Journal of Ricky the Perv

The Journal of Ricky the Perv (t, t, t [sort of] -- adult language, minimal sex)

The underlying is ADULT FICTION. It is a made up story. No characters contained in it are real or bear any resemblance to real people, living or dead.

It should not be read by minors or miners or others not empowered to do so by the laws in their communities.

Comments to: SLSW@AOL.COM

Many thanks to Jon Mark in deepest GA for his encouragement and patience. You're a Perv, Dude, and I mean that in the finest sense of the word.

My name is not Rick. But I'm not going to tell you what it is. I am the dayshift cleaning supervisor at one of the Holiday Inns in the one of the desert towns of California. But I'm not going to tell you which one.

What I will tell you is that a floppy disk was left in one of our rooms about 2 months ago. The maids don't remember which one, or they'll only tell me in Spanish -- they have a conspiracy. I'm a computer junky so I tried to open the file to see whose it was. So we could return it, see. So, it took me a really long time to crack the code. So when I did, this is what I saw. There's no hope of getting it back to its rightful owner. No last names are mentioned anywhere and we've had a hell of a lot of Rick's stay at the hotel. Richard's, Bobby's and Jason's too. I don't remember too many Hondo's but I don't think this is his. For a long time I couldn't think what to do with it. Except read it. It's pretty disorganized and real wordy. But kind of interesting in places. Kinda sad, kinda funny. Makes me feel for the little fag guy who wrote it, at least a little bit.

I haven't got all the chapters open yet, they all have separate passwords and guessing them is a bitch. This one's is "Perv".

So, anyway, I'm sending it to you because the day desk clerk, who's a fag too, but nice, says that's where all the gay fiction goes (he doesn't like when I call it fag). I'm not sure it's fiction but here it is anyway.

Let me know if you want me to send you the rest. OK, that is sort of dumb. Considering I won't tell you my name. I'll send it to you when I can open the files. If I can.

"The Journal of Rick(y) the Perv"

I'm starting this little Journal after thinking about it for two years. Every time something particularly weird or sexy or just interesting happens to me or my buds, I think: I've got to get this down. Then there are things to do, herb to test, butts to wag (more on this, I promise) or chill time to serve and I never get around to it.

Well, something happened.... And I'm finally at the laptop in a Holiday Inn room, it's raining and I'm starting. Don't know if I'll ever finish or even keep going but here goes...

In re: Rick, the Man.

My name is Rick. I'm 19 years old (don't look it), 5' 9", skinny with just the recent start of pecs and abs. But I have good legs and a Fabulous Ass (at least Jason says so). My name is Spanish but nobody I know speaks it. I live in Los Angeles, CA which is a hellhole on earth (we're not on the beach, in the hills or any other good place). But I'm never there; which is good. While I'm being so forthright with you, Journal, I'll say that I'm smooth, slim hipped, energetic and MUCH smarter than I look. I have a really big dick called Little Ricky (you think "Lucy" isn't on reruns?) and I'm a practicing, almost 100 percent Homo, bisexual. I am NOT a virgin.

I also have a really big nose. Maybe that's where Little Ricky comes from.

I work with three buds. Their names are Jason, Tommy and Bobby and I'll write more about them later. We travel all over the USA and karaoke sing and wag our asses in front of little girls at Shopping Malls. We are not Pervs (well, I am but not because of this) and we never get arrested. We are hired by large, greasy, stinky guys (Management) to do just that. Our job is to make little girls wet their panties in public places. I thought it sounded like a good deal when I first heard about it.

I have a BMW, nice clothes, a little nest-egg and an extremely limited future in my chosen profession. I'm not sure why. I'm not sure I care. Only Jason really cares; the only reason I care at all is that his pain quickly becomes mine. We're buds.

In re: my Fabulous Ass

Journal, did I say I'm skinny? I am. But I love to dance. I've been dancing with neighborhood girls since I was nine. Don't think I didn't take some shit for that; at least until the other guys' hormones caught up with them. Dancing is funny. It does nothing for your upper body but, wow, without even exercising you get strong legs and a Fabulous Ass. It's one of the three most valuable things I own. The other two are the Beemer, and Little Ricky (well, maybe not in that order.) I only keep mentioning it because it is a central character in the saga that will (might) follow. Yeah, it's going to be that kind of story. But since you're a Journal on a computer, you can't make moral judgements. So Fuck You.

Think I'll quit now, I think I hear Bobby knocking on the communicating door. Spell check, grammar check and save. **************************** Shit! Grammar checker has more morals than the Prez. It tells me that I shouldn't capitalize "Fabulous Ass" and that I can't write "Fuck You". I beg to differ. I OWN you, goddamn it. There, I CAN sound like Management. Later....

Day 2 (actually day 4 -- this is a hard habit to acquire)

The Story of the Start of he Journal

I'm a Perv. There, I said it. I'm a Perv who really likes leather pants. I used to wear them when we performed. The reason I started to wear them and, more important, the reason I stopped is the reason I'm writing this Journal. It's your conception, baby. So pay attention. And hold off that snarling weasel, grammar checker.

I was a pretty good student when the idea of a singing group first came up. I sang in the (Catholic) church choir. I danced with anyone who would dance with me. I actually had a bunch of good friends even though I was a little latent Homo. I went out with girls and I even fucked a couple (told you, Journal -- almost 100 percent). In general, they ignored my skinniness and big honker and concentrated on my personality (hey, I'm likeable), Little Ricky and my Fabulous Ass. Did I tell you I used to get pinched in the halls? In return, I ignored their giggles and flabby butts and their lack of dicks and concentrated on the decent head and, you know, a pussy does sort of feel good -- loose but good. Course I was a Homo virgin then so I didn't know any better.

Then the BoyBand audition thing came up. I wasn't all that enthusiastic about leaving school, living with a bunch of straight guys in a bus -- Christ, gym's hard enough --, and touring every Bo-hunk, redneck town in the US of A. By this time I was pretty sure I wanted to lose myself at college and play around with my roommate. I didn't even contemplate that he might not be attracted to me or might not be gay or might not be out. I was sixteen and full of needs and hormones. I didn't want to be in a BoyBand. Besides, it wasn't going to be a band anyway -- nobody played any instruments. Just sang (lip-synced) and danced (not very well, mostly just wagged their butts). The only qualifications I had to be in a BoyBand were that I was a boy and I could sing and dance. Come to think of it, I was more qualified than a lot of those guys.

Then Jason came over one day and talked me into auditioning with him. Jason was a good friend from forever. We hooked school together (and served time for it... after, together), got high together, got laid together (once), laughed together, even did homework together if we had to. Jason protected me when I needed protection (which wasn't very often, Journal, even though I was skinny); he was big and strong and knew how to fight. When the time came for him to be interested, I quietly taught him how to dance. He was sort of clumsy but eventually he got the moves. After a while I even stopped thinking of Godzilla on speed when I watched him dance ... Most of the time, anyway. Anyway Jason and I were buds. No queer shit. He wasn't like that. I valued him. I trusted him. I owed him. Let's be honest here, Journal, I wouldn't have minded if he boned me. Not that I'd ever been boned. The Internet said it hurt... a lot. I didn't even have a pierced ear because I don't like pain. Lucky he's straight...

Anyway, Jason convinced me to go to an audition for a BoyBand-in-the-making with him. Two weeks from Saturday. I knew he could sing since he was in the choir with me. I knew he could sort of dance since I'd taught him. But, it wasn't one of my most shining accomplishments.

We thought we'd better practice some (or a whole fucking LOT) beforehand so Jason came over to my house a lot for the next two weeks. Jason knew my older brother Hondo who was a senior. They'd played street hockey together for years; they were both big dudes and bashed the shit out of the dweebs on the other side. And enjoyed the hell out of it. So when those two got together in a house with little me, I was bound to absorb a large ration of shit. Nothing physical (except pillow thumps and tickling [Goddamn!] and the dreaded noogie) but I got teased unmercifully. Especially when we were practicing our dance routine. Luckily, I liked both of them enough to put up with it.

I had got some videos of the Backstreet Boys and we were trying to copy some of their moves. Jason was almost hopeless. But we worked real hard anyway. He and Hondo would break into fits of laughter when I hollered "Thrust It Out, Goddammit!" and pushed my hips out, motioning for Jason to follow. We WERE getting there slowly and I figured in about four months we'd be ready for the audition. We had three days left.

Two days before the audition Jason produced some righteous herb at our second break. We went out into the backyard to test it for potency in a purely scientific procedure. Hondo, of course, showed up about 30 seconds after we fired up. The DEA doesn't need helicopters and dogs, Hondo on a good day can tell if you're packing from two miles away. Of course, he says he's only mooching to make sure we weren't ripped off by the evil dealers. What the hell, we had enough and Hondo was cool when he was ripped. So we tested and tested again and decided that the potency was pretty fucking good. But, just to make sure...

Then Jason started getting paranoid about what we would wear to the audition. I said to look real close at the Backstreet Boys video. Some old tracksuits would be fine, thank you very much. Then Hondo arose from his blissful repose to Change My Life.

"I know what you should wear, Ricky," he said with an evil and bloodshot gleam in his eye.

"My name's, Rick, Hondo! Ricky's the name of my dick. It's Little Ricky and proud of it", I replied, tempting fate (did I say Hondo was BIG, Journal? And he's the Tickle Torture King of the Universe.). I also knew, right after I said it that I was revealing much more information than I should have. JASON!

I expected at least a major ration of shit for this last remark. But this was pretty fine dope and all that happened was that Hondo continued, course unchanged.

"How about your Triple L's'? Bout time you got some REAL use out of them."

Now this was a MAJOR breach of brotherly trust (it stood for `Little Leather Leotards' and it was private, way PRIVATE!). Even on three joints I wouldn't expect Hondo to reach so far back in my personal closet. Literally and figuratively. I mean WE knew. But, FUCK...! Christ, JASON'S here.

