This is a work of fiction. Names of characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously; any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Dennis Milholland – All rights reserved. Other than for private, not-for-profit use, no part of this work may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any form or by any means, other than that intended by the author, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Careful! This is a work of fiction containing graphic descriptions of sex between males and critiques of religion and governments.

Love It or Leave It

by Dennis Milholland

questions and comments are welcome. www.milholland.eu / dennis@milholland.eu

Ten

(Tuesday, October 4th, Wednesday, October 5th)

When Dad goes to bed, Raphaël and I sit on the front-porch swing in silence. With both my parents upstairs, I decide that I can afford to smoke on the premises. I pull the somewhat crumpled pack of Cavaliers out of my front jeans pocket and fish the Zippo out of the watch pocket.

Raphie watches me with odd curiosity: “You do know that those things smell like horse shit, don’t you?”

“Yeah?” I can’t think of anything else to say other than: “Can’t say that I ever smelled horse shit burn.”

The light breeze coming down 23rd Street smells of autumn dust now mixed with my smoke. It’s not quite as chilly as yesterday, but you can tell that this is going to be one of the last summer-mild evenings of the year. Soon, it will be time for Dad and me to unhook the chains of the swing from the porch ceiling and take it back to the garage, or the ‘barn’ as Dad and our next-door neighbor refer to it, for the winter.

“You tired?” Raph poses the question, as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

A black and white patrol car from the Kansas City, Missouri Police Department cruises up the hill on Quincy pausing at the stop sign much too long, giving us a much too interested look. I wonder what would happen if I flash them the bird.

“Don’t grin at the cops, Dan. Please.” Raphie’s whisper is clearly audible in the night-time stillness.

It’s odd how some domestic animals, particularly dogs, can sense fear in humans. And it’s similarly odd how police seem to have the same capability. They kill the engine of the patrol car, whence comes the blinding beam of the searchlight mounted on the roof in front of the cherry top. Leaving the searchlight on us, they get out of the car and charge up the front terrace. It isn’t until they get to the porch steps that we can see their drawn handguns.

“What you doin’ here, Boy?” the less than refined, rotund gentleman in the first brown uniform demands to know. Raphaël tenses in horror and is unable to speak.

So, I answer “What the Fuck does it look like, Lard Ass?” Raph gasps at my disrespect.

“Wasn’t talkin’ t’y’all. I wanna know what the nigger’s doin’ here?”

I bristle. “And I want to know who the Fuck you are.”

The second, less rotund but marginally more refined gentleman in a brown uniform becomes indignant, “We’re the law and there’s a nigra sittin’ next t’y’all, and I wanna--” and is interrupted by:

“--I suppose the both of yus have a search warrant.” We hear the unmistakable Dublin lilt from inside the screen door punctuated by a distinctly telltale metallic click.

“No, uh, sir, we…”

The screen door opens and Dad walks into the spotlight, buck-ass naked, aiming his double-barrel shotgun at the cops, virtually at point-blank range. “In that case, me wee feckers, yus got precisely one bleedin’ second to leave me property.”

The two public servants run for the cover of their patrol car, switch off the searchlight and speed from the scene. The screen door from next door closes softly and a voice comes out of the dark: “Always knew you had a pair, Joey, but didn’t know they were solid brass.”

“Ah, sure they are. And can swing with the best of ‘em.” Dad snickers, “G’night Lawrence.” He pats me once on the shoulder as he passes. “Get some sleep.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I whisper; Raphaël is bewildered and speechless.

We hear our neighbor engage presumably the safety of a handgun, and with a soft, “G’night, Lads.” he goes through his own front door.

“Good night, Mr. O’Connor.” I reply and slap Raphaël’s knee. “Ready for bed, too?”

His tone is weak and shaky: “You really think I can sleep?”

From behind the screen door, we can hear Dad from the top of the stairs: “Go back to bed, Mildred. Nuttin’ happened.”

“Then we’ll cuddle, Raph.” I take his hand; it’s shaking.

“At our house, they’d have probably shot us.” His weak voice catches.

