Anne Rice kept me occupied during the five and one- half hour ride on Amtrak to my hometown. “The Tale of the Body Thief” has offered several new ideas for the novel I’ve been writing over the past three years. I nearly missed my stop in Huntingdon because Lestat had managed to switch bodies with a 27 year old mortal with a huge cock. Lestat’s first order of business was to have sex with a female, then a male. I wished I had written the story.
I shamelessly flirted with two hot college jocks who were traveling back to classes in Pittsburgh before exiting the train. They must have gotten an eyeful while I reached into the overhead bin to grab my backpack. I had my tight, faded jeans on, and I know they were ‘family’ because they kept asking me about what life was like in New York City.
“It’s great living there,” I explained. “The town is so big. It’s easy to get lost and do devious things,” I explained between chapters. They were so young and wet behind the ears. Had I been ten years younger I would have blown them both in the handicapped restroom at the rear of our car that just so happened to be empty, with the exception of a conductor who made rounds every hour or so.
There is something in the air back home that reinvigorates my sex drive. Perhaps my repressed adolescent years of living in a closet in Three Springs causes my perverted mind to race almost non-stop while in that town. It’s impossible to find gay sex in Three Springs. Knowing that makes me want it all the more when I go back there on visits.
Bob fired up his handcrafted bar-b-q grill at 8:15 a.m. on Saturday. He gave me a tour of the contraption he made from a water tank on Friday evening after I placed my bag in the room I slept and masturbated in heavily as a young boy.
“This is the smoker,” he explained while pointing to what was once a beer keg.
“And this is the pan that catches the drippings. I had to change the smoke stacks from three inches to six inches. It wasn’t cooling down fast enough.”
My stepfather has changed quite a bit over the years during my hiatus from that little town. I was impressed with the cooker he built. When he shows me what he has done, I feel like his son, almost proud of his craftsmanship. He has loosened up like cooked fat falling from slowly roasted pork over the years. In our old age, he carries on long conversations with me, but we have yet to discuss my lifestyle and sexuality.
“This thing is amazing,” I expressed while stepping behind the incredibly large pig roaster while noticing two large black kettles that were welded onto the trailer that pulls the fantastic outdoor kitchen. Bob was planning on making a batch of bean soup and at least thirty gallons of chicken, corn and noodle soup. I offered to help clean the chicken.
I had to call home first. My lover was and still is pissed that I went home without taking him. Like a vampire, he has not yet been invited into my childhood home. Bob and my mom have made it very clear that it makes them very uncomfortable when I’m out and that it is absolutely forbidden that I bring one of my Black lovers home for a family reunion.
My cousin Sally came to the reunion– she’s the girl in the Ouija Board story I wrote a few months back. I sat next to her and asked who everyone was. I was 18 when I left home and although I was related to almost everyone there, I hardly recognized a soul.
“Who is that blonde girl?” I asked while pointing to a chick in work boots.
“She works with your mom and dad,” Sally explained. “That’s her girlfriend next to her,” Sally pointed out.
I sat with my mouth wide open, even while chewing my bar-b-q pork.
Sally looked at me wondering if I would come out to her.
I didn’t. The pig roaster was still fired up.
Later that evening, Bob finally brought out the beer. A few more of his friends from his job at the factory showed up at the party.
“Charlie, Robbie Eisenberg said the two of you were in the same class at high school. Do you remember him?” My stepfather asked.
Robbie was my first crush in life. I must have masturbated thinking about him, like a body thief, at least 200 times in life.
He was fat. He lost that athletic build. It has been years since Robbie was quarterback and tossed around a pig skin.
I was in my wife beater tank top and quickly flexed my triceps while explaining to Robbie that Bob was my dad.
“Do you work out, Charlie?” He asked with a confused look in his eyes.
I wanted to tell him that it’s just a gay thing but I didn’t. I ate a pulled pork sandwhich instead.