Shouldn't have had that fourth J. No, not atoll.

Although Jason didn't notice the innuendoes hovering about like Apache gunships, he did demand a translation (which Hondo grinningly supplied) and then he wanted to see the pants. Deeper and deeper, Journal.

I pleaded that they didn't fit and weren't in fashion and I didn't know where they were. And, to make a long story short -- I'm tired of typing, Journal -- I had to go upstairs, go to the very bowels of my closet and bring out the pair of leather jeans I got when I was 14 (more about this later, for now just think "Backbeat"), squeeze into them and hobble downstairs. I was wondering if California Workman's Comp covered nad injuries due to tight trou'. Sometimes it really doesn't pay to be well hung. Nah...that ain't true. No, not atoll.

Anyway, by the time I got downstairs and into the backyard, I could have forgotten all about it. Hondo and Jason were listening to the music of the spheres, spaced beyond recall. If I hadn't fallen on my ass trying to avoid a lawn chair in my straight-jacket pants, they never would have seen me.

But fall I did. And the accompanying cacophony of falling lawn chair, table, ashtray and soda bottles put me on center stage with an irised spot. I slowly got up to run (hobble) away when Jason said those fateful words, "Fabulous Ass, Dude!" He capitalized them just like that so don't give me any shit, grammar checker.

Do I need to say what I wore to the audition?

Think I'll quit now, I know I hear Bobby knocking on the communicating door. And he sounds horny as hell. Spell check, grammar check and save. *********************** Shit: Grammar checker still doesn't like my capitalization. It also doesn't like "nad". I know what I mean and if you had any and I squeezed them real hard you'd know too. Fuck You! Jesus, I just noticed that I still haven't gotten to the reason I started the Journal. Well, it'll be a while because I have to explain "Backbeat" first. Later...

Day 5 (day 6 actually -- I'm getting better)

We're in another shit town but still in a Holiday Inn. Still the same low shower head. I mean, I'm only 5'9" and it's low for me. What about normal people?

The problem with writing things down, Journal, is that you can read them over afterwards. Then you see that you lied. Or left the wrong impression. Or screwed up in a thousand ways that scumsucker grammar checker can't find. So I'd better correct some of the above before you don't believe me any more.

In re: Lies

There aren't too many outright lies above. I guess that the biggest was the title for the start of Day 2 (actually 4). It wasn't about the start of the Journal; it was more like my Fabulous Ass II. I don't want you to get the wrong impression. I am NOT conceited about my ass. Well, not a whole lot anyway. I've brought it to your attention, Journal, because it is so important to the story that I'm going to tell. If I ever get around to telling it. But I'm going to give in to the asshole grammar checker and not use caps any more. I mean, it's a machine and has more endurance than I do especially after shaking my ass (there, I gave up "Fabulous" too but you know what I mean) at a Mall all day. God, that's tiring and boring and Frustrating.

The other lie is the quotes in our conversation in the backyard. I, for one, was much too fucked up to report anything with quotes (except Jason's "FA" statement -- and I'm only sure about that because it became a running joke with Hondo, Jason and me.) Something was said that made the outcome come out the way it did (yeah, I read that sentence and yeah, I've been testing again -- SFW, Journal.)

In re: Wrong Impressions

There's a lot more meat here.

The first is Little Ricky. He's eight and three sixteenths inches long which I know is not the biggest dick on earth. Shit, I've seen Johnny Wadd, too. But the fact that I have big balls and Ricky's real fat and doesn't go down a whole lot when he's "soft" have given me a reputation since I was 12 going on 13. I mean, the bulge is way impressive.

The second is Jason. More specifically, my relationship with Jason. I really did have a major thing for the guy. For a long time. So while he thought we were buds, I thought we were soul mates waiting to happen. And waiting, and waiting. But, you're right, Journal, I didn't spend all that time helping my other clunky friends learn to do things. And I certainly wouldn't audition for a BoyBand for THEM. "Just a Little, Latent Homo..." isn't that a song by somebody? No. Not atoll. Ok, Journal, you're probably wondering where that came from. I use it a lot. It's from "Buckaroo Banzai" my favorite movie of all time (almost -- see "Backbeat" further down the road.) It's about this famous scientist, brain surgeon and Rock `n Roller who never plays Shopping Malls. Ever! And Perfect Tommy wears really tight pants.

The third is what I wore to the audition. Obviously I couldn't dance in pants I could hardly walk in. But Jason got it into his (thoroughly zoned) head that I looked "real good" in them and it would help at the audition. After I got over Hondo slipping up on one of my most secret Pervs, I compromised with them. I'd get a new pair that fit. But I wasn't paying. No. Not atoll. Shit if Hondo didn't pull out his Visa and drive us to Downtown. Same store we went two years ago. With me modeling and Hondo and Jason critiquing and all of us blasted, it was an afternoon in the city to remember. Except I don't, real clear. We had fun and I probably revealed a few more secrets to Jason; Hondo already knew all my secrets. All those secrets that a 16 year old Homo virgin can have.

Which brings us to the fourth:

In re: Hondo (this will eventually bring us to "Backbeat" and then, finally, to the topic at hand (well it was supposed to be), The Origin of You, Journal.

Hondo was two and a half years older than me and just about the best brother a guy could have. At one time he was huge. Then as I got older, he became merely big. And built. And popular. And straight (this didn't matter `til later but he always was). I can't remember one time when he picked on me. This is damn unusual where I come from. Most guys I knew had the "brother from hell" but somehow I lucked out.

Not only did he not beat and tease me like an ordinary brother; he helped me with everything. Hondo taught me to tie my shoes. To spell "Mississippi" (he sang it). To hit a ball. To ride a bike (both kinds, actually). To blade. To understand when hair started to sprout around Little Ricky (and he was, then) when I was in sixth grade (way early bloomer, Journal). Yeah, I got my Sex Education class from my big bro. But, NOTHING HAPPENED, you Perv. Hondo wasn't like that. He really wasn't. To this day if I had to trust my life, my balls and my sacred honor to someone, it would be Hondo... No contest.

So it made perfect sense to a thirteen and a half year old Ricky (me, not my dick -- I was Ricky back then) to report the strange and frightening hormone driven episodes that were beginning to plague my waking and sleeping world to my 16 year old brother. Hondo took all of them in stride. Even the ones that labeled me a flaming faggot like sporting wood in Gym (which was a really big problem now that Little Ricky belied his name). He gave me real information like about the Homo phase all guys go thru (almost all -- Hondo didn't remember his). He gave me wise advice like don't look' and take cold showers in Gym'. He added long- division-in-my-head to my list of remedies. Then he brought out the big guns (Right!) and said I should probably jerk off more. Who was I to question?

It worked for a while. By 14, I was even going out with girls. And I hadn't sprouted wood in the locker room for a long time. I was well on my way to statistical normalcy. Hondo, who by now looked like a Greek statue because of the weights and the sports, remained my confessor and advisor but I didn't need his services that often. I was still skinny but was dancing like mad and I started to get anonymous butt pinches in the hall at school (the main stairs were the worst.) They really spooked me. Some of them hurt... bad. And left marks. Gym could sometimes be a problem again but now for a different reason. Hondo commiserated but really didn't have a solution. His suggestion of iron underwear was voted down.

But for the most part things were cool. I learned to test hemp. Hondo taught me this necessary skill. I got to second base. Hondo approved but was not a participant. I had good friends (Jason's here by now). I did well in school. I went to the movies a lot. On dates and with buds. And that was my downfall. See, Journal, I told you we would get to "Backbeat". And I'm always right, and I never lie...

There's Bobby on the communicating door again. Man, he smells horny right through the door. Gotta go... Spell check, grammar check and save. **************** I got that grammar checker by the balls, man. I even snuck "FA" past its dead ass. Later...

Day 7 (really! -- I'm so good)

We're on the bus tonight and the only place I can do this is in the lounge out back. I'll have to watch myself because the table and the laptop are bouncing like crazy and any time Bobby feels the urge, he can come back and "pinch my titties"(he's such a romantic), tell me a "joke" about Polish sausage and I'm gone. In case you haven't guessed by now, I have a 17 year old lover who I haven't said a whole lot about, yet. That's because he hasn't fit into the logical progression of this saga. Don't give me that; there's logic and there's LOGIC. Then there's you, Journal. And I have final say. Then there's that grammar check dude who fucks over both of us.

Anyway, call to order.

In re: Lies

None in Day 5(6) that matter very much.

In re: Wrong Impressions

Nothing major.

If you don't understand why I went on so about Hondo, you will eventually.

Boners in Gym. To my knowledge, I never got caught. They were really like half-boners anyway. The kind where YOU know you're sprouting wood but you catch it or hide it before you're dripping pre-cum on the floor (eeeewwwwuuuueeee -- but you know what I mean).

Sleeping episodes. Wet dreams, dude. Really messy and sometimes vivid wet dreams. And not all of them featured tits and pussy. Well, at least not female tits.

But all this was behind me now until:

In re: Sep 16, 1994 -- I see "Backbeat" for the first time (`Bout fucking time! Chill, Journal, I am your GOD!)

I'm fourteen and a half. Short, skinny and developed below the waist in a whole lot of ways. Almost experienced, accepted, straight (well nearly) and happy. Then I went with some buds to see a movie at our local fifth run multiplex. "Backbeat". In case you don't know, Journal, it was a movie about the early Beatles. Quite popular in those days. Lots of tits and ass and some serious simulated fucking. The only reason we got in was that Jason played hockey with the usher so we could buy tickets to some PG trash and actually see "Backbeat".

But it wasn't a movie about John and Paul and those other guys but about someone named Sutcliff(e) who could have been in the band but chose not to. He was played by Stephan Dorff and, in a way, I lost my Homo virginity to him that afternoon in the dark theater.