His father had been killed by two policemen in ‘an attempted robbery’, as the two Caucasian cops later testified at the Coroner's Inquest. Actually, he had been verifiably on his way home from work. He’d gotten off at the bus stop on 24th and Jackson, as he did every day of the workweek and was passing by the liquor store on the corner, when he’d been shot ‘trying to flee the scene’, according to the two defenders of law and order within and for the County of Jackson.

According to civilian witnesses, all of whom had been people of color, that, from his vantage point, he couldn’t possibly have seen that a robbery was in progress at the corner store. He’d started to cross the street and was, without warning, shot to death. Raphaël’s father, Maurice Mongrain, had been an accountant.

I’m holding him as Dad reappears on the porch. This time he’s dressed in a black sweatshirt and jeans: “Got a fag, Dan?”

Raphie tenses and scowls, and I hand Dad the pack and lighter. My best friend continues to look resentful, his subtle growl reaches only my ears. “Raphie, it’s okay. He didn’t call anyone a ‘fag’ as in ‘faggot’; the word ‘fag’ means ‘cigarette’ in Ireland.”

“Oh?” he says, obviously still stunned and very protective of me but tries to relax. “Sorry, Joey, didn’t know you smoke.”

Dad lights the Cavalier and hands me back the pack and lighter. “Officially, like Dan, I don’t. If his mother ever gets wind of either of us, I’m sure she’ll find a Bible verse or two, that’ll make it a sin and send us to Hell.” He takes a puff and pauses. “Are the two of yus gonna be okay?”

“Eventually. How about you?” I prod, since he looks thoroughly exhausted, and it’s way past his bedtime.

“Could use a whiskey. You Lads want one?” He starts to get up from the porch floor, where he’d been sitting with his back to one of the four stone columns, and I motion for him to stay seated and put my index finger across my lips to signal silence.

“Be right back.” I whisper. Raphie lightens slightly for the first time since the incident and nods; Dad looks questioningly at me but doesn’t say anything.

I return within two seconds, literally, from inside the entry hall and stairway. The ‘hall seat’ as we call the monster, a high-backed Victorian coat rack cum mirrored throne, which is located on the first low landing of the stairs, is my stash.

There are three, rather large pre-rolled J’s in the small, envelope-sized cellophane bag. I motion to Dad to join us on the swing and each of us takes one.

Now, sitting between Raphie and me, my father has a very puzzled look on his face as he sniffs the artifact he’s holding, which looks very much like the cigarette, he’d just flipped into the street. I seriously don’t think he knows what it is.

I strike my Zippo and light the three: “Do this in remembrance of Mack.”

“For Mack,” Raphie echoes.

Raphie and I take a deep toke and hold. Watching us, Dad follows suit. Five seconds later, we exhale for the first time. Dad’s only comment is: “Just may go off whiskey all together.”

We sit, smoke and mellow out, letting the porch swing rock us gently. Slowly, we finish the J’s and Dad asks about what we do with the butts. Raphie shows him how to coat his forefinger and thumb in saliva to extinguish the lighted end and then swallow it.

“Good.” Dad says, bemused that he has to communicate in whispers, his ears are far too sensitive for anything else. “During Prohibition, there was always the problem of what to do with the feckin’ bottles.” He giggles. “Had I known about this stuff, back then, I wouldn’t a bothered.”

He pauses for reflecdtion. “The Indians came up with this stuff, din’n they? I mean, no lily-arsed, Jonnie Anglo, white guy would a thought a smokin’ it, now would ‘e?” Raphie snorts; Dad certainly has the talkies. “Let’s go see what’s in the fridge.” And the munchies.

We follow him into the kitchen. Raphie has the presence of mind to secure the front door. And Joey’s hanging on the chipped, enameled door of the Servel. “Ah, sweet Jesus,” disappointment is evident, “all she’s got is that feckin’ meatloaf.”

“Wanna cover it in peanut butter and orange marmalade and make sandwiches?” My suggestion is greeted with slow nods of time-lapsed approval from the other two.

“Now, yer talkin’.” Dad adds.

“I can dig it,” is Raphie’s appraisal.

