Disclaimer/ author's note: If you shouldn't be reading this, I'm sure you already know that. If you're not sure whether or not you should be reading this -- then you probably should get clear on that. Don't access this if you can't "legally" where you are, if you're not old enough, etc. This is supposed to be a kind of homage to the style of Bret Easton Ellis (google him if your clueless) so don't mind the copious drug use and burned out feel. Any questions, comments, concerns, rampant praise, hit me at: firstname.lastname@example.org
OH YEAH and this is mine, try your BEST not to spread it around the internet without my name splattered heavily across it...better yet, don't even do that without my permission. ^_^
Having a party while my parents were at the premiere of their new movie, their directorial voyage into cinema verite, probably wasn't the best idea. I guess, it wasn't a genius move to be doing coke off of the coffee table either or paying people to fuck in front of us on the Egyptian silk throw that we laid across the ground. I guess you just don't think about these things when you're having fun.
No, I'm not the king of good ideas BUT to my defense, I couldn't have known that their limo would breakdown a half-hour away and that my mother would have forgotten her valiums at home. See, because if either had happened, they would have probably just got another limo come pick them up and go to the premiere. However, since both happened, well, I got caught.
If mom HAD taken her valium, she probably wouldn't have pepper sprayed the couple on the silk throw. If the limo hadn't broken down and made them late, my dad probably wouldn't have slammed a friend of mine (who happens to be my dealer) through the glass coffee table we were doing coke off. In retrospect, I kind of understand why they decided to send me to boarding school, punishment and all that. I'm just kind of bummed that my dealer's not talking to me anymore. Whatever, I guess.
"Our boys are expected to follow the strictest moral code. This means: no smoking, no drugs, no alcohol, no young ladies, no pornography, no swearing, no gambling, no deviating from the dress code, no speaking out of turn, no loud music, no fighting, no letters out of the academy for the first six months except for letters home once a month, no leaving the premises for the first five weeks, no breaking the lights-out rule at nine p.m. sharp, no solicitation, no loitering, certainly no spitting, no unregulated internet usage, no unapproved personal items, a list of which is included in your orientation package and no breaking the one-year commitment of attendance."
I didn't hear one thing the old dude said to my parents. I
just stared at the ship-in-a-bottle on his desk and slouched in my chair. I
popped a couple valiums that I stole from my mother before we got on the plane
"I think this is just what he needs, some structure." My dad said. I guess it could have been my mom.
The old guy, who I began to recall introducing himself as Father Connell smiled at the mention of `structure' and I realized he wasn't really that old. He was maybe in his late forties, early fifties but unattractive as hell. He turned to me, almost as if he sensed I'd used a quasi-expletive in my head.
"I'm sure you'll be able to find structure here Grant."
I brushed a strand of my messy blonde hair away from my eyes, off my forehead, lightly tanned from a visit to a salon a week or so ago and smiled. A guy named Avalanche once told me that my smile is as vacant as my green eyes, cloudy from drug use and boredom. I used to be an honor student before I realized there were better ways to get through life and then the eyes got cloudy. Connell didn't smile back and my name is Graham.
My parents didn't bother to stay for the tour of the academy, which housed two-hundred fifty boys and boasted an Olympic sized swimming pool, a sauna, two tennis courts, an indoor basketball court, a dance studio, a quarter million dollar internet lounge, a garage stocked with imported cars available to students in good standing and alumni and countless other bits of privilege. Instead, they glanced around the inside of the room I would spend the next year in and commented on the fact that there were two beds.
"I...wasn't aware he'd be sharing a room here." My mother remarked to Father Connell who smiled again and I realized he didn't have very good teeth.
"Yes. We find that often the boys here come from homes were they are single children. We try to bring an element of fraternity in and teach the boys to share as well as ways to work out problems that may arise in the newfound relationship."
Both of my parents nodded as if it was the best idea they'd ever heard, then squeezed past him and asked which way was the exit. Never fond of long goodbyes, they didn't bother saying goodbye and left on there way. Connell reminded me to read my packet and informed me that my roommate would show me to the dining hall promptly at 6 p.m. before leaving to attend whatever business that people like him attend. I was hardly concerned as I shut the door behind him and immediately began looking through my bags to see if my parents had removed my last half gram of coke.
Not having found my coke, I threw myself onto my bed and fell into an angry sleep. I had a dream that I was underwater smoking pot with a Belgian hooker who kept telling me this joke about a lobster and a horse. When I woke up, I could only remember the punch line. `Move that pincer and I'll suck it.' My first realization outside of the dream was that there was someone else in the room. Rolling on my side I looked over at a shirtless redhead curled up in his bed and turned slightly away from me. Lean yet visible muscles rested just under his pale skin while he leafed through a copy of `Paradise Lost.'
"The perfect man." I said out loud, just loud enough to startle him.
His muscles flexed unintentionally as he tensed up and turned towards me. In his surprise, his jerky motion had caused his small, rimless glass to slide down from his brown eyes to his nose. I grinned sleepily and he smiled hesitantly back.
"Excuse me?" He asked quietly, politely...nervously.
I pointed to the book.
"Adam, the perfect man."
He still looked lost.
"OH." He realized, laughing at himself as he climbed out of the bed.
As he stood up, I gauged him at roughly my height, about 5'9" or thereabout. He crossed the room in a few strides with feline like carefulness and extended his hand.
"Iago Saint Paul." His voice just barely reaching conversational level.
"Graham Raleigh. The second if you care, but Iago, there's a name you don't hear everyday." I held his hand just a little longer than usual, just enough to make him glance down at our hands intertwined, before letting go.
"My parents met at a staging of Othello in
I nodded, bored and wishing I at least had some pot.
"Do you have any pot?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could rethink them. I wouldn't have decided against it even if I had.
His smile faded somewhat.
"Um...like, marijuana?" He asked and then rethought it. "No..."
"Fair enough...so what do guys do to get off around here? No girls, right? Somebody's gotta be doing something somewhere."
His face changed and I could tell he was considering what to say. I decided to help him out. I grinned to myself as I climbed out of the bed and out from under the sheet covering me, glad I had stripped down to my jockey shorts earlier. They were sleek, black and tight enough to expose an eyeful of what I intended to do to my new roommate. If all went well, he wouldn't be my first guy, after all my dealer and I were really good friends.
Sex later, damnit.