Almost immediately I was captivated by his presence. I never thought to challenge my gut reaction, he was achingly, heartstoppingly beautiful. Thin, slim hipped, clear skinned (I never had zits), FA, self-possessed, yeah, I identified with him a little. On the other hand, he had pecs -- hairy, little ones but really defined, a cute little nose AND he was getting real action every other scene. So the identity meld only stretched so far.

About halfway into the movie, I slouched down in my seat and decided: 1) he was too gorgeous for words and 2) all those Homo feelings?... "We're baaaaaack.." I knew I should be really worried but between gripping the armrest and starring at the big screen, I didn't have the time. Every time he walked or kissed or hugged or fucked I became more conscious of his beauty. My first crush and it happened in a dark theater and the crushee was on the screen, not in the seat next to me.

Then one hour and sixteen minutes (I bought the video later) into the film, Stephan Dorff is sitting in a huge elegant hall interviewing to get into some school and you see the profile of his FA in his leather pants. The whole scene lasts only about two and a half minutes but in those minutes, Little Ricky had the time to throb, throb harder, vibrate with need and erupt. Like Mount St. Helens, like that place in Hawaii, like "how the FUCK am I going to get out of the theater!" Man, I was oozing. There was no way that my buds weren't going to notice. Most psychiatrists say it takes years of therapy to find the origin of a fetish... I know where mine came from. But to this day I don't know why. I'd never reacted before. Was it just some fluke of timing? Could I have cum a little earlier and got a hard on forever-after about body painting with a girl? Don't know but right then I had more vital things on my mind like: Gotta get a cover! Just gotta! The blond, what was her fucking name! We saw her tits! I've been hard up. The devil made me do it. Gotta get a cover!

That's when I got fixated, Sep 16,1994. That's when I became Ricky the Perv. But I didn't have a clue for the next couple of weeks and I really didn't believe it for a couple of years. And five years later I still can't believe it's true. But it is, Journal, it is.

Well, anti-climax. With the aid of my popcorn tub, my jacket and the fact that it was getting pretty dark when we left, I escaped undetected. I thought. Jason was making sniffing noises but he probably had a cold. I did overhear him mention Clorox, but he was probably talking about washing clothes.

I entered our house quietly, talked to no one, went right to my room. Assessed the damage, bigtime mess, Christ, I even got my belt! I cleaned what I could and buried the jeans and briefs in the bottom of the laundry. Shirt too. This was like cleaning up after a mudslide. I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling. All night. Well most of it. I was scared and disgusted and mortified. I thought this was OVER! Strangely, I thought about having to confess my sins, this sin. Weird, I hadn't been to confession since I was 12. Hell, Christmas but you never confess any REAL sins at Christmas. Easter either.

The only thing I decided that night was that this was an aberration. I hadn't been jacking as regularly as I should, like Hondo told me. Only morning and night. I was forgetting about the all-important Noon hour. Maybe right after school. Then there was morning break. I'll work on those, then try it again. Bet it doesn't happen again. If it does, I'll have to talk to Hondo. He'll know what to do...

This isn't over but there's a cute, blond skater guy twisting my nips like the knobs on a video game. He looks like he's about to talk about sausages. I'll tell you more about him sometime. Spell check, grammar check and save. ************** Fuck it; I'm too horny to complain about grammar checker, tonight. But, that fucker does piss me off. Later...

Day 8 (alright, 9, we had a party with some pathetic groupies yesterday)

OK, Journal, this could be a long one. Did I mention that Bobby's 17? Well he is and he has to go home almost every weekend and take tests and shit for High School. I had to do it too, when I hadn't graduated. We all know this shit can't last and we'll have to get real jobs. Maybe we'll even go to college and I'll finally get to make out with my roommate. Then my roommate could be Bobby; because of this band junk we'd both be freshmen together. Random thought: we AREN'T a band, goddamn it. Well, we DID sound pretty good one night in Kalamazoo, MI when we had all tested some truly noble hemp and played our kazoos until Management put in a thoroughly unpleasant appearance (Gorilla City, man). You know the sorry part about all this is that we CAN sing. And we can dance too... well, Jason tries, really hard... We're actually damn good. Shit! I'll never get to the important parts if I start moping. Man, you can sure tell that Bobby's gone. Just me and Little Ricky here in a Quality Inn. The Holiday was booked but it means we get regular showers which squirt down on your head instead of up on your chest. Did I mention than I'm finally developing pecs? Look out, Stephan Dorff! No hair and I'll probably never get any. Hondo still doesn't have any and, at 22, he's getting to be a pretty old fuck.

OK, I sort of like the format I've adopted where I read and correct what I've written. It's just like the Congressional Record. Right? No. Not atoll.

Call to order.

In re: Lies

I don't know if it really counts as a lie or not but I did NOT lose my Homo virginity to Stephan Dorff. Wish I had... then again, maybe not. He sure seemed straight in that movie. He'd probably just whip my butt with his developed little hairy pecs (yeah, I did notice something other than his FA in leather). Did I tell you, Journal, that I don't like pain? Anyway, there really was this series of patterns of colored light on a reflectorized screen that triggered some sort of sexual epilepsy in my hormone-crazed body and I creamed my jeans (and shirt and belt -- shit!). I never really met the dude, ever. And my virginity remained intact. Now that's the truth.

One other BIG one: Jason KNEW. Christ, I was sitting right next to him. And I bet I at least sighed when half my body weight came bursting out in the form of smelly, steaming ooze. And he probably knew from when I did it that the hetero fucking wasn't the cause. But Jason was a bud. Even back then. And buds don't nark. They tease, but they don't nark. Why did I say that I got away with it? Cause I wanted to so bad at that time that I convinced myself that I did. I didn't allow myself to think about Jason's knowledge for many, many months. To this day, I have never asked him to his face. Don't you dare say, "Wuzz", Journal! Or, so help me, no more truth.

In re: Wrong Impressions

One major one and a couple of minor.

The first and major one is that I reflected on my imprinting at the time I was imprinted (Conrad Lorenz, Journal, see, I do read, even on tour; I told you I was smarter than I look). Ain't true. No. Not atoll. My ONLY reaction was desperation not to get caught. Any reflection came weeks (months/years) later. I just wanted to get out of that theater with my reputation, such as it was, intact.

The second is that I don't have parents. I know that I never mentioned them. That's really why I'm afraid, Journal, that you would assume that I was an orphan. My parents were (are) good people. And they're both very much alive. We always lived pretty good. I mean, I didn't get that summer in Europe I always wanted (joke, Journal), but we were never short of money for any necessary and, frankly, many frivolous things as we grew up. To do this, both my parents worked for about as long as I can remember. Full time. Of course, Hondo set an early standard of both independence and intelligence (Hondo, again. Don't worry he'll show up lots more.) So it happened that when I scraped my knee, it was usually Hondo with the Bactine and bandage. Not my Mom, not day-care, not a babysitter. My parents DID set up the rules for living. Good grades, no fighting, in by Midnight (10 on school nights), no cops -- ever! And, yes, some of them were arbitrary -- like no skinny dipping in the pool even when no one is around (NOT ME, Journal! Hondo, in one of his rare lapses and the grumpy old lady on the next street over). Anyway, I do have parents and they are good and thoughtful and loving people. And I'm sad that to this day, they don't know I'm a Perv. I just don't know them well enough to tell them.

The third is about the behavior of Little Ricky during "Backbeat". He did NOT just rear up and shoot one hour and sixteen minutes into the movie. He had reared up 30 or so minutes before during one of the hetero scenes, thank God. Because when Little Ricky really gets the urge, there's a LOT of squirming and adjusting and re-adjusting to do. I mean, he ain't small and pants were tighter back then and we wore Jockeys. Luckily, it was getting to everyone about the same time and Jason was doing his own adjusting at just about the same time. So there was nothing to notice. Little Ricky just never went down again. Until the flood.

The fourth is that Hondo was around all the time. He wasn't. By this time Hondo was 16 going on 17 and what with sports, friends, girlfriends and other screwing around (Testing has to fit in somewhere here; he was an episodic but quite enthusiastic Stoner) you could count on him being around 3 times a day. Meals, he ate a LOT and couldn't possible afford to buy all that food himself. Not if he wanted to pay the insurance and gas for his junker car and his cool-as-shit motor bike. Study Time, right after dinner for two full hours, no cheating with TV or music or telephone (parental rule of living -- ironclad -- every school night, Monday thru Thursday and Sunday too). I also suffered under this cruel yoke of iron. It's where I learned to like to read. And Weight Time, the hour after Study Time on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Sundays. It was during Weight Time that I most often consulted with him on the problems of the hour. Watching him sweat and grunt and grow to awesome proportions, I grew up absorbing wisdom, being comforted in affliction and shooting the shit -- I wasn't THAT afflicted, Journal, gimme a break. He could be around at almost any other time but he mostly wasn't. Two things of note. One: during all my High School trials and Pervy-sexual crises, til Hondo went away to college, Little Ricky never once got out of line during Weight Time. He didn't even try and I didn't even think about it. And Two: I never attempted to lift with Hondo or with anyone else (til Bobby) -- the pain thing, remember, Journal?. I never even thought about it. Oh, yeah, Journal. Hondo did sleep in his room almost every night. But unless there was a really big fire, imminent death or breakfast was ready, right now, it was NOT politic to be in his room. So it really didn't count.

One more minor one then we'll get back to "Backbeat" and its many, many aftershocks. About beating off. I really wasn't the beat-off-king I made myself out to be before Sep 16. I did it enough to keep most of the unwanted boners in check, but it scared me a little. First, it seemed a little Pervy although Hondo said it was OK. Second, and much more important, every once in a while "those thoughts" came, unbidden, right about the point of ejaculation. Not always, not even often, but sometimes. And sometimes was enough to make me a judicious user. After Sep 16? See "Sea of Love" as part of the "Backbeat" aftershocks section below.