We eat in silence other than the occasional unmotivated giggles and snorts, and we finish and grow sleepy. We trod up the stairs, having left the kitchen and dining room tidied, or so we think. Dad goes to his bedroom and we go to ours.

Raphie and I strip and get into bed using the glow from the streetlight on the corner rather than the ceiling lamp. He puts his arm round me from behind and whispers into my ear: “Your parents don’t sleep together?”

“No,” I confirm quietly. “They haven’t for years.”

“Do you know why?”

“I think Dad grew up.” We giggle, bordering on hysteria. We shush each other and try desperately to suppress hilarity. We finally settle down.

“You know, Dan?” My friend grows thoughtful. “About Jordan?”

“Yeah, Raph, I know.” I state matter-of-factly, gently.

“How do you know?” he sounds vaguely defensive in the darkness.

“Cause your dick is halfway up my ass.” We sputter and snort, again, shushing one another. We regain composure, “Are you sure you want this?”

“This is for me, not for Mack. I want you; I probably always have.”

So, I lift my left leg over his hip and slip my left arm under his head. My cheeks spread, and I’m able to draw him in further. Now, we can kiss as he strokes slowly in and out, taking his time, enjoying the warmth. His cock is a natural fit, and its copious lubrication makes my anus sufficiently slippery; it massages all the right parts.

Mack’s was good, but Raph’s is perfect. Since it isn’t as thick, but longer, it glides more smoothly causing no discomfort, only pleasure. I clench my sphincter on the in stroke and release it on the out, circling my hips slightly to his rhythm, causing his cock to caress my prostate from all angles.

His mouth seals onto mine, and I draw air into my lungs through his nostrils. His cock twitches. He returns the intimate gesture, exhaling as well through my nose. Our tongues caress. And our groins gyrate slowly in sync. We are in no hurry, but hormone levels dictate our bodies’ ultimate responses. As my muscles seize, and I squirt across the sheets, he spasms and fills me with liquid love.

Neither of us moves as sleep sweeps us into oblivion.

***

We wake to the sounds of morning traffic along 23rd Street. My leg is still lying over his hip, and his head is nestled into the fork of my arm. Both our cocks, wilted during the night, are regaining profile. There’s no need to talk. I reach between my legs and reinsert him.

Our repeat doesn’t last as long, since other needs of nature require attention. Although our loving is every bit as intense as the previous night, full bladders dictate our further course of action.

As I sit, once again straining to eliminate urine through an erection and, for the first time, releasing our misconceived progeny from my backside, Raphie asks: “And how long have you known for certain?”

“I’d like to say, ‘since second grade’, but that would be wishful thinking. For me, the moment of truth was last night, when I seriously thought you were going to punch Joey, because you’d assumed he’d called one of us a faggot.”

I stand and flush, turning the pot over to Raphie. I climb into the tub wrestling with Mother’s yellow-hose contraption, managing to remove the ring spray, being able to use the yellow hose, as I would the green one in the yard.

“Yeah, I came pretty close. It was that obvious, huh?” Raphie blushes and grunts, as he tries to piss through his rock-hard cock.

“That kind of protectiveness can only come from love, Raph. A friend would have shrugged it off. So what if a man calls his son a faggot? It’s bad form, but nothing more. Certainly not fighting words.”

“Think I should apologize to Joey?”

“I think it would be good for the three of us to sit down and have a talk. Maybe, we could take him to Bales Lake. What do you think?”

“Sounds good.” Raph’s eyebrows shoot up, when there’s a short bang on the door.

“Let me in, please.” Joey’s loud whisper tells us that he’s in pain.

“The door’s open, Dad.” I chuckle.

He appears without a stitch and sporting not quite a boner. “Gotta piss; gotta piss, quick!”

Raphie jumps up, surrendering the throne, gawking at my dad’s semi-erect prick. In fact, it looks a lot like my own, except that he’s not circumcised and his foreskin hides the upper half of his glans.

“Ah, you’re a prince, Son.” And the long and heart-felt stream tells us that it’s in the nick of time.

“We were thinking about going down to Bales Lake with a picnic.” I tell Dad, whose face is expressing the joy of relief. “And we wanted to take you along. What do you think?”

