Brad's Black Widow
I hung up the phone and searched for my cigarettes in the drawer of my desk. There was only one left, and I lit it. How many times have I said that this would be my last cigarette?
I pondered the thought while secretly congratulating the boy on finally having the guts to do something, though not to say what he did was at all a smart move. There’s just a subtle joy in the fact that somebody follows through with what they say they are going to do, even if it’s that bad. It was only a matter of time.
He wanted me to be his savior, and he wanted to be my savior. Okay, maybe he was my savior, on many levels. He did take me out of New Orleans when I got attacked by my crackhead roommate at knifepoint, and he did take me all the way to Key West, just to make sure I was safe, even if he did bring me right back to New Orleans, convinced that he could protect me, when really Elizabeth had to be the protector and take me out of the city for good, just before Hurricane Katrina hit.
Selfishly, he wanted to keep me for himself, always trying to protect me from things that he had no control over. Perhaps that was really the issue here, that he, like a rag doll, had no control. Even on our first date, he had no control over his car not starting, about not being able to get us into the club, even having to rely upon his younger brother to save us; it was like someone had cast a bad spell upon the night.
I didn’t know who he was then, and I remember thinking that his brother was just some little punk. Nice enough, but why would I think he or his brother was anything special, as they weren’t necessarily flashy in any respect? Afterall, I didn’t even remember meeting him for the first time.
Okay, so maybe I was scooped by that old pervert, but luckily I had the backup plan with Krystal and Elizabeth. They showed up just as it was kicking in, the GHB. I think somebody said that I had fallen off of a stool at The John and dropped a shot that some guy had bought for me, shattering the glass on the floor, even rambled with some guy in Russian for about an hour at the FM Bar, but I don’t remember any of it.
The only thing I remember is being in the crusty bathroom of Snake and Jake’s with Krystal commanding me, “more! That’s not enough; snort more!” She had put a straw directly into the eightball, and she would not let me stop until I had finished the entire thing by myself.
I remembered from that point on, but he was already gone by then, from what I am told; yet nobody, like Krystal and Elizabeth, ever remembered seeing him that night either. I just know he called me up the next day, but I had no recollection of who he was. I figured if he had been cool enough to give my number to, he was at least worth a “wheel of fortune” date; was it a conspiracy or fate?
Though there were problems that first date, I felt sorry for him, as he had gotten hit by a car and had been in a coma due to getting the flu while taking lithium, sorry enough to allow a second date, which ended up being simply ridiculous, as he had brought another girl with him. Sure, a concert is a group-oriented event, but not when you’re paying for the other girl’s drinks and letting her talk to me like I’m somehow inferior to her and her pure NOLA connections, ya heard me? Is it my fault that she wanted me to call somebody for coke that she would never get?
It’s not my fault that when he showed up he was the first one to pay attention to me all night, as I had been sitting in the corner, not even included in their conversation. It’s not my fault that we were both really good dancers, and all the people on the floor gave us room to dance, allowing us the spotlight of the club. How could I not go home with the guy that I felt so much more strongly for, the one who had given me the passionate affection I craved after being ignored?
Ernesto accepted my call when I phoned him again, after my dance partner glided off into the sunset. I honestly felt sorry for the guy and knew he needed a friend, as did I, even if he did bring another girl on the second date. He brought another girl, and I brought another guy, so I felt we were even.
I think the tension started on that day though, if I was to really pinpoint a specific time and place. That was the start of the tension, but even he admitted that he thought I was out of his league from the moment we met. If anything, he should have been the one out of my league, as how was I to know who his family was?
It still never really set in until after I was out of New Orleans, and let me set the record straight. He may have paid for a hotel room for me on the night I was attacked at knifepoint, but I paid for everything when he took me to Florida, from gas to food and places to stay, and I don’t think that ocean-front mansions, riding around in limos, is exactly the worst kind of hospitality from my end. Even still, people will look at this as if what he did was my fault, that I never put anything but bad into the situation; they forget that I was the one to get him off of drugs and make him get a job, stop living off of his trust fund – not that it worked forever, but at least I put forth the effort to try.
But it really didn’t matter what I did. He made up this fantasy of me, pictured us married and happily ever after without my consent. I never wanted any of that.
At first, I thought that I might. For a long time, I sat on the fence post about things, and I’ll be the first to admit it. I really wanted that fairy tale to come true, the Prince Charming in disguise to come into my life, sweep me off my feet and take care of me, but it always seemed to turn out that I was the one taking care of him, and nobody seems to understand that.