In re: New Review Category

Rereading this I see that I need to set up a new category, "Left Hanging". It will be an aid to memory and only a list. It means, "come back and explain this/ not clear/ not complete." It doesn't mean that I'll get to it in the entry it appears in. Most likely it means the opposite. I don't want to interrupt the flow of the story. You can quit laughing, Journal; you're not writing this, I am... ably assisted by grammar checker. The little electronic scumsucker.

In re: Left Hanging

1. "Same store we went two years ago" 2) Lasting effects of Study Time 3) "Triple L"

And now without further ado,

In re: "Backbeat" II, the Sea Of Love

Self help is the best help and I was damned if I was going to confess to Hondo (the Church was now long forgotten) what a creepy little Perv his brother had become without trying. Trying everything I knew. I had some free time at the end of Study Time and I methodically drew up The Plan.' The Plan involved mags from Jason (he had some killers), Kleenex by the gross and Vaseline Intensive Care by the gallon. We had just started to hear about a Plan by some Nazi psycho-sadist called Scared Straight (or maybe it was Boot Camp -- but that sounds like a porn mag for someone even Pervier than me -- I just don't remember, Journal) which involved marching and shoe polishing and was supposed to make you a Good Citizen. Well, look out Little Ricky, you're going to be polished til you gleam like a beacon and you're going to be Straight even if you can never raise your head again. Long ago, Dr. Pepper -- my favorite drink -- had a slogan printed on every (glass!) bottle, "10, 6, 4". This was back when soda had sugar in it. I'm not sure that anyone ever really knew what it meant but I took it to mean, "Drink it at 10 o'clock, 6 o'clock and 4 o'clock".

Little Ricky's new slogan was going to be "6, 10:30, 12, 4, 10". Guess, Journal, you ain't that dumb. I'll give you a hint on the "10:30"; morning break at our school took place at 10:30 AM.

I talked to Jason the next day at school and lined up a copious selection of gutter-low porn -- for an "Experiment" to last about two weeks. By that afternoon with no questions and a truly minimal amount of razzing, Jason provided real sleaze that wasn't sold at the Newsstand, even on the top shelf, wrapped in brown paper and shrink-wrap. An amazing assortment to be in the hands of a 14 year old boy. Who the hell was his dealer?

Step one, check.

Paper supplies and lube was as easy as a stop at the local Ralph's. But they didn't sell Intensive Care by the gallon. Turned out to be alright because I couldn't have hidden a bottle that big anyway.

Step two, check.

Now for the hard part (shut up, Journal), planning for the morning break and noon sessions. Bathroom stalls have doors. Check. Supplies of toilet paper are plentiful. Check. Lube and porn. Lube and porn. Well, uh...

There was no way I was going to carry a quart of Intensive Care and "Split Beaver Review" around school all day. Even in my backpack. Especially in my backpack considering how many times a day I emptied it on a desk trying to find something. This has GOT to be lean and mean

Well, hell, Journal, you get the idea. An all out War on Perv and I'm everything from the General to the Sub- Assistant Gunners Mate. More likely to be the latter, later. (It's a JOKE, Journal, and I know it's pretty lame)

I couldn't figure the logistics of the school jerks. The final killer was my buds. They would think something was weird if I disappeared from my usual hangouts. And they'd be right. So I settled for attempting to go two times between school and dinner.

The all out War on Perv lasted less than 72 hours. Little Ricky got a running sore on his left side that made clothes of any sort uncomfortable. And Mom's Clorox- residue-but-really-really-white Jockeys were just impossible. I couldn't go to Gym for a week and school for a day. And you know what, Journal, yeah... Stephan Dorff. And even scarier, some of Hondo's friends. And even my reflection. My FA (jeez, I KNOW the term hasn't be coined yet but I'm trying to avoid offending the electronic storm trouper) suitably encased in black showed up in my fantasies. Regardless of the mags and all the wishing and praying I could do.

I had proved to be a well and truly fucked little Perv. Sore one too. Little Ricky threatened repeatedly to roll over and die. In the meantime, he caused me some of the most grievous pain I had ever experienced. I was given to understand that his new slogan was "Never Again!"

I fell asleep in Biology the day before I stayed home. My teacher noticed, my buds noticed. And by the time I got home I had a `Command to Appear' at Weight Time. And it was Wednesday for Christ sakes. No denying, Hondo had the grapevine thing down pat.

I was too tired and sore to even worry about what I was going to say. I was also defeated by superior force. Come 9:15 I walked down to the basement calmly, resigned to my future status as a homeless outcast. I was going to miss Hondo. I was going to miss my parents. Shit, I was going to miss Study Time.

Hondo and I had a two and a half hour session. After it, I went up to bed -- didn't set the alarm, no school tomorrow.

That was probably the most intense conversation I ever had. With anybody. Ever. I honestly don't remember one even pseudo-quote, Journal.

I know I cried.

I know I told all. I know Hondo prompted me when I stumbled.

I know I even showed the damage. I know I went upstairs and got the porn mags from under the mattress.

I know I cried some more.

I know that Hondo cried. And he hugged me so tight in his big, weightlifter arms that I thought I would pass out.

And that then he took me up to bed.

And that then I felt good about myself.

And that then I slept `til noon.

But of the most important conversation of my life I don't clearly remember one thing -- except, "I love you, Little Ricky, always". See, Journal, I always lie... a little bit. Learn to deal with it.

Bummer, Journal, I've got to end it here for the night. Probably one more grim day `til Bobby gets back. Then we'll get back in the groove.

No, I don't know what happened to the mags. I never saw them again and Jason never asked me for them. And no, Journal, Hondo was NOT talking about my dick. No. Not atoll. You PERV!

Spell check, grammar check and save. ************************* What the hell, "accept all" I don't feel like screwing with you tonight. But, I hope you get bumfucked by a grizzly bear. Later...

Day 10 (10 on the money, Bobby's still at home)

We've got a "Photo Shoot" tomorrow. Management is still about half trying to get us to the bigtime. Shoots used to be a trip so remind me to tell you about them sometime. Then, we're going to be like fifth billing in a real traveling road show for two weeks. No Malls! A real back-up band so we get to actually perform. God, it's refreshing. I only wish that someone over the age of 15 would see us. Christ, I'm on a downer again and it's only 11am.

Jason came over earlier and he had THAT face. No doubt about it, he'd got laid but good -- all night... Had to, to look that happy. To my "Get any?" he replied, "Who me. Why'd you ask THAT?" with the biggest Cheshire Cat grin. Without my saying anything more, he added, "Bobby'll be back in a few hours, Rick. Try not looking like your puppy died." Then he smacked my butt and said, "Hear me, Sweet Cakes? You alright?" "Yeah, Bro... Now, since you woke it up, you want some of this FA?" I wagged my butt seductively (I'm damn good at it, Journal, I practice almost every day at the Mall.) "Later, Sweet Cakes, but don't you be telling that dumb, blond Polack". He smiled. I smiled, and he turned around, walked out and closed the door. Jason!

Jason and I have a complex relationship. Jason is still my bud. My best bud. But he also took over a lot of Hondo's duties when we went on the road. He's my advisor, confessor, sounding board, my steady rock when things look bad. He's sort of my Junior Big Bro. It doesn't matter that I'm two months older than he is. Not to Jason. He saw I needed a big brother and he became one. But he still can't Tickle Torture for shit. In times of real pain, he became more. Journal, he even had some (manual) sex with me in a bashful but loving way before me and Bobby happened. When I was lonely and depressed. On the road. Yeah, he got hard, you nosey Perv, and he came too (I ain't no slouch with someone I love.) He wanted me to be happy and he was willing to do whatever it took to get me there. Actually, I think he loves me in his own hetero, jock way. And I'm in love with him in my Pervy but I-understand-that- he's-really-straight way (there's a difference there, did you catch it, Journal?) Then Bobby showed up (I WILL tell you about him sometime, Journal, I promise) and Jason and I went back to a more Hondo-like relationship. I know he was relieved, but he DID make the effort when it counted. I still owe him. A lot.

There's always been a small sexual edge with Jason that was never there with Hondo. For instance, he would feel my butt, even grind up against it when he thought I need the encouragement. Like at photo shoots. Because he knew I liked it. But he was never hard (well, hardly ever -- even hetero studs have dry spells -- and it IS one fine ass). I would die if Hondo ever did that to me. Not that I wouldn't enjoy it; Hondo's way prime. But because it would be so out of character. I guess there are degrees to straightness just like there are to Perviness. Writing you, Journal, IS making me examine things that I know by instinct but don't understand. Maybe that's why I'm still at it. In spite of the electronic thought police. You should see what he did yesterday when I gave him his head. I'll NEVER "Accept All" again!

I'll tell you two more things about Jason before we get back to our story (can you even remember what the story's about?). Jason has a way with words born of his directness, his honesty and his good heart. He, of course, coined "FA" and uses it to this day whenever it fits, cause he knows that, deep down, I like it. He also coined, "Ricky the Perv". Nah, that's not mine, Journal. And when he said it for the first time, I couldn't take offence or be hurt or have any other unhappy feeling because he said it with deepest affection -- a total acceptance of things as they are. An acceptance of me.

And the other thing? I bet you two FA's to one grammar checker, Journal, that he'll wander over about 1:30 and tell me he's so hungry he could eat a dick (and I'll reply that he came to the right place; all you can eat, bro, right here -- nah, the teasing will NEVER end). And we'll go out to lunch and Jason will have found something to do in this shit town that will take all afternoon. Then we'll have dinner. He'll probably eat half a cow. Then Bobby will be back in two hours and Jason will fade into the background because he knows I won't be lonely anymore. Sensitive, thoughtful and straight, how the Christ did I ever find him? He defines "bud", man, and I love him. Hope he gets laid tonight, too... All night.

Call to order.

In re: Lies

None that I did. A few that grammar checker committed but I WILL NOT be responsible for the little electronic scumbag.

