Date: Fri, 12 Mar 2004 20:08:28 -0500
From: A. Cheshire Cat <kierkegaard_is_cool@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Dawn of the Demolished Boy

I generally write incestuous tales, not just recently but really, throughout
my history as an eroticist the stories have generally revolved around tales
of family members. I honestly thought this one was headed in that direction.
Turns out it was a story of some other extraordinary character that was
being told. Enjoy. This is one of my favorite stories I have ever written.

Dawn of the Demolished Boy
By: A. Cheshire Catt
March 11, 2004

Curiously, there was a time when I didn't care. Perhaps it was because my
life was busy enough that I didn't need to take notice of them all. All
around me was a realm of windows and families and men and women, lives in
their little worlds, existing silently, behind curtains and sometimes open
to like a stage mid-scene in perpetuity. I live on the ninth floor of a
building in downtown. There are buildings all around me, my view is rather
dull, very metropolitan, almost tense with brick and glass and concrete. I
can see people in their homes while the windows are open, see them on their
balconies smoking, and at night, as if these apartments were vampires, their
eyes open and lives are exposed. But, like I said, there was a time when I
didn't care.
Perhaps it was because I couldn't actually see them all that well.
Sadly, one day, my uncle died of a sudden heart attack, and his possessions
were divided amongst family members in a way which, supposedly, reflected
our relationship with the man. Truthfully, I had barely known the man.
Ironically, I got his bird-watching binoculars. Apparently, according to
hearsay, he'd loved birding. I have no idea. Lord knows, I don't. When they
arrived in a parcel I was rather upset that it wasn't a nice piece of
jewelry I could, at least, sell if it wasn't attractive. Binoculars though?
I didn't know what to do with them.
One evening, shortly thereafter, I threw a bit of a party and had a few of
my closest friends over. One of the younger of us noted they'd be great for
spying on the people in the neighboring buildings. We laughed at the idea,
discussing the unethical and immoral aspects of the intrusion I could
explore. Soon enough the subject was changed and the party was over and a
couple of weeks passed by.
Then, late in the spring, I got a wickedly ill with a virus, coughing and
sneezing and fevered, I stayed home from work till it was over. Anyone who's
seen daytime television will understand, after only a few hours I got bored
and headed to the windows. There was a building right across the street.
Taller than mine, as well as wider, from my apartment my view was very much
that building, and the people within.
Out of boredom, I will say it again, feeling lethargic I pulled out the
binoculars and started peeping on the neighbors. I couldn't really see
anything and felt as though the whole idea was a waste of time.
As evening came on I was still there, watching an old man pet his cat while
watching the news, spying on a young woman working on blue prints, or two
brothers, probably around fifteen or so years old, looking at big-breasted
women on the internet. As darkness came over the city, somewhat like the
virus had taken over my body, stranger things were made visible as people
turned on their lights. I left my lights out, being merely too lazy to get
up and turn them on, and sunk myself into a suddenly addictive game, a
strange sport, and smiled as I realized I rather liked this new hobby.
As I watched the balconies, where people tended to smoke their cigarettes
and joints, I noticed one woman with a particularly curious way of staring
off into space. She seemed cold, wrapped in her red shawl that tossed in the
wind, but she stood solidly while her body fed on the smoke. I don't know
why I watched her but I couldn't stop, and then suddenly a young man in a
tight tee-shirt came out and asked her something but she was enraged that he
appeared there and sent him in with a false slap at his face. The boy seemed
to be about thirteen, maybe fourteen or so. His dark hair was shaved and his
thin, pale body was strangely appealing, it made me stir, I'll admit.
Suddenly it wasn't so much her that intrigued me, now it was he. I watched
him enter the apartment and stick his tongue out at her from behind, mocking
her. Though her reaction was a bit crass, his was bold. I chuckled to myself
at his daring.
A typical single mom, I thought, and a typical trash kid.
I dozed off shortly after she went in, as my medication was very strong, but
when I woke up I was right on time for the best part of the show. I have no
idea what woke me up, the rest of the building across from me was dark and I
had no idea what time it was. The streetlights created a strange glow on the
front of the building and the woman came out again for a cigarette. I
realized I could see more of their apartment than I had imagined. To her
left a dining room and then the next window was a bedroom, and the curtains
were open. I could see the young man on that bed with his headphones on
tapping his feet with his eyes closed, in a dream. He was wearing a pair of
baggy shorts. His nipples were visible to me across the street. Through the
binoculars I traced a heated breath down the ripple of his chest, and over
the waves of abdominal muscles. His legs were crossed. One hand was on his
crotch while the other, rather effeminately gestured a sigh of woe upon his
brow. He seemed to be just about to fall asleep.
Suddenly the mother saw something on the street, she waved to someone, and
she headed in.