“If yus just want a lift, yus don’t need me taggin’ along.”

“No, we’re going to walk. We want your company, not your car.” I exclaim a little too acrimoniously from the bathtub and decide to get out, since a chill is setting in. I towel off and Raphie gets in.

Dad smiles at me, as if to say he’s sorry. “Would love to, Lads.”

I dress and go downstairs to locate Mother, leaving Raphie and Dad to wash. She’s nowhere to be found, but the message on her Big Chief tablet reads, ‘Church’ and ‘kitchen needs cleaning’. I look out back to confirm that the Impala is, in fact, gone.

Hope she gets pulled over. Wonder how she’d explain the nickel bag under the seat. I laugh to myself at the image of Mildred and Alma Mae Bottemly getting busted, subliminally willing it to happen. At that moment, I can’t think of any two more deserving individuals.

I run upstairs to see what I should get at Achety’s to make sandwiches with. And I discover my father and my lover sitting on my bed, talking, albeit both fully clothed. The first thought that shoots through my mind is, ‘Wonder if Joey realizes that he’s sitting on a pool of my dried semen?’, and the second thought is, ‘Wonder if he’d care?’.

They both look serious but expectantly at me when I crest the stairs. “Was just wondering what you want for the picnic.”

Dad reaches for his wallet. “Don’t. We’ve still got most of the ten dollars you gave us the other day. Just tell me what you want.”

Dad looks at a loss for words; Raphie takes charge: “Pastrami and Swiss cheese, Fritos and dip, Royal Crown, maybe, if they have it cold. If not we can take a jug of iced water.”

“Sounds good.” Dad nods. I wonder what’s happened. He’s not usually this quiet. “Are you okay?”

“Sure. Hurry back.”

When I return, I remember that yesterday was Mom’s birthday. So, I ask Dad, who’s in the kitchen with Raphie washing dishes from last night, if he’s taking the day off work in order to do something with Mom.

“That was the plan.” He sounds hurt. “But yesterday she was depressed and in bed. And today she’d rather be at Greendale Baptist, doin’ good.”

I set the brown-paper sack on the counter and unpack the makings for our lunch. The three 16-ounce bottles of Royal Crown are cold and sweaty, dampening, weakening the paper of the sack. I put them into the refrigerator to keep cold and toss the sack into the trash. “Is rye bread alright?”

“The best” replies Joey as if to indicate, that there is absolutely no other kind suitable for a sandwich.

I wrap the sandwiches in waxed paper and put them into the wicker basket along with the Fritos and pasteboard carton of sour-cream and onion dip. Raphie retrieves the bottles from the refrigerator and wraps them in newspaper to keep them chilled. “Have we got everything?”

“What about dessert?” Dad wants to know.

I grin and go to my stash. “Got it.”

As I secure the front door, I hear the back door open and the voice of Busby bellow at Dad: “God-damn it, I told him that his privileges are suspended.”

I rush toward the kitchen, putting the cellophane bag into my shirt pocket: “No, god-damn it, you did not! You told your mother that my privileges are suspended! You didn’t tell me jack shit! And a good morning to you, too.”

“Where’s the car?” He now sounds marginally less aggressive.

“Mother has it. Celebrating her belated birthday with her Baptist friends, I suppose. Forgot to suspend her privileges, too, did you?” I laugh at him, making his self-important, flabby face turn scarlet.

Dad sighs: “We’d better be off, then.”

“Where to?” Busby inquires in his usual manner, making any simple question sound intrusively rude.

“To the park.” Dad sighs again.

“Why aren’t you at work and Daniel in school?”

Dad looks at Raphie and me, smiles artfully and slowly turns his head toward his eldest son: “You know, Busby? That is none of your feckin’ business. So, would ya ever piss off?”

Once Busby huffs and puffs and blows retreat, Dad says under his breath: “Would turn that wee fecker over me knee, I would, if I weren’t afraid of gettin’ a hernia.”

The first to laugh is Raphie, and, although I know that Dad means every word of it, I eventually join in. Joey finally chuckles shaking his head, puts on his black Kansas City Athletics’ baseball cap, picks up the basket, and I lock the back door.