thrum
Trigger’s a professional sadist. He rents a flat on nineteenth street, the upper level of a custard yellow house: two bathrooms, a guest room and an office, a large master bedroom in the back. This is where he works, but Trigger doesn’t call it a workroom, doesn’t call it a dungeon. When he leads a client down the narrow hallway he says, “I’ll show you the back room,” or, “The back room’s this way,” and sometimes he says nothing at all, just waits until he’s got one through the doorway into the room – which can have only one purpose – manifest, tangible. When a client enters his eyes will roam the walls, taking in equipment and devices and then they return to Trigger’s hands – long-fingered, bony-knuckled – they look sideways at his face: inscrutable and handsome.
Trigger hasn’t bathed today. He’s been to the gym, to the bank and the grocery store, trailing a middle-aged funk that keeps the weak-willed away: a tactic he uses when he’s expecting a new-comer. At the foot of the stairs, Bucky rings the doorbell. Trigger makes Bucky wait, then ring again before he descends the stairs and opens the door. Trigger stands close to him – only room enough for two – he’s conscious of the scent of nervousness, the tang of anxiety Bucky’s body generates. Trigger stretches his arm, holds out his hand, palm up, looks Bucky in the eye and says, “Pay me, in cash. Then, tell me what you want from me.”
Bucky mumbles to his feet, “What I want?”
Trigger slaps him hard. Grabbing Bucky’s neck, he leans into his ear and whispers, “Let’s try this again. You pay me, first, then you tell me what the hell you want. Got it?” He pushes his thumb against Bucky’s windpipe, firm enough to get his full attention. “Now tell me – what comes first?”
Bucky fumbles for his wallet, hands over a stack of bills. Gruffly, he says, “I need some help.” Trigger lets go of his neck and tilts up Bucky’s chin, studying his face: light brown eyes, tired, the shade of dry hills in October; ashen crescents ring the lower orbits; in the corner of his eyes the capillaries are inflamed – an angry, bleary, red.
“You’ve paid for my help,” says Trigger, waiting for a signal, something that might tell him more. The help of a lash? The back of my hand or the ball of my fist? Bucky says nothing. Trigger turns and climbs the stairs, sifting bills between thumb and forefinger, counting the cash as he goes.
At the top of the stairs, Trigger turns to Bucky, plants a leg between his knees and shoves him to the floor. “You’re twenty short,” he says. “Is that what you needed me for? To find that last twenty?” He grabs Bucky by the collar of his jacket, heaving him up off the floor, dragging him waist-high along the narrow hallway. “Asshole.”
Bucky doesn’t struggle; he watches the walls. Sketches and photographs pass over head, upside down, a step at a time he sees men arranged in poses, combinations, tableaus: a man tied to a tree trunk, scarlet lashes on his backside – a map of blood and hide; another on his back, in the bed of a pickup truck, eyes wide, mouth half-open, his ass is full, sphincter dilated to accommodate the bulk of a hairy forearm. Passing the threshold to the back room, Bucky glimpses a set of diplomas: Doctorate of Psychology, Master of Arts in Counseling. At the base of the doorway Bucky’s heels bump against the metal runner. Trigger gives him one quick yank and drops him on the hardwood floor, turns and closes the door behind them, twisting the key in the dead-bolt.
The first thing Bucky notices: there’s no bed in Trigger’s back room. From the floor he looks up and around – tidy, uncluttered. Clean. French doors face a small yard thick with poplar trees; weak light tumbles through them, passing through the glass – becoming rhomboid – landing on a wall covered with caps and hoods, a pair of gas masks, a row of whips and paddles.
Two fat wooden beams anchor each half of the space; embedded with grommets and hooks, their distribution is measured and precise. There’s a large antique dresser in the center of one wall. Bucky can’t find a closet – the dresser must be where Trigger keeps the smaller tools. In a corner of the room far from the rhomboid light a steel cage squats: knee-high, door open, padlock undone. On the floor of the cage rests an empty plastic dish with brown bone-shaped letters that spell PUPPY.
Trigger straddles Bucky’s chest, waiting for a look that will reveal the shape of Bucky’s need, the texture of his longing. When Bucky finally looks up at him Trigger sees the inky pupil, the shine of a beetle’s back, in his eye there’s a hunger that scuttles and crawls. Bucky blinks and looks away – uneasy, unsettled by scrutiny. With the toe of his boot Trigger nudges Bucky in the ribs. “Strip,” he says, and as Bucky undresses, Trigger taps his foot.