I watched the boy. My breathing became disjointed as he rolled onto his side
and stared out the window. It was almost as if he was staring at me and I
loved that.
His mother opened his bedroom door and he jumped because she startled him.
He yelled something at her, and she pointed angrily. He yelled again, this
time she walked up and slapped him hard across the face. He succumbed to her
point and lay down again on the bed. Trembling and shaking the binoculars
thus, I struggled to observe the distress on the boy's face and in his eyes.
He looked to be about to cry. I felt so sorry for him now. It was
undeniable, the mother was a bitch.
Soon the mother was letting someone into the dining room area, which must
have been just off the foyer. They went out for a cigarette. I thought it
was her boyfriend, or rather the husband. They didn't touch each other
though. She smoked casually and he seemed nervous. He was tan, dark-tanned,
with shaved hair and a short beard, it seemed he must be very hairy, and yet
with his white shirt on, nice tie and dress pants, he appeared to be at
least a noble savage. Again, I had no idea what time it was.
Something made me think it might be just after eleven, but at the same time
it felt like I could be quite wrong and it was nearer to dawn.
The man gave the woman an envelope and then she pointed the directions down
the hall. The man was now on his way to the boy's room. I watched the boy,
oblivious to the threat lurking down the hall. I felt scared for him. I
wished I could have warned him. I had no idea what was going to happen.
The man opened the door, the boy lifted his head in acknowledgement. The boy
seemed to take no notice of the man's presence though, as if the man was a
ghost. The man came in and walked to the far side of the bed and looked out
the window like the boy was. I shriveled into the depths of the chair and
lowered the lenses and then raised them again. The boy was by then sitting
on his own side of the bed. The man was loosening his tie and unbuttoning
his white shirt to reveal a barreling chest, matted with dark hair, and a
rolling mound of a stomach that may have been either muscle or fat but was
undeniably impenetrable. He came over to the window side of the bed and
stood between the view and the boy. It was suddenly clear to me what was
going on. The boy was rented this evening by that man and leased out by the
woman. The boy was a product. Clearly, though hidden from my sight, the boy
was sucking the man's cock.
The pants he'd worn fell to the floor soon exposing a dark, ferociously
tight ass, and legs that were beastly. In fact, the man suddenly appeared
more savage than noble and his clothes had merely been a loose costume. He
stepped out of them and left his legs a little apart while his manly hands
were surely gripped around the young boy's head steadying it while he fucked
it.
At first I was disgusted and I lowered the glasses. I couldn't bare it any
longer. I sat there staring off in other directions without the aid of
far-sight, but soon the brew in my erection was winning me over. I raised
them again to see the man was now suckling the young cock of the boy who sat
on the bed staring outward. His arms braced himself to the bed, and he was
composed as if none of this was happening to him. I wondered how often it
"didn't" happen to him.
I looked to see that the mother-lady was reading a book at the dining room
table. It disgusted me that she twirled her hair in her tar-stained fingers,
but when I looked back the man and boy had changed positions again.
This time I could see the saber the man wielded, it poked out like a
mechanical shaft. With his muscles bared and his lust unabashedly flashing
like a diabolical smile, I thought to myself this man is a predator,
dangerous in the sense that it would take several men to hold him down if he
were expecting their attack. He was a wolf, a bear, a lion, a shark, and a
vulture. The boy sat on the end of his bed, naked, and with his legs pulled
up off the floor as if this carpet were the man's territory and to tread
upon it would cost him his life. The man stroked the belly of the boy, he
seemed frightened with the man's attempts to ease him. The man seemed to
say, "Calm down, this won't hurt," but the boy seemed mute with fear and
knowledge based on experience and an ability to assume how "little" this
would hurt by the size of the dick this man had.
The man asked him something.
The boy shook his head sadly.
The man asked it again.
The boy stared at him.
The man suddenly raised a flat hand and it came down upon the boy with
full-force upon his young face and the young man crashed to the bed. The man
lifted his prey up, and asked him again, and this time the boy nodded
painfully, the side of his face already enflamed.
The man crawled up onto the bed and faced the young guy at the window and
then went to his rear where he proceeded to lick at the young ass. Something
made me think it must actually sting as the man had such a short beard. The
bristles of his facial hair must have been like diamond-studded sandpaper
against his young flesh. The boy simply stared out through the window. The
man then mounted the bed and the inevitable was coming.
The boy looked a little paler than usual and it seemed he held within him a
torrent of emotions. The man kneeled behind the boy and slowly inserted
himself and at some point that seemed crucial to the exploitation of this
moment the man leaned over and rubbed his face into the boy's back. The boy
dropped his head and then raised it again as the man slapped his ass. Then
he began to ride the boy. The boy cried then. It hurt him through his whole
body. He lowered himself off his arms and buried his face into the bedding.