Okay, so he flew me down to New Orleans and bought me my first paten leather strap-on, but it was for the honor of slave labor; this was during the days of his apartment covered with MDMA – pure Molly, the main ingredient of ecstasy, and we had Ziplock freezer bags of it dusting in and around us. He wanted me to stand outside and freeze for three days on Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras acting homeless, which I did, while he sat in his father’s posh office and yucked it up. At least his brother sat with me, and I still feel bad that he got fucked over for all that money in the end, but they said it was a lesson in integrity; good thing I wound up getting kicked out of their family business establishment by his father at the end, and Brian wound up clocking that asshole manger in the jaw, even if I did puke all over the taxi and my fur coat after drinking kamikazes for three days straight.
He only shivered with me on one of the movie sets, the Disney movie, but he wouldn’t chill with me on the IMAX movie set, and I still feel there’s a conspiracy there. How likely is it that some random guy is going to come up to me, know who I am, beg me to write a television series and tell me to stop dragging that boy around, as it’s never attractive to have a leash around your neck? When I got back to his home, all I heard was how horrible I was, and I could only redeem myself by doing what he wanted.
Let’s get this straight. It was all his idea, not mine, contrary to popular belief. He’s the one who begged me to piss in his mouth with my first morning urine, and he actually cried that the blood had stopped flowing from my period, as he hoped that my urine would be bloody.
Heck, if somebody really wants to drink my urine that bad, and it’s the only way I can get them to not be mad at me, then why wouldn’t I do it, especially since I had to piss, as he had woke me up with his request? I mean, he’s the one who wanted to drink it, he even begged me to do it as a birthday present to him – and I’m not sure if this is before or after we went to that transvestite strip club, which was right around the time we went to dinner, closing the restaurant with the Maitre’D standing naked in the dinning room – but it was all cool until piss got in his eye, due to my nine vaginal rings causing a sprinkler effect. He didn’t whine about that so much as when the splashes of my golden shower went up his nose though; that was funny.
He’s the one who said he wanted to try to live by my motto, “try anything once, twice if you like it,” and I guess he took it to a tad more extreme than me in some respects, especially with regards to his latest achievement. I guess I could have tried to stop him or not encouraged him as much as I did, though it was really more of him insisting and throwing spoiled kid temper tantrums than anything else. Once he had his mind set, there was no stopping, which I guess he finally proved on this last thing.
The strange thing was that he was thoroughly convinced that his actions would impress me. Like after I pissed in his mouth, he thought that I would kiss him. If I hadn’t kissed him up to that point, then why the hell would I want to kiss him when his mouth is full of my urine?
Just like when he came up to Michigan to stay with me during Hurricane Katrina, which was another strange incident. He had just gotten done telling me to fuck off, then, literally the next day, he’s on the phone sobbing how much he loves me and just wants to be with me and out of the city. He actually stayed down there three days after the hurricane hit.
So he finally made it up, then expected me to totally forget about his saying how much he was through with me, didn’t need me and could live without me. Whatever, I can deal with that, but he still craved my attention like a naughty puppy. Once again, it was he who made the suggestion about the video, not me.
How was he to know that I had taken a video with that same camera, literally only days earlier? When he suggested that I fist his ass, he had no clue that there was a scene already on that same tape of me doing that exact same thing to an 80s rock guy. I had already done it once that week, but he wanted me to do it again, and he thought that it would be a first for me.
It wasn’t, but I indulged his request anyway, taking him into the large bathroom where the tripod had been set up in front of the mirrors around the Jacuzzi tub. I didn’t use any lube the last time, so I didn’t think to use any with him either, just like I didn’t think of all the associations of a blessed chicken foot. Only when I got stuck at the knuckles did he suggest trying soap to make it a little easier to slide my fist in his asshole.
The same film footage was used for me to attempt to wax his asscrack and balls, which really were in need of trimming at the very least. Sally Hansen sucks, just for the record, so that footage was not as good as the real thing, which was done, of all places, at my parent’s house. The event is still talked about fondly within my family circle, as it really was something special.
I took a drag of my cigarette - last cigarettes always taste the best - and smiled at the thought. Big Momma was down, at least, she didn’t really care what the hell we were doing; we were grown adults, right? I think she didn’t really take us seriously, but she joked around with us enough to suggest he get a tattoo of a gerbil crawling out of his asshole.