In re: Wrong Impressions

One major and two minor ones.

The Beat-Your-Way-to-Straightness story sounds made up. OK, I admit it sounds improbable and I did embellish is a little (I only bought one extra box of tissues) but it's basically true. You can't believe how desperate I was. And with all I say about Hondo, Journal, I'm not sure I can ever convince you what a huge influence his every word had on me. When I was 14, he was my archetype (pretty neat word for "ideal model", Journal). In many ways he still is though I know that it can't be... I'm a Perv, for Christ's sake. Anyhow, if Hondo said I should beat my meat more, even if it was months before and in another context, beat it I would, and did. To an actual bloody pulp. I think, but I'm not sure, that fact, together with the angry evidence on my dick is what made Hondo cry. I never saw him cry before or after that night. Even when he broke his collar bone in Street Hockey, even at his wedding (yeah, Journal, he's an old married fuck now). I try to be like him in at least this respect but you'll see below that I still had one more river to cross. I stand by my story. I've still got the ruled paper with the schedule on it. 6...10:30...

I've got the same name as my dick. Not true. I named my dick "Little Ricky" sometime in sixth grade. No one had ever called ME that except Hondo. And he only called me that when I was really little and hurt like the time I broke my arm. I was "Ricky" thru age fifteen and fought for "Rick" with mixed success at age 16 and after. Some people (Mom, Hondo, Jason come to mind) still call me "Ricky" when they're annoyed or pressed for time (Bobby uses it when he wants "More Power" since he knows that it stirs me up). But no, except for that one night of cosmic unification with Hondo (where there was absolutely no confusion), "Little Ricky" has always been the junior member below the belt. Even my Mom uses it. Like when the picture came out in the bopper mag of me with a MAJOR hang to the left in my leather jeans, Mom wanted to know why I couldn't "tuck in" Little Ricky. I never told her that they WANT you big so they can sell the mags -- Management even offered me a "fluffer" at that shoot; I didn't know what one was. I found out later. Talk about Perv!

Hondo accepted my total Perviness after THAT night. Not true. Hondo accepted me, his brother, without reservation and with love. Hell, he always had. But, I was still quite capable of distressing him with Pervy actions or words. I found a general rule of thumb later: If Hondo made jokes about it, he had accepted it as "normal". He became more accepting very quickly. But I could still shock him as you'll see, Journal, in "Backbeat" III, The Last Time I Cried in Public, below.

In re: Left Hanging

1. Photo shoots 2) Jason knows 3) Bobby

And now for our Feature Presentation (which will probably be interrupted by Jason and Bobby in that order)

In re: "Backbeat" III, The Last Time I Cried in Public.

Things were a whole lot better for a while. I couldn't/wouldn't go public. But I always had a brother in my back pocket who knew the real me and loved me anyway. As a result of That Night, Hondo and I decided that we should have a running discussion of what was happening in my head and my loins. And that NOTHING was out of bounds. Further, I was to execute no `Plan' without a serious, prior discussion. Little Ricky eventually decided it was safe to come out of hiding.

The first matter on the table was how Pervy was I? I really didn't know. Girls didn't disgust me, in fact I liked a lot of them. We thoroughly reviewed all the mechanics of sex with the opposite sex (which leads me to state, Journal, that I had little or no idea of the mechanics of sex with the same sex) and nothing seemed too grotesque. Then we made a list of girls and guys who made me hot. The guy list was pretty small: Stephan Dorff (how could I deny it, but Hondo still wanted to know what grade he was in and what school), Jason (Hondo, knowing a clear and present danger when he saw one said, "Be careful, Ricky"), two guys from Gym. Hondo actually asked if HE turned me on. I answered, truthfully, "No" but I couldn't explain why (probably because I didn't know). I don't think he believed me but he never modified his behavior towards me. And I think he did believe me later.

Surprise statistic, sports fans, I had three times as many girls on the list as guys. And one of the guys didn't count because he didn't go to any of the nearby schools.

Sort of independently we both concluded we need a whole lot more information here. About life and about sexuality in general. As you know, Hondo had wheels, six in all. So he and I were able to spend many mortifying hours in far away libraries reading books which were not considered dirty, but fully confirmed the restored health and eagerness of Little Ricky. HONDO even got wood at more than one of these sessions and fully boned pleaded for the use of my jacket when it was time to go. Once we even checked out a big book on wallpaper because we had two bones and one jacket. But before we got out the door, the situation was corrected and we took the book back. The librarian gave us a quite peculiar look. We giggled like schoolgirls on the way to the car. And you know what, Journal? When I saw Hondo, primo hottie of the sophomore class with full bone on, I still didn't want to jump him. Not even a little. Go figure.

Our conclusion? Don't know. I could just be going thru a particularly late and powerful Homo phase. The mechanics of male-male sex (aside from rubbing) actually didn't sound that appealing to me. Some sounded positively awful to my 14 year old libido. Little Ricky retreated to almost sixth grade size when I decoded what anilingus meant. PERVALACIOUS!

Sort of a dead end. And you know what, Journal? All this immersion in the study of sex really cooled the fires. I declared myself cured. I thought we should drop the subject from the agenda. Hondo thought we should table it. We compromised and I promised to report all urges before acting and Hondo promised not to bring up the subject on his own. So we could finally get back to our social life which had almost been abandoned during this two week Perv sabbatical. And, yes, Journal, I did have a social life. And you know Hondo did. Thus ended the quest for knowledge; certainly not with a bang...

Nothing to report but normalcy for over 2 months. I was dating one of my dancing partners (and secret butt pincher it turned out) when the unspeakable happened. I GOT HEAD. Just a little licking and slurping in the beginning. But I was so wired that the beginning, middle and end were somewhat concurrent. Wow! Was it GOOD!

Names omitted to protect the guilty, I reported this milestone at the next regular Weight Time. And Hondo almost killed himself. After skinny little me helped him get the weight bar off his chest, and after he took a quick shower, we went on his bike to get ice cream. Any kind I wanted.

Triple Feature: Head, a (really fast) bike ride -- normally considered "too dangerous", and a huge banana split. God, sex is good. Hondo even broke out the good stuff the next weekend. And when we were suitably fried, he admitted that I beat his record by 5 months. Let's hear it for the little kid with the FA!

Pretty much all downhill from here, Journal. But what did I tell you? Here's Jason. And he's REALLY hungry. He said so. Save only. I want a WORD with the little tyrant before he trashes any more of this and I don't have time now.

I'm back and it's 7:30pm. Bobby's due at 9:45. Both Rickys are happy as hell, in fact, one's twitching... not me, Journal! Since this session was never really adjourned, I don't think that we have to go thru all the formalities. You agree?

I'm going to take a short diversion here, Journal. Laughing will get you an electronic kick in the butt as soon as I find the right button -- we HAVE made some progress, Hey, a little. And tell you that the town we're in, Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario, population 90,000 is not such a shit place.

The first word is pronounced "Soo" as in Indian, not "salt" as in Morton.

Yeah, Jason found something to do. And it was interesting as hell. We took a boat ride out into the lake -- Superior -- which is huge and pretty. Then we came thru a "Lock" which is an absolutely huge boat elevator. Our boat which wasn't small looked lost in the thing. What it does is lower/raise huge iron ore boats between two of the Great Lakes 52 feet (? -- I'm converting from meters and I don't do that too well). I'm not sure how it does it yet but I got a brochure from a beautiful Canadian girl (they say "A" and "oot" a lot so you can tell [Don't hold me to it, Journal but I think the former means "Do you agree?" and, no question, the latter means "out"]). I'm going to read it some time. The girl didn't know us. But she had Jason drooling. They went over to look at the "special brochures" for about 15 minutes. She looked REAL interested. Maybe it's his eye; he still looks sort of like a pirate. Don't know, but I may get my wish that he gets his wish tonight.

Anyway we walked back to the locks and after a little while this monster boat (ship) came slowly into it and was raised the 52 (?) feet and slowly left. It took about an hour. Doesn't sound as interesting when I write it as when I saw it. The water gushes in around the boat like crazy. Ship size doors at either end are waterproof and move really slow. And the whole thing looks like it was made by cavemen. It's all huge blocks of stone. It was built in 1895. That was carved in the stone, all covered in moss. And you know what else? Nobody else watched it. There must be a LOT more to do in Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario than I thought. I guess I still can't make it sound interesting but it was. I never saw a "Lock" before... that wasn't on a door. Another boat (ship) was approaching to go down and I wanted to stay and watch but Jason wanted to eat.

So we did. He ate half a pig, not a cow. But that wasn't a major part of the bet. So I win, Journal. Looser! Dweeb! Teach you to laugh!

Where the hell was I? Downhill, oh yeah...

In re: "Backbeat" III, The Last Time I Cried In Public -- Continued

We always jump to the wrong conclusion too soon. Cured? No. Not atoll. My First Head (capitalized always in my heart) set off such a deluge of hormones that Little Ricky was getting flat feet. He was ALWAYS standing straight up. Cheerleaders gave me wood; teachers gave me wood; bicycles gave me wood (not just the seat, either); Christ, a fire engine could do it. Boner City! I didn't carry my backpack on my back for three days. I looked up priapism to see if it was terminal. It wasn't. But it might as well have been. Christ, GYM! So I did what any normal teen would do and I forged a note. Please excuse Ricky from Gym; He has an ear infection. My ear was as far away from my dick as I could go and still sound somewhat plausible. But this wasn't a permanent cure because my absence would get back to Hondo real quick. And I LIKED gym except when I was getting beat up like in football and lacrosse (they use BIG sticks!)

I could think of a couple solutions. All had to do with getting off, good and proper. It was unlikely that the Head option would be available again anytime soon. My partner (you'll never get the name, Journal... deal with it) was somewhat appalled at the extent of the mess that made. A good After-School jerk? Little Ricky cringed but didn't go down. So it was settled. After school. Use plenty of lotion and watch out for sores. Repeat as necessary. The rest of school went OK. I even lost my hard, after Biology.