The man kept plowing the ass harder and faster and more ruthlessly with each
pound. I thought that he must be able to see himself in the window because
he seemed to pose and watch himself fucking the soul out of the boy, the boy
who cried and yelled and clawed at the bed.
The man stopped and yelled something.
The boy resumed a statuesque appearance.
The man then continued fucking the boy.
The man was saying something, asking something, and the boy would answer as
if he'd rehearsed the right lines. The man licked his lips and watched
himself in the reflective window.
The boy stared too, probably curing the man.
Suddenly the man pulled out and the boy gasped.
Out in the other room, Mom, with her book, still twirled her hair not even
flinched, at times looking at her watch.
The man then chucked the boy onto the floor. He sat on the end of the bed
and told the poor boy to come at him again. While the man sat, the boy
remained at eye level with him. He instructed the boy to ride him now, in
the sense that he would have to sit on him and get that cock buried in his
bowels. Soon enough, the boy straddling the man and gripping his masculine
devil body, bounced with the man as the bed provided the movement, bouncing
and bouncing. The man was laughing and the boy was emotionless.
Then again, after a shorter length of time this round, the man pulled the
kid off and put him on the floor. He told the boy something and the boy
started toward the dark, wet cock. I noticed, on the floor behind the kid, a
tiny spray of red. The boy had been torn, he probably ached and would burn
for weeks, if there wasn't permanent damage. This man then had his sword
sucked, and he leaned back to relax as he shot his evil seed into the boy's
mouth and then all over his young face.
The man said something.
The man looked at the boy as if waiting for a response.
The woman in the other room seemed to be the topic of conversation.
The boy pointed at, or perhaps through the wall.
The man said something and raised his fist this time.
The boy started to cry.
The man pulled the boy closer, reefing on his arm mercilessly. For some
reason I looked back at the woman at the point. She'd been counting her
money and it seemed that a noise had drawn her attention. Something terribly
loud or dangerous must have been said and it was loud enough or dangerous
enough to at last break or disdain. I couldn't believe this woman, so
passively allowing the demolition of the boy, greedily counting money, the
profit of her sin.
Back in the bedroom, the man was pissing on the boy, while the boy hid his
face, the men pulled him by the arm closer and closer still, aiming the
spray at the young face mockingly. Strangely enough, the boy's other hand
was simply relaxed, arching him up off the floor. He seemed humiliated,
hurt, ruined or hidden within himself in some strange way, but yet calm and
rehearsed. This was certain: this was not the first time, this boy was no
virgin.
The woman stood in the other room and began pacing and looked at her watch.
She then strolled down the hall and, I guess, knocked upon the door merely,
time was up, and the man noticed this and seemed to pout. The man wandered
about the room, avoiding any wet or dirty spots on the floor or bed, and
gathering his clothes, dressed himself in front of his weakened counterpart.
The boy seemed still in a spell.
After the man had dressed he threw some cash on the floor at the boy. The
boy quickly gathered it up and threw it under the bed in haste, at the same
time the bedroom door opened, the woman stood there, and the man was ushered
out.
Interestingly enough, a drama began to unfurl. I suspect the man had broken
a rule or something, the woman was irate with him for leaving the place the
way he had or maybe merely making too much noise. Either way, the man simply
raised his hand at her easily, and she screamed something (I assumed she
wasn't concerned about the noise level at that point). He simply left then.
She then grabbed her wad of cash off the table and walked by the boy's room.
The young man was still cowering on the floor. She said something
apathetically, I knew it couldn't be all that sympathetic. She pointed
around the room and gestured that it stunk. He simply followed the aim of
her finger. Then she tossed a couple of bills at him which, for a curious
reason, he wasn't so excited to pick up. He wasn't afraid of her taking it
back. I knew then the money he had been given by the beast was a secret now,
it would never be revealed that he was making money on the side. Before she
left she tossed at him a towel, a dishtowel, used immediately to wipe off
his own face. When she was gone he cracked a smile, a grin as satisfied and
mystifyingly deranged as if he knew of something grand which she did not
know of.
He then stood, seemingly with much effort, and quickly braced himself
against the bed. He decided to stop for a minute and sit. She came back
then, she had a glass of something for him and a wash cloth. She seemed,
strangely, consoling, tender, and sincere.
All this time, you must remember, I sat on the chair facing the window
sniffling and slightly fevered. I couldn't believe, pre-come had actually
stained the front of my nightclothes under the soft afghan.
I watched her stand him up and clean up his bum gently, and him telling her
that it hurt, she was cursing obviously that there was nothing she could do.
He winced and let it all flow through him. She was talking away to him, he
seemed somewhere else entirely. He told her it was enough. She left him then
and pointed one last time at the room's strange mess. He nodded.
