more of a Boston Creme donut now. Less Twinkie.”
My blue glove in slips deeper into his split. Bunching my fingers and tips together with my red glove—the candle light behind me lets me make a shadow-hand puppet projected on the wall above his head. The shadow of a talking elephant takes form. Fingers become tusks. Another becomes the trunk.
“Would you like Mister Elephant inside you, baby?” I say.
Ross says “I-I-I-guess.”
Positioning my finger tips on his winking priest-eye I say “Okay…take a deep breath.”
He complied. As he’s inhaling I shove my entire fist into his rectum. His body bucks. He yelps. He groans. Hips convulse involuntarily.
“Mister Elephant is very happy you’ve agreed to let him in,” I say as I find his prostate gland, taking hold of it with my fingertips.
“How’s that feel, Ross?” I say.
“Feels weird,” he says. “Go easy.”
Start rubbing it with my thumb. His ass-perture tightens around my wrist.
“There there. How are we doing?” I say.
“Okay, I’m okay I guess,” Ross says.
“Yessss,” I say. “We’re all okay. I’m okay. You’re okay.”
I release his prostate gland. Start a push-out pull-in motion. My squishy fist sliding in-and-out of his winking priest-eye. His lug nuts are off. The tug-o-war is over.
Repositioning myself on the mattress, put my free hand around his throat for a little asphyxiation play. He seems to like it. The bed frame groans and squeaks while repositioning myself again—straddling this compliant little bitch with my Derek Chauvin-knee cap on his back.
That’s when I shove the fingers of my red gloved hand into his mouth.
“So, you suck tusk for trunk? Here’s your tusk,” I say. His body stiffens. A common fear response all of them have. His breaths shorten. Now we start pushing my fists together—get them to meet inside his stomach cavity. This little lamb is spit-roasting between my gloved fists. He tries to yell. Tries to scream through my hand. Tries to free his ass from my forearm. If he bites down on my hand I’m in deep doo-doo, but he won’t. He panics while shoving my hand a little further into his throat. This is not too different from performing a chest press—as if he were a piece of gym equipment. The gagging is glorious. He’s jumping around, kicking like a mule. I can’t keep him pinned down with my police-knee any more. He slips out from under me. Bounces off the bed. Stumbles across the floor trying to breathe. Tripping. Falling backwards. Knocks over the lamp. Arms swinging. Arms flailing. Stumbling into the chair.
He’s yelling “Why’d you do that to me?”
He spits on the floor. Wipes his mouth with his elbow. Spits on the front door.
Neighbors are certain to hear. He grabs his pants off the chair. Roll my eyes at him in the candlelight. Make him feel like he’s overdramatizing the situation.
“Why’d you do that to me? “ he says in a screech-owl howl.
“Knock-off the bullshit,” I say. “You knew what you were getting yourself into.”
“No. You’re a fuckin’ maniac,” he says.
“Don’t play victim with me just because things got a little rough for ya’, Rossy-boy. Compared to the others—you have a low-threshold gag reflex.
“The others?” he says.
“Yes. More than you’d imagine. Just remember. You’re the one that said you suck tusk for trunk, not me,” I say.
His yelling is definitely penetrating the walls now. “Why WHY WHY but WHY did you do that TO ME?”
“Be quiet,” I say.
Ignores me.
“Shut. The Fuck. Up,” I say. “Do NOT disturb my neighbors.”
“They need to know what kind of monster you are you fuckin’ maniac,“ Twinkie-Boy shouts.
He shoves a leg into his pants, then the other. “I’m calling the cops.”
“Go ahead. Go head,” I say. “All. My. Neighbors. Are. Cops.”
“Here,” I say. “Let me help you,” rapping my hockey stick on the wall.
Crack. Crack. Crickle. Crack.