Felicia, the other hurricane evacuee who was staying with us at the time, went with me to buy the real deal, the wax you put in the microwave, let cool, then pull off with all your might. She was supposed to help me with the project, and she did slightly, but it really came down to just he and I in the bathroom, him spreading his ass cheeks apart with his hands as I slathered on the wax. Everything went smoothly until Big Momma had to piss, and her knee was acting up on her, so she couldn’t use the bathroom upstairs.
She walked in to see him on the floor, face by the toilet, waxy asshole in the air, waiting to dry. Not being able to hold her urges, and him not being able to move for fear of messing up the wax, she stuck one foot on either side of his head and pissed. I know he must have been excited, but not as excited as when I shoved a squash up his rectum, then used it to cook his vegetarian dinner with the next night…after I skinned it, of course.
She had mixed feelings about that whole incident, but she had an even worse response a little later on in his stay. See, he had wanted to get with either Felicia or I, and neither of us were really interested, so we suggested that he buy a dildo. Since we had to go to the store for packaged whipped cream anyway, he picked up dildos for all of us, including a dual action strap-on for myself that wound up being broken, and for himself he grabbed the largest one that we could find, one that we had pointed out to him as merely a joke; such goes the power of suggestion.
The dildo was about two-foot long, and it had at least a three-inch diameter to it, but it was more of a raindrop effect, silver rubber with a handle at the end. The little tear drops got as big as three inches wide, then down to just a little size of about like my pinkie, before expanding again for the next drop. There were about five “pleasure drops” all in all on the rubber anal pull.
That first night, after my mom had gone to bed, he was prouder than a peacock to show me how he could fit the whole thing in his ass. I indulged him enough to witness the event, but it didn’t turn me on, like he hoped it might. He wanted sex, so I went upstairs to my bed, where Felicia was waiting, and went to sleep.
A few days later, after a night of sucking down the global warming gas nitrous oxide, my mom went in to wake him up, for whatever a reason, a phone call perhaps, and she was horrified at the sight she saw. Apparently, he had satisfied himself with the dildo the night before, then curled up with it by his head and fallen asleep; thus, when mom came in, she found him clutching this massive dildo, which was covered in shit and blood, cuddling it to his face. All his shit and blood was smeared in to the white eyelet comforter that mom had on the spare guest bed, and boy, was she pissed.
He bought her a down comforter as a replacement, but it was not as decorative as the eyelet comforter was. Mom was not satisfied, and she claimed that she was scarred for life. I couldn’t really blame her though.
When he went back to New Orleans, one of the first to go back to the city once they started allowing people back in, it wasn’t soon enough for Big Momma, who was horrified by the sights she had seen. Yeah, you right, my poor mother, and all the things we’ve put her through. At least she got a porch and deck painted out of the deal, even if it was mostly me doing the painting.
We thought that his leaving might signify the end, but it didn’t, because then the opportunity for Europe came about. Now this is where I’ll admit that he was a savior to me, because I really would not have gone to Europe without the boy, though there was a price to pay. Not quite the twenty thousand that he paid, but there was a price for me that could not bear value on a tag.
See for all the time that had passed, nearly three years, I had never kissed the boy, let alone had sex with the boy. He and I and everyone else knew that he had wanted to, but I didn’t want to, and that’s the point here. Still, he was convinced that there was a time to pay up, and why not do it in the romance capitol?
Like I said, I half wanted to believe that I had something special, even if it was a tad eccentric and out of the scope of most people’s reality. Who cares if we both were into some freaky stuff? Who cares if he let me dress him up in a skirt, crop top, princess tiara, purple lipstick and blue eye shadow, leading him around on a leash in public?
At least I had a limo for us at the end of the night, thanks to the people that had to take the crack, a.k.a. white hash, out of their pipe so I could smoke weed, and as long as we were both happy, then it shouldn’t matter to anyone that he made the ugliest drag queen ever, right? He made his intentions clear that he wanted me, but he tried his best not to pressure me. Though he did wind up throwing a temper tantrum in Europe, threatening my happiness, and me, because I did not want to cuddle with him.
Cuddling was not in my job description. I didn’t have to cuddle. We were not girlfriend and boyfriend for any of this time, though we did fill in the empty roles in each other’s lives at these points; he worshipped me as a goddess.