She shut the door and went out into the dining room, shut out the lights,
went back outside for another cigarette. I was craving a cigarette now too.
The boy started to quickly organize things. I understood then that he must
have memorized, as much as he had the gestures to assume while brutal men
raped him, the methods and movements of his mother. He stashed the money
from under the bed in a curio box that he kept on a shelf. He put the money
his mother had tossed at him in a glass jar, which held a lot of bills: it
was the money she knew of.
He rummaged through the closet and found a bag. What's going on? He was
packing quickly. He was leaving? She was smoking away, I feared he could be
caught by her. But just as she tossed her cigarette over the edge, he threw
the bag back in the closet and jumped into bed. She walked by the door and
said something to him, shut out his light and went on her way after shutting
his door. Soon a light came on in the next room in the line of windows, this
room was blanketed with a curtain. She stripped, her shadow was explicit,
and at the same time, in the dim light of his room, he gently packed shirts,
pants, socks, underwear, and at last his walkman. He'd had all this planned.
I noticed then that the light of the sky had illuminated, as if on cue, like
the beginning of a new story. I watched as he looked about his room for
something, and then he remembered the money, the very crucial rung of his
escape ladder I knew.
Her light shut out. He threw on a pair of pants, a loose sweater and grabbed
a baseball cap and his bag was then thrown over his shoulder. He was
absolutely adorable.
He seemed to hesitate then.
He walked over to the window and my blood raced to my face. He smiled and
put his hand on the window. I felt like it was me and me alone who watched
this and yet he felt like it was he and he alone who looked out at it all.
The hand he pressed to the cool glass was his farewell gesture to a view
that had consoled him, spied on him, provided him with a godly delusion of
grandeur. At the same time he seemed to be taking a great proverbial aim, it
was as if the ever-important moment had arrived and he felt at last strong
enough to burst through the glass. He smiled. I could see it as the world
lit up at dawn. I felt so happy for him. I cheered him on. I watched the
mother's room too.
He heard something. It was still dark all over the building and I let myself
believe he heard her snoring.
It was time.
He decided to grab his walkman, he flung the earphones over his head, he
appeared to have grown from that kid I saw being taunted on the balcony. It
seemed as though he was now dawning his crown.
He turned and sneaked through the halls and rooms.
I could see the light of the hall as he opened the main door, then the
darkness of when he'd shut it.
Just at that moment, that moment the door shut, the mother's light turned
on. I grew ill. The mother went down the hall and casually opened the
bedroom door to her son's room. The light came on. I swear, in my heart, at
that moment the elevator doors were closing and the boy was descending to
the real world rapidly, as rapidly in fact as the mother's realization of
her own situation. Surely she thought, not of her son's exposure to street
gangs, prostitution in the wilds of strange pimps and violent johns, not
drugs or violence or starvation or cold, no, she surely thought her own
financial ruin.
She ran through the house madly, to the living room, to the balcony, to the
bedroom again, the jar she herself had filled was gone. She ran around in a
maniacal fury then out again to the balcony.
I couldn't resist it anymore. I stood, I ran to the very edge of the window
myself and stared down at the street as she did. And, sure enough, out he
came, and he was proud and free and liberated, and alive and with money, and
the dawn was upon us, the streetlights flickered out and the world was
roaring with unseen birds. The world was his at that moment, the world was
in tune with a soundtrack flowing from his headset. She yelled at him
fruitlessly, waving her hands in the air.
Finally braving the duty I felt, I went out on my own balcony and finding my
cigarettes and matches I lit one and watched her. I could hear her now,
"Fuck you little slut, you'll never survive."
I then leaned down to see him go.
She then looked up and saw me. She saw me seeing her. Cockily I waved, not a
fist, and not my cigarette, no, not even a disappointed finger, but instead
the mighty binoculars. She instantly ran back inside, running to her room
like a ghost.
Three days later, I was well again, the social life started and across the
street, in that other building there was a vacancy. The realtor walked
people around the rooms and they nodded and appreciated the space, loved the
view and imagined things in certain places. I wondered what the realtor told
them about the stuff left in the apartment. I don't care what happened to
her, she simply wasn't there anymore.
Him though, I have seen him.
I was in a public washroom once, you know what I was doing; I was getting
sucked off by men in suits. When I finished and went to the sinks, fixing my
hair, I saw him. He walked in behind me, still with those earphones, still
smiling. He looked amazing. This was probably a year after. I was so happy
he had survived, I wanted to ask him about his mother. That was impossible.
It was as if he'd been a figment of my imagination until that moment, but
no, he was real.
I walked out of the washroom grinning.
The binoculars, by the way, have been put away. It is as if they hold within
themselves that moment and I wish not only to not see it again but not taint
that moment with the spectacle of something else.
But that night, that boy: that place across the street -- it seems like they
all belong to me in some wonderful way.