All the way home on the bus I prayed that Hondo wouldn't be home. That last candle at Mass worked! He wasn't. I hollered as I came in the door and again in the kitchen and again down the cellar stairs. Then upstairs, I hollered again. If anyone was home, they were deaf. Or, asleep. Yeah, Hondo could be asleep. It takes three alarm clocks to get him up in the morning. I slowly cracked open Hondo's door. This was pretty much forbidden territory. No Hondo. Room's pretty neat. I looked around and slowly entered. Hey, I didn't get to do this that often so I decided to at least make a survey. Smells like him. What do you expect he sleeps here.

I finally looked on the bed and there, on the bed, was his Motocross gear. Jeez, it never occurred to me before but they LOOK like leather jeans. They were even black but they had a yellow stripe on them. I didn't even think, not one second. I grabbed the pants and dashed to my room and closed the door. I stripped so fast that my one sock came off with by Nike. I put THEM on in front of the mirror. The effect would have been ridiculous to any thinking person. They were huge. I had to hold them up to keep them off the floor, FA or not, it just didn't jut out far enough. But I wasn't thinking. I was harder than I'd ever been and I grabbed Little Ricky in a death grip. And I whacked, without mercy or care in front of the mirror.

And then I heard, "Hey, Ricky, have you seen my..." as my door opened. Then I heard, "Oh, Ricky..."

Never, Journal, never has so much communication been contained in two words and the long following sigh.

I didn't even cry, I wailed like Irishmen at a wake as I ran from my room to the bathroom and slammed the door. And locked the door. And cried. Eventually, I noticed that I was still holding up Hondo's cursed bike pants.

I just sat there numb and crying gently for an hour (Hondo says it was about five minutes, Journal, but I KNOW it was an hour). I wasn't even thinking about why.

Eventually, I heard Hondo shouting outside the door, "Open the door Ricky. Come on. We've gotta talk."

I didn't move. I couldn't.

"Three screws, Ricky, three screws. That's all it takes. Now come on and open the door. If I have to go all the way down to the cellar for a screwdriver it's an RNT. Come on, open up, Ricky!"

For those of you not in the know and Journal you are probably one of them, Hondo had three degrees of enforcement when he (mostly not arbitrarily -- after I'd thought about it a while) wanted his way. The first was Tickle Torture (and I kind of liked that and kind of provoked it upon occasion and Hondo knew it). The second was a Talking To. It involved him grabbing my arms right where the biceps should be and telling me what he wanted REAL LOUD over and over again and not letting go until I agreed. I did not like a Talking To at all. The last and most feared was an RNT (Remember Next Time). It was delayed and, like the execution CAN'T be as bad as sitting on death row for twelve years anticipating it, the waiting was all. An RNT was redeemed when I wanted to do something with Hondo really bad. It could be about anything but it had to be something that he could see that I REALLY wanted. Then the answer: "No, that's your RNT, Ricky". No, appeal, no nothing.

I sometimes made a vow after I got an RNT, but before it was redeemed, that I wouldn't do anything with Hondo again. Ever. Just like a little boy who vowed to never talk to his parents again or hold his breath `til he turned blue. Worked about as well too. The best I ever lasted was five days. They weren't fun. No. Not atoll. I hated RNT's.

So I got up off the floor and walked over and opened the door. Hondo's pants were around my ankles. The rest of me was bare. I didn't know; I didn't care. Sort of like those pictures you see of the liberation of the concentration camps in Germany. That always affected me. Men without pants and they didn't have the energy or life left to worry about it.

For the first time that I can ever remember, the ensuing discussion with Hondo did not come up with an answer. Oh, we talked about all the facts. I had to remind him that the same subject had come up before when we discussed "Backbeat". He didn't remember that the leather pants set off my flood. He thought that the problem was that it was a guy.

"I'll have to think about it, Ricky. We'll talk about it some more later. But leave my pants alone, `til we do. OK?" With a mortified promise, I scuttled out of the bathroom.

I avoided Hondo as best I could for four days. He wasn't doing anything to me, not even showing his justifiable disgust. Every once in a while, usually at dinner, I caught him looking at me. But, he seemed to look more puzzled that appalled. But, he was silent and avoiding me too. And I ached for the loss.

On Saturday, right after breakfast Hondo unexpectedly said, "Come on, Midget, get in the car we're going to Downtown". Well, "Midget", was what he called me when I did something extraordinary, like when I won the Long Distance, or got my First Head. I sure hadn't done anything like that recently. On the other hand, Downtown was a way BAD place. I was really leery of the mixed signals. Let's be honest, Journal, I was scared.

Considering WHAT I'D DONE was Hondo going to take me to Downtown and leave me there? I'd only been there twice that I could remember in my life. That WAS where really Pervy people lived. Maybe this is how they got there. Driven to Downtown, one way, by their disgusted, former Loving Brother.

But I knew, deep down, that I deserved it so I got in Hondo's Honda (yeah, he gets shit) and we rattled and backfired our way on to the Freeway on our way to Sodom in the Smog. Life had been nice...

Hondo chattered (distracting me from the swoosh of the ax) and I sort of looked out the window a lot. Pretty grim. Pervs don't live well at all! Where we got off the Freeway, the streets glittered, all right. But with broken glass, not gold. We parked on a block where there were no other cars. A few pieces but not enough to make one full car. Hondo got out and I noticed that he looked about sharply. Oh, CHRIST, what's going ON!

"Come on, Ricky, the Pervs don't get up this early. We're going to fix you right up. Let's GO, Man!"

HE'S GOING TO HAVE MY DICK CUT OFF. I didn't know people would DO that; even in Downtown. Even the really Pervy people. But he said it. "Fix you right up" that's what they said about the Gonzoles' Labrador right after he fucked that beagle. And right before he came back from the doc's and sat under a tree and licked his crotch and didn't bark for the rest of his life.

I CAN'T lick it; I can't reach. That's what I though as Hondo led me into the shabby storefront and hollered out for service.

"I called earlier, about the small sizes? Guy said you had them."

"Sure, you Hondo? The boss said you'd come in early." Journal, I swear I wasn't breathing. SMALL SIZES?

"What's he wear?"

"Twenty six to twenty seven with a twenty seven inseam". Huh?! "He'll probably want them a little loose and leave some let-out material in the legs. He's still growing... A little bit at least." Hondo punched my arm when he said that and I was just beginning to figure out what was going on. Hadn't figured out whether to be relieved that Little Ricky was safe or TRULY PISSED OFF that my most righteously secret Pervs were being displayed to this loathsome Perv of a sales clerk. Hondo, how could you!

"What style are you looking for?"

"He needs them for a band; they're Punkers. What are THEY wearing?"

Jeez, cover and everything. Hondo is one righteous bro.

And he was. And he is. Hondo had practiced the age old maxim -- If you can't lick `em...

The sales guy really wasn't a Perv. I tried on a number of different kinds and looked at myself in a three way mirror. Selected what I wanted. Then Hondo made me get them 2 inches looser in the waist (they WERE 1 inch too tight). Then they worked on the legs and Hondo insisted on a three inch hem (he was dreaming, I STILL wouldn't need that [and I'm 19!] if... I could still button the waist.)

Then we were done. I really liked the sales dude by then. But I still cringed when he recommended a piercing parlor up the street "...for when the band gets serious". "It hardly hurts at all," he assured me unreassuringly.

We walked out to Hondo's golden chariot, for so it looked amidst the rubble of Downtown. We got in and Hondo said, "OK, Ricky. Now, you've got your own Leather Leotards. Beat away, Guy. But stay away from MY drawers... OK?"

I smiled thru teary eyes and said, "Sure Hondo. Thanks... And stay away from MINE too."

Hondo punched my arm; then he hugged my shoulder. And nobody has ever seen me cry again. Ever.

Yeah, I'm a Perv. But I'm a big guy now.

This was my personal nadir in the Pervy hall of shame. It's all uphill from here, so hang in there, Journal.

And what do I hear at the door? What do I see standing in the entry? It's my Polish Prince. Buzzed, bleached hair, droopy drawers (the boy ain't got no hips; he had them removed in Downtown), tired eyes and goofy grin. I bet he's packing the PofB, his magic wand, too. "OH, FUCK, WE'RE GLAD TO SEE YOU" (And that ain't the Royal we, Journal, and Bobby knows it.)

Spell check, grammar check and save. ****************** You Douchbag! You are a stupid, stupid fuck. There IS SO such a place as Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario. I've wagged my ass in the Mall there; I've seen the "Locks". We're here RIGHT NOW! "IGNORE ALL", Asshole. You got an RNT. Later...

Day 11 (Surprise!)

Journal, bet you didn't think you'd see me today. I have to admit this is becoming a little addicting. Anyway, I'm sitting at the little all purpose table in my Quality Inn room, my laptop in front of me and over to the side, sprawled on my king size bed is the Polish Prince. He's only half covered and the half that isn't is SO prime I ache.

Well, yeah, I ache (and burn) for another reason really, Journal, thank you so much for pointing that out. I can't count how often I told Bobby that there's no such thing as hurts so good.' And then I'd push the PofB away from my butthole. Then he'd fuck my crack and not complain hardly at all; it's a damn fine crack, better than his; he's sort of flat in the butt. But finally, and after some long discussions with Jason (he was so red-faced I thought he'd explode -- but he hung tough and ultimately said, "OK, do it, but be careful, Ricky), I let Bobby Have His Way with me. And yeah, it hurt in the beginning (real BAD the first time -- Jason said he heard me two rooms away) and the burning's still there in the morning, but the middle and the end ARE worth it. We kissed so much; we SWEATED so much; we CAME so much; we MELDED so much. We loved so much. Sort of defines: hurts so good.' And it really never stopped. Hurting, that is. The PofB is formidable. So, yeah, I'm sitting rather gingerly this morning, Journal. But I'm looking at the Prince, my Prince and damn straight it's worth it

So what's the PofB, you ask, Journal? Well you've got to understand Bobby a little. And, no this is not an entry about Bobby. He'll show up in a main section sometime down the road. But since you ask and since I'm gazing at his left tit -- the little purple-green mark under it still shows -- and half of his left hip (it does go STRAIGHT down from his stomach and just the fact that his butt- cheeks stick out -- only a little but they're cute -- allows him to wear pants without suspenders). And, yeah, his innocent-devilish face and his bed hair and the little Skater-Nazi tattoo on his shoulder, well, you get the picture, Journal. So just a little teaser about the Prince.