Bucky’s naked – his body short, thick, powerful: knees to his chest, arms around his shins, genitals against the cool wood floor. Trigger pushes the toe of his boot past Bucky’s shins, nudging him under the scrotum; Bucky backs away, flinches. His scrotum tightens, testicles retract, pulling close into his groin. Now Trigger has the room he needs – he lands a steel toe under Bucky’s nuts, a firm pressure, but not cruel, not crushing. “Say enough,” says Trigger, pressing the tread of his boot against Bucky’s perineum.
Bucky whispers, barely pushing it past his lips: “ -nough.” Trigger walks to the dresser, opens a drawer, returns with a set of gray handcuffs and yards of cotton rope. He kneels, snaps the cuffs around Bucky’s wrists and pulls him to his feet.
Trigger raises Bucky’s arms over his head. “When I’ve whipped your ass raw and I’ve strapped a ten pound weight to your balls, I’ll need to be able to know if you’ve had enough.” Looping the rope through the hinge in the cuffs, Trigger feeds the free end through a pulley in an overhead beam.
“Now,” Trigger says, pulling in slack until Bucky stands on the balls of his feet, arms fully extended, “say enough for me, Bucky.” From underneath his navel Bucky fills his lungs, squeezes shut his eyes and lets loose with a yell.
“Good,” says Trigger. He pulls a kerchief from his rear pocket, wraps it around Bucky’s head, fashions a blind-fold, ties a knot in the back at the base of the skull. Trigger tugs his t-shirt over his head, wipes the back of his neck and tosses it onto the dresser.
Bucky hears Trigger’s boots on the floor – three long steps, one short – a pause, a tidy thump against the wall. In the yard a breeze passes through the poplars, rustling leaves, rattling a pane of glass against the door frame. Bucky can’t be sure about the leaves – they make a sound like rain: a pattering, hushing rhythm.
if the door were open i might smell the rain not so much a smell – a sensation a tingle in the nose a charge in the lungs but the doors are closed the room is filling with my scent the sweat that trickles from my armpits from my thighs – bitter sharp the odor that accompanies illness exhaustion my body secretes the scent of desperation where have i smelled it before in the truck after driving for days without stopping at leo’s bedside in the hospital another place narrow and dark and sudden the thought of it keeps me awake puts an ache in my gut my body twitches from the ache over my head the pulley squeaks the room is getting warmer there is another smell pungent and salty it must be him he stands behind me now breathing onto the back of my head my scalp warming cooling with each respiration on my shoulder blades i feel the moisture from his chest he embraces me he strokes my belly with one hand his other hand is closed holding something strips of leather graze my cock my knees this hand holds the whip before i can make use of his tenderness he pulls away from me with an open hand he beats my ass the pain is light it flickers from tailbone to spine and up into my brain dazzling my retinas fireworks explode dappling the gauzy scrim of my eyelids
“There is no introduction,” Trigger thinks, watching Bucky’s buttocks tighten. Flushing with blood they turn pink, red, scarlet:
There is no preparation for this. Pain will have its way, it is constant, intermittently distributed throughout a life; to each of us it seems unexpected, unwelcome. Below me his body registers the nature of this knowledge – twitching ass, flinching shoulders, the blush on the back of his neck. (I kissed Tiny there, below the ear, just behind the jaw, forcefully, persistently, using teeth and tongue’s tip; there was a shiver across his flesh, he laughed too loudly, pulled away, he leaned into me, tilting his head – he offered me the other side.) If I stooped to kiss him my lips would feel the heat, the coursing blood is speeding through the shutters of his heart, my tongue would taste his salty flesh – a manifestation of fear, an autonomous response, the regulation of involuntary reactions. Indeterminate, unresolved, his grief has rendered him incapable, undecided. In the crib, ego is given direction, bearings, it is launched – achieves a certain velocity, requisite momentum, and inevitably, eventually, it will collide – with circumstance, needs unmet or thwarted, or the careen of passion. His is the kind of accident from which I cannot turn. Now, I kiss him on the back of the neck, I whisper into his ear, had enough, from side to side he shakes his head, no. Stepping back, I lay the whip across his shoulders, descending the column of his spine until I reach the sacrum. With persistence and sufficient force these strips of leather bruise the skin, raise welts, with tenacity and patience they draw blood. Back up his spine I lay the whip more urgently, snapping at flesh and tendon, quickening the pace. He does not cry out; when I glance over his shoulder, his cock is flaccid. I am not surprised. Men come to me for many things: flogging, knots, whipping, piss; strength, tenderness. Bucky came to me for dissolution. What did I see when he looked up at me? The countenance of shame: pale, nearly translucent, photophobic. But the cuffs have been on him too long – they chafe at the folds on his wrist. I’ll take him down now. I’ll tie him to a beam.