When I wouldn’t cuddle, he wanted to prove to me that he was sexy by hitting on 350 pounds of 18-year-old European flesh, which was cool, fine by me. Hell, take your frustrations out on her; that’s a glorious idea. She was only 18; he liked to remind me.
Even she didn’t want him. She stood his ass up. So he tried another tactic.
It wasn’t even his attempt, so much as it just happened. We went looking for a whip, as I was craving lambskin, how buttery soft it feels on the skin. Let’s just say we went looking for trouble, and we found it.
After days of searching, we met a leather worker who had all the ingredients it took to make a nice whip. He said he would be more than eager to do the job for me, and he also mentioned other friends he had in America that were into swinging - not that I was, mind you. I tried to change the topic to the design of a skirt, and he went along with this long enough to take my measurements, but then the topic turned again.
“For some of these couples, I’ve made g-strings and such,” he indulged, piquing my sex-depraved friend’s attention. The next thing you know, the leather maker is taking another fitting, not of me, but of my little buddy. A g-string fitting requires getting naked, you know, and when I peeped inside behind the curtain, I noticed a huge smile leering back at me while Ernesto was getting a free hand job.
“Let’s go to his house.” No. “We’re going there now.”
No was something I repeated over and over, but nobody seemed to hear me. I was dragged along simply because I had no idea where else to go. I forgot to pay attention to road names and bring a map, like someone cast clouds in my mind.
One thing leads to another, and the porno pops on. Next thing I know, I’m watching guy-on-guy head, not on the TV, but next to me on the bed, followed by both of them peeping their heads out the open window, which might have seemed innocent enough to the people in the streets down below. From my perspective, however, I could only see two hairy asses, one’s dick buried in the other’s ass, pumping back and forth, the leather maker eagerly spreading his ass cheeks far apart, directing him on how to get it deeper in.
Anal sex. So many get uncomfortable just by the mention of it, and so many cannot believe that I just sat there and let them do it, but why not? As long as it does not intrude on my life, and that first night, it didn’t.
When we got back to the hotel, I remember saying that he was officially bisexual in my book, and he just looked at me quizzically. “Why, because I fucked some dude in the ass, I’m bisexual? If that counted you as bisexual, then I guess I would have been counted as bisexual when I was seven-years-old, when my mom caught me fucking one of my school friends in the ass.”
And this is the guy who wanted to marry me? Convinced we would live happily ever after? Seriously?
Big Momma’s hunch seemed right. Maybe he did just want to marry me to put up a front, make it seem like he was really straight. They do have those modern day marriages of conveniences nowadays.
This was something different though, and he and I both knew it. The next day we went back. The whip was done, and there was another round of fun.
This time, they weren’t just satisfied with each other and wanted to pull me into the mix. I said no, again, but it didn’t matter, having two guys ripping off my clothes while I struggled to put them back on. “What girl doesn’t want two guys pleasing her?”
“Don’t be so shy,” they chastised, but all I could do was complain of pain. My hip, my leg, my knee. Stop, please.
“Oh, I have a cream for that, but it would require you getting naked. No, really, it’s a cream for joint and muscle aches, and it works really good. I’ll have to massage it in though.”
Massage? Okay, I let the leather worker massage this hogwash into me, and I allowed the other to lick my feet, which were nasty from walking a total of well more than five miles without socks, just in that day. Mmm…foot fungus, but if he really wanted to, and he did…
Guys are so sly. They get you comfortable, then they go in for the kill. At first, I thought I deserved it, thinking of all the people who claimed that I had been leading this guy on for nearly three years, that you have to at least test the waters to see if just maybe…
No, get the hell off of me. He was like a horny dog, just humping at anything. Gross.
Worse attempt at sex ever. Totally not right. I tried it, and knew for sure within less than 30 seconds, but then he wouldn’t quit.
I had to throw him off of me, but he was satisfied enough. The next day Mr. –Save-the-Earth-by-being-a-Vegetarian went out on a spending spree, buying me a full-length rabbit and fox fur coat as a token of his appreciation, amongst other things. It didn’t matter what he bought, for I felt I had lost something, mainly my dignity.
Day three came about as a way to say goodbye, I guess, and the leather man could read me enough to know that I was not down with what my friend was trying. He protected me by alternatively shoving his tongue and cock down my throat, occupying me enough to where my friend could not get at me. As strange as this sounds, it worked, but my buddy wound up getting pissed, accusing us of whatever, just enough to where I had to remind him, “who was the one who fucked who in the ass?”