Bobby's a Skater. And Skaters, real Skaters, are direct and aggressive and daring and competitive as all hell. That explains a lot. How he joined the band at 15; how he had Perv-sex with me a month after we met. How he made me like it. How he got my cherry after an arduous and prolonged campaign. It DOESN'T explain how I got his -- the `hurts so good' stuff did NOT apply to his own butt for the longest time -- but I did, Journal. And I'm glad... he is too. In spite of the complaints. Yeah, Journal, I won't be the only guy in the room experiencing "burning love" once he wakes up. Anyway, when Bobby found out that I had a name for my dick and he didn't, it immediately became an unacceptable situation. Since I wouldn't give up mine, he had to have a better one.

Actually, he said it wouldn't be all that difficult. The Skater brain does NOT appreciate the subtle irony of the appellation "Little Ricky" applied to the King of Dicks. He never really accepted that Little Ricky IS the king. You decide, Journal. I'll give you that Bobby's 2/16's of an inch longer by actual measurement with an independent judge (now there's a picture for your Pervy little mind, Journal, the Great Measure Off -- and I'm NEVER going to tell you about it). But Little Ricky's way fatter. Bobby never gives up about being the King. But I know who'll be burning (and complaining) more this morning when he finally wakes up. Little Ricky Rules. Right, Journal? Remember who's your God. Back to the PofB. It stands for Pride of Bakersfield which I think he got from the side of an old Sleeping Car (did you know they had names, Journal?). Then it could be that that's where he lived before he joined the band and became homeless. It took him a fucking week to come up with this lame name! And it's way too long so it got abbreviated. But now Bobby has a name for his dick too and Skater Honor is satisfied. Such is life with the Polish Prince. But you put up with a lot when you're in love (Catch that?)

One more thing about Bobby before we get on to the meat of today's discussion (Journal, YOU, PERV!). Purely an explanation of his present comatose state in a room with his one, true, studly love-god. It takes a LONG time to get from Bakersfield, CA to Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario. Bobby had been traveling since 9am yesterday morning when he arrived in the room last night. Two puddle jumpers and three jets and lots of ground time. And we DON"T travel first class. Bobby's lucky that he doesn't have to pay for the flights home himself but CA makes Management include it in his contract because he's a minor.

So, he was dead on his feet when he arrived last night. And we didn't turn out the light til 3:25am (I looked). And we didn't watch TV. And I can get a sworn statement to that effect from Little Ricky and the PofB and our buttholes (which don't have names yet but who knows -- Skaters Rule -- or like to think they do) and our lips (ditto) and most other accessible parts of our bodies to that effect. Just as soon as we can figure our how to get them to hold a pen... let it be a challenge to you, Journal. Meantime, I'm letting Bobby sleep til lunch and talking to you, instead. We're ignoring grammar checker today. He's got an RNT.

Call to order

In re: Lies

Two. One a "sort of", and one a "downright" but not by me originally.

I really thought Hondo was going to have me fixed? It's a complex answer. In truth, the thought did pass briefly thru my mind because of what happened to "Char" the Gonzoles' dog only two weeks prior to going to Downtown. The authoritative word came around that his, "Char's", dick had been cut off when it was really just his balls. I'm not sure that the real facts were that much more comforting. Maybe, probably; because to a 14 year-old, your dick is magic. It goes up and down, sure. More impressive, two completely different kinds of stuff comes out of it and it never seems to get mixed up and shoot cum out in the urinal at school. It, REALLY has a mind of it's own. And it has a method of reward for proper attention that has never been equaled. Your balls are just there and sort of strange looking to boot. In reality, their prime function seems to be to cause you pain when you treat them with other than the utmost deference. Let's face it, nobody names their balls. It probably WOULD have made a difference. `Ah, it was just his balls, Dude.' Anyway back to the question and potential lie at hand. Going to Downtown was like going to hell. It was talked about in exactly the same manner in our community. Good people didn't go to Downtown or if they did, they never returned. So I was paranoid as shit when Hondo took me there unannounced and wouldn't tell me why. He had all sorts of good reasons for not telling me: don't want the parents to know, it's a surprise... But, since we hadn't talked after that horrible time in the bathroom. And I could still hear the aversion (disgust?) in "Oh, Ricky..." I wasn't expecting anything good. No. Not atoll. I really think that conquering my fear and going quietly with Hondo to whatever ugly fate awaited was a serious portent of my coming maturity. On reflection, it's mostly a lie that I thought Hondo would direct someone to cut off my dick. I did think for a good portion of the ride that he was going to leave me in Downtown. I was never really the same again. And I really never cried in front of anyone again. Ever. That's the truth.

I beat Hondo's First Head record. This is a real lie. But not mine. Much later in our relationship, Hondo explained (some of) the Hondo Method of brotherly encouragement. First, his personal best was a very flexible ruler. It often seemed to fall just short of what I had accomplished. If we were equal, like in our grades, he had had to work harder to get them. I guess it was his way of compensating for the rest of the world which always managed to say, "You're Hondo's brother? I would have thought you'd be bigger (or brighter or better looking)." And it worked. The amiable fictions woven into Weight Time gave me the confidence and the time to become myself. Without undue paranoia about the example he set. I was worth something by myself. I knew it because Hondo told me. And I swear, gentle Journal, when you KNOW you're worthwhile? Other people tend to agree. Sure made things a whole lot easier when I turned out to be a Perv.

In re: Wrong Impressions

Whole Lot of Shaken' Going On, here

Did possession of leather jeans make me a confirmed Leather Queen at 14? Not hardly, Journal. A short history of the big jean Perv. I couldn't wait to get home from Downtown. Then I couldn't wait to get home from Church, school etc. for about two weeks. And you KNOW what I did. In my bed, in front of the bedroom mirror (mostly), in the bathroom. Yeah it was pretty ubiquitous. And to the outside world I just seemed happy. Normal even. Hondo called it the Triple L Effect. Yeah, he was joking so I was within the pale again. Hell, I felt normal everywhere but in front of the bedroom mirror and I wasn't concentrating too much on normalcy when I was there. After two weeks, well it didn't happen as often. For a whole lot of different reasons. Friends to hang with. GIRLS to dance with (never gave it up Journal). Homework, now that's pretty low. It started to be a once every one week then a once every two week affair. I started to realize that the jeans didn't DO anything. Yeah, I looked sexy in them (still do, Journal, but there're bigger now). But I came to grasp that it was ME that was sexy not some dead cow skin. Now this was both comforting and distressing. I'm was getting over my fetish. But I was getting more into my own (male) body. Slippery slope, Journal. Anyway they moved farther and farther back in the closet and finally they were uncomfortable to wear, even with Hondo's `extra inch' cause I got a growth spurt (my last unfortunately) and the whole thing sort of petered out. Not even a whimper, Mr. Elliott. I don't know if this was Hondo's planned outcome or not. If it was, it worked. They were only resurrected that one day of righteous testing with Hondo and Jason. Until Hondo's, "Your Triple L's" or words to that effect I had not thought about them for a long, long while. But I still understood that I was a Perv.

Does Perv mean, "queer"? The authoritative answer is sometimes. First understand, Journal, that it's too hard for me to keep true to the dialect of the particular time I'm writing about. I jump around a lot, or didn't you notice? Unless I'm REALLY trying for authenticity, I tend to write like I think now. Perv is a rather recent word to me and it's non-offensive. I have sort of consciously substituted it for the more accurate Fag, Queer, (Cocksucker, too) that would have REALLY been used in 1994, in a suburb of LA. Jason originally called me a Perv. And I understood his meaning. It meant what I did, thought, said. It meant me. I wasn't a Fag or a Homo or a Queer or Gay. I was a PERV. And a Perv was OK. Unfortunately as my friends and I and the band used the word it started to mean just about anything. Think of the word "shit" -- good, bad, tough, easy, righteous, bull. Get it, Journal? Depending on use, Perv can mean odd, Homo, despicable or just be describing me. The rest is left as an exercise for the student . I only talk to Jason, Bobby and Hondo. Not even close. But I have to simplify this somehow. So I'm concentrating on the people who got me from there to here. A few others will show up.

I'm an incorrigible sex fiend. Not true. As far as I can remember, Journal, I've had sex with 4 girls and three guys (one of whom I've lived with for the past 19 months). I've fathered no children, acquired no STD's and, yeah, I beat off a lot when I was a kid. Still, probably on the low side of normal. It's the `90's, for Christ sake! Who's the third guy? Continue reading to "Backbeat's" Over -- Stuck in the Horse Latitudes.

I'm really sixty years old. Not, hardly, Journal, but I can see how you might get that impression. I DO know a lot of old, strange stuff. And I throw it at you at random some times. It was thrown at me at random, too. So I guess we ought to talk about Study Time some more. When I first went on the road (I was almost 17) I was SO FUCKING DEPRESSED that eventually I snuck off and rode an absolutely VILE Greyhound, 637 miles to home and Hondo (forgot he wasn't there -- College, Asshole; Hondo's at college), Mom and Dad. It was a MAJOR Violation of Contract. And, I clearly understood that I was going to lose my balls in a slow and immensely painful manner, for so it had been explained to me by Management. But I didn't CARE!