Trigger supports Bucky, holds him at the waist with one arm, unlocks the cuffs with his free hand. Bucky crumples. Behind Bucky’s back, around the beam, Trigger winds the rope around each wrist – left, right – he makes a set of figure eights and knots the rope on Bucky’s forearms. Quietly, barely supported by his breathing, Trigger hums a melody. He grips Bucky’s nipples, twists them roughly – heating them up, filling them with blood; when they become erect, standing full and red on Bucky’s chest, Trigger clamps a forceps on each tit, humming a bit louder now.
Bucky sucks air through his nose, a whistling past snot. The pressure on his tits is like a set of stubborn, grinding teeth. Trigger goes to his tool chest – the dry scrape of a wooden drawer – returns with a five pound fishing weight and a fine leather strap. Trigger wraps a hand around Bucky’s testicles, tugging gently, slowly stretching the scrotal sack, pulling the moist, hairy mass away from his thighs. Trigger quickly loops the strap around Bucky’s nuts, just above the contour of their fullness. In front he ties a half-hitch knot, pulls the loose ends through a grommet in the sinker; he ties another knot and eases the weight down, between Bucky’s thighs.
Bucky’s knees give way. He straightens up too fast – cramping in his lower back – jerking to compensate, to keep his balance. The weight swings back and forth, picking up speed, rapping on the wooden beam – knocking out a triplet, a cadence Bucky feels in his spine and shoulders. The vibration from the knocking resonates throughout the beam – from metal into wood, flesh, bone. Tok! Bucky’s body knows this sound. When he shuts the engine down this is the noise it makes:
shift it into neutral pull the parking brake twist the key toward my chest and there it is again a patient hollow triplet i felt it in my grip and in my tailbone(tok) the windshield was opaque with freezing condensation i saw the mountains through a pane of frost vague, insurmountable peaks like watching television through a tank of turbid water if the highway and the lowlands had filled suddenly with water i could have rolled the window down floated through escaping with the bubble through the portal (tok) the highest peaks would rise above sea level if i kicked off my shoes and shed my clothes i would ascend flapping my arms through the cloudy ocean the parcel of air that i held in my lungs could bear me up through thousands of feet i would pass my skull and lungs indifferent to pressure and ascent the laws of hydrostatics thrust through the ocean’s skin my head bobbing up above i would make the slightest popping sound (tok) i would sputter and cough draw in deep breaths i would feel the craggy peaks beneath my feet paddle my way to a rocky underwater ledge and sway in the heaving sea
Trigger walks away from Bucky, away from the swaying sinker and the knocking beam and stands before the dresser in the center of the wall.
I keep the smaller things in here: leather straps, handcuffs, clamps, rubber gaskets; I line them up alongside one another, everything in order, just so. Open the top drawer slowly or they tumble together, tangle and knot in a heap. The left panel bears the mark, an indicia, Proof, said Tiny, an original, a seal of craftsmanship. He pointed to it proudly, one by one he opened all the drawers; he was so pleased with himself for pleasing me. He said, Do you like it? He had folded socks into the top drawer, boxers in the next; then, the t-shirts, sweatshirts. In the last one – jeans. I reassured him, Of course I do. He explained, There’s room enough for both of us. It’s beautiful, I said. I kept his meds in here, at first I arranged them alphabetically, like rows of fine books or opera scores. As he grew worse, they slowly realigned themselves into a hierarchy of toxicity, each of them designed to interrupt, suppress, diminish; they rattled every time I slid the drawer out (clatter) or in (clatter). Him: When I’m with you, I am fulfilled – a problem you know how to solve. In the second drawer, in plastic bags I store the plugs and dildoes. Me: Within, you have always been equipped with everything you’ve ever needed. In the next one I keep the lube; the fourth holds nylon and cotton rope, a variety of chains. That’s absurd, he said, No man is a monolith. The fifth has stacks of porn on