Which brings up another interesting case in point. When he did get the opportunity to touch me naked, the first thing he went for was my ass. Why is that?
Regardless, things with the leather guy ended, and we were off on our adventure. Of course, we made a stop in Amsterdam for some dildos, a place where I forced him to go on stage as the participant in a live sex show, but when we got back home to my place, I forced him to eat meat - and we made another dildo stop as well, adding a Cyberskin strap-on to my collection that had yet to be used. This spoiling of me, buying me all these new toys, entitled him to play with me, or so he claimed.
I didn’t want him to try to fuck me again, so I suggested a compromise of letting him use a dildo on me. I’m not sure how he fucked it up, but he did; he hurt me, so I told him to stop. Intentionally, I think he may have done this, because then he grew sinister and insisted, “now I’m gunna fuck you.”
It was our last night before he would go back down to New Orleans, and I had a fleeting thought that maybe I had not given him a fair chance, as our only intimate moment had been in the presence of the leather worker. I tried it for about 30 seconds again, then kicked his ass off me for good. “You keep hurting me,” I cried.
He was happy with what he had gotten and was now convinced more than ever that we were meant to be together forever. I couldn’t handle it. I closed up inside of myself, as if someone was binding me with a spell.
He kept calling, like always, a million times a day, and when I wouldn’t answer, he got mad. Like always, he pulled out his suicide card. It was the same threat that had kept me talking to him since our trip to Florida, when I paid for everything.
I knew it was his call for attention. I told him to get counseling, but he was scared, as that would require him to go into the ghetto, and the ghetto of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina was not a pretty thing. If he were really suicidal though, why would the ghetto matter; would he be scared of getting killed if he were suicidal?
More negativity to get my attention, but I couldn’t mentally afford to give it to him any longer. He threatened that many people in the city were committing suicides due to all the despair and losses from the hurricane, but I had to cut my ties. As it were, he was living with my ex-boyfriend just to study a specimen of who I had willingly gotten with before I had met him, not knowing my ex before looking him up and inviting him to come stay with him during Mardi Gras, which wound up being a lot more permanent.
They both had the answer, heroin. One egged on the other, and such as things go, but then, many, many months later, my ex-boyfriend, a glamour boy who was always up to no good, left to live with some chick, and there was my buddy with only the needle to comfort him. Guess what happened; the needle poked him like a voodoo doll.
He finally did what he said he was going to do. He followed through with his threat that had been old a while ago. How was I to know that he left everything to me?
He said I was supposed to save him, that it was my fault he was back onto drugs, as I wouldn’t pay enough attention to him. That’s all he ever wanted, attention, as his mother had not given him enough, leaving him to be raised by a nanny. We didn’t need to get married, because we both knew that would not solve his problems.
In his will, he instructed me to use his money to go out and buy a new dress, amongst anything else that would make me happy. He left me more than enough, more than I could imagine. He knew I was the one who knew the instructions for his funeral, as he had told me too many times.
The traditional jazz funeral was what he wanted, and now I would have to arrange that. I think it’s only fitting that the second line start at his family’s business in the French Quarter and finish at where we met, Snake and Jake’s. His brother’ll help arrange the bands to march down the streets of New Orleans, along with the tons of people who suddenly remembered Ernesto’s name and the strangers who just wanted an excuse to drink, who also desired to be part of something, joining the brass band parade of alcohol.
I put out my cigarette and think of how proud I am that he had finally made a decision to walk away, all the while feeling a twinge in my heart. Yeah, you right Brah, it’s only now that he’s gone that I realize how much he had meant to me, ya heard me? Money could not buy happiness, and we never needed to get married, because he only wanted a friend; we were both gay.
In all my frantic searches for happiness, he stood by my side, indulging all my fantasies. He was there for me no matter what I did, always encouraging my eccentric ways, but now he’s gone. No matter how much I tried to avoid it, he still left me as the Black Widow, and I had no choice but to go back to New Orleans, succumb to Marie Laveaux’s curse, back to where prostitution is the oldest profession and the city itself is a pearl of a whore, one you must pry open for treasure.
The final smoke from my extinguished cigarette drifted into the air; will this be my last cigarette? A tear falls down my eye, and I clutch my chest, bringing my black onyx poison ring into view. I was pinned ever since I picked up this ring, wearing the poison ring on my wedding finger; there’s no escaping the sentence of voodoo.
THE END
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