Well, I didn't know it but Management was really counting on me. More particularly my skill in wagging my Fabulous Ass (grammar checker RNT, remember?) in my leather jeans (yeah, I was back in them but you KNOW that, Journal, wake up, for Christ's sake). Yeah, I HAD noticed that during the audition, two of the Management guys looked like the were about to pass out and NEVER stopped staring at my butt. But I never really understood. I just thought that Management was REALLY Perv City but actually, they were pretty good at figuring out what made little girls hot. And they figured they NEEDED me, or at least my butt. So anyway, the outcome was that my balls remained nameless but loosely attached under Little Ricky.

And ACCOMMODATIONS were made by Management. And I went back, on the road. Of the two accommodations made that counted, only one was made by Management. They arranged that I could take out books in the free library in whatever shit town we were in. Without fail. I have no idea how they do it but I always have a temporary card or letter or something that lets me take out books. So a little bit of normalcy was restored to my life; Study Time was back.

But it was strange as Catshit (is Catshit really strange, Journal? I never noticed). First thing I'd do when we got to the town we were staying at was go pick out some books. Usually by their glossy covers cause I didn't have a lot of time. When I got back to the room, I'd try to find one that was really interesting and read it during "Study Time" on-the-road version. Here's the really bizarre part. We're only in town for a day or two so I had to return the books when we left. I hardly ever got beyond the eighth chapter of any book. Unless I found the same book in another shit town, which just didn't happen often.

So, yeah, I know a LOT of old, strange things. But only the first third of them. That's why I'm going to college when this band shit ends. I want to read lots of books, to the very LAST page. And have someone there to talk to about them, afterwards. Bobby's no help here. He's only interested in Skating and Math (he reads biographies of Mathematicians, for Christ sake... I keep telling him, he's a POLACK!) Oh yeah, and the NET (HOLY SHIT! You should see some of the pictures he finds on it. Some are even of US and OK, Journal, I am a little dick-proud but Little Ricky was never THAT big, neither was the PofB.).

The other accommodation was made by Jason when he quietly and subtly eased into the position of Junior Big Brother. Oh yeah, later Management arranged that Bobby and my rooms always connected. They (or some of the important ones) know about us but know it's WAY UNCOOL to blow our cover.

FUCK, that was LONG! (I even tried sub- paragraphs for the first time -- hope they work.) Aren't you glad you asked, Journal? Whadda ya mean, "Nah"? Want to know a secret, Journal? You're a product of Study Time. You're the unnatural child of Study Time and The Incident, the incident that made me start to write you. And now I can see that it's going to be a long time before you find out about it. So right now, you're a bastard. And nobody knows your father. Except me; and I wish I didn't...

We're getting there, Journal, final two:

I don't like our audiences. No. Not atoll. This brings on a brief discussion (DON'T groan, Goddammit!) of the difference between a Journal and a biography. A biography tends to integrate ALL the facts of a life and tell a cohesive story. A Journal is a listing of what happened today that was out of the ordinary, pet peeves, occasionally true loves. And, at least in this case, it has an overall goal (I still have it, it's just not showing up right now) of telling the facts leading up to and following a BIG EVENT. (Done; there that wasn't so bad).

I LIKE girls. Even little girls. I particularly like dancing for and with them. Remember that I've been doing it since I was nine. And nobody was paying me. At some shows, even at Malls, when we can get the audience up and dancing and singing, I wouldn't trade this job for any on earth. Jason and I often pull some of the best dancers up on the stage and usually we have a blast. We're pretty good at choosing but, yes, occasionally someone freezes and that's a problem. But most times we PARTY! And the look of exquisite joy on their faces when it's time for a hug and then for them to go back down into the audience is better than sex. Well... close.

What I don't like are the pushy, overweight, mustachioed "Fans" who want to paw us afterwards. One girl makes a habit of running up to me, reaching around and grabbing my ass while her girlfriend takes a picture. The next day the picture is on the NET. Unfortunately Management wants these types around us for the free publicity (You want to feel my Fabulous Ass? Get a Website). But this latter is what will normally appear in you, Journal, cause it's unusual and cause I'm pissed. I LIKE our audiences; in fact, I love them. They APPRECIATE us... But I still prefer Bobby's little, hard titties and nobody beats the PofB (for Christ's sake, don't tell HIM!)

I really understand and appreciate the fine people in Management. No. Not atoll. See, I CAN be brief.

In re: New Category (Again). In case you didn't notice, Journal, some of the "Left Hanging's" from previous sessions have been covered in the end of the last session and the beginning of this one. So they have now become "Cut Down", again only a list

In re: Cut Down

1. "Same store we went two years ago" 2) Lasting effects of Study Time 3) "Triple L" 4) Bobby (sorta)

In re: Left Hanging

1. How DID I get Bobby's cherry? 2) How big is JASON'S dick? <! DELETED !> Jason's a bud. That's WAY private and buds DON'T nark

In re: "Backbeat's" Over -- Stuck in the Horse Latitudes.

I'd like to start because it's going to cover 1 ½ years (14 ½ to 16.) BUT, I just had to wake The Prince. We DO have a Photo Shoot at 2. And we have to get him prettied up and fed. And what did I tell you, Journal? The first words out of his mouth (after the moan) were, "GodDAMN, it Ricky, you are NEVER getting that tree-trunk up my ass again. I MEAN it this time."

Then he grabbed me real fast and hauled me on the bed on top of him and KISSED THE LIVING SHIT out of me. Morning breath, smelly pits, dried cum and all. He grabbed my butt in his big, rough hands and Squeezed for Jesus, grinding our crotches together... (MAJOR wood -- didn't think I could). After he got thru saying, "Mmmmmmm!" he said "Morrrrnnnnin', Ricky." And smiled his Skater-punk smile. (Now THAT'S a picture I wouldn't mind having on the NET. Maybe I can get Jason to take it).

Then the fucker pushed me off him and jumped up to take a shower. Right at the bathroom door he performed a butt wag with a ten degree of difficulty. He's pretty damn good at it, too. Another grin, this time over the shoulder, chin down, sort of bashful (Damn, he KNOWS that makes me hot! And we've got a SHOOT for Christ's sake). Then he was gone.

My good clothes. GodDAMN it!

"You'll PAY, Skater Boy. You will INDUBITABLY PAY!!! And my name's RICK. Ricky's the name of my DICK."

Fuck it, I'll just have to get in the shower with him. And if he won't move over, I have a prod that would make any policeman proud. Come to think of it -- so does he.

Ain't love grand?

I'll get back as quick as I can...

Save only ********************

I am so FUCKING, FUCKING MAD!

HE was at the SHOOT.

Management told me he was FIRED. They PROMISED me he was fired.

He still looked way trashed. Even two weeks later. Just like he deserved. And God forgive me, that made me feel BETTER... But, it brought back that night... in Fargo...anyway...

Journal, you know when you wake up and it's the middle of the night and you know that something woke you? That something is wrong? But you don't know what? That was that night in Fargo.

I didn't move but my senses quickly became supercharged. And... I heard it...

"MotherFUCKER ... You motherfucker ... MOTHERfucker ".

Jason's voice... Unmistakable... Real slow... Real serious... Real low and... Really, really slow.

Then a quick thud,thud,thud,thud,thud. "You leave him the FUCK alone, understand?" Tenor voice, Bobby?

I reached over for Bobby but he wasn't there. But then I knew he wouldn't be. I know his voice....even thru glass.

"MotherFUCKER ... You motherfucker ...".

"Thud,thud,thud,thud,thud."

"Motherfucker ... You MOTHERfucker ".

There was a faint third voice. It wasn't saying anything. Just a steady, high pitched moan that wavered with each thump.

It was coming from the parking lot under our second story window. I KNEW what was going on. I knew EXACTLY what was going on. I knew that Jason could be way harsh when something stirred him up. I'd tried to intervene once in high school. And while Jason managed not to hit me, I was as effective as a gnat at a bull-elephant showdown. Jason stopped when he was done.

"Thud,thud,thud,thud,thud."

"MotherFUCKER ... You motherfucker ... MOTHERfucker ".

You know what I thought about, Journal? Do I have enough money for bail?' When I was sure I did, I rolled over...[they'll call me if they need it']

"Thud,thud,thud,thud,thud."

"Motherfucker ...

And went back to sleep. May God forgive me.

In the morning, Bobby was back in our bed and he had two serious bruises. One in his gut and one on his left pec, right under his tit. I feather-touched them. But not light enough. Bobby awoke, smiled his gentlest smile and said, "It's alright, Rick. We talked to him. It's over."

At breakfast, Jason had a massive shiner-in-the-making. I raised my eyebrow and stared pointedly. He cocked his head just a little, shrugged and gave a half smile. I returned a half smile. We ordered breakfast.

A WHOLE lot of communication, Journal. Don't you doubt it for a minute.

So I know I didn't hear the whole fight. And it wasn't as one sided as what I'd heard. Probably the earlier part was noisier and that's what woke me.

I never needed the bail money. Either Fargo is a bastion of Cowboy justice where the cops are not called very often or nobody else heard. I never found out which.

Until, today, I never saw that asshole again. Guess he was in hospital. They said he was fired. But Goddammit, why didn't he look evil? Why'd he look so SMALL?

There ARE sins of omission. Even in this business. And I committed a really big one that night in Fargo. But I didn't intend to think about it for a while. Not until I figured out what HAPPENED here. Not `til I had talked it over with you, Journal. Because most everybody I love in the world was in on it. Including my confessor. And Hondo's really far away... Another country...

But things just didn't work out.

I'm going over to Bobby's room now. I need to be held all night... Tight. Real tight.

It's going to be a LONG time before I want to come back to you, Journal. Sorry...

Save. Later...

That's all there was in the first file. I'll let you know if I can get the passwords for any of the others.

Anonymous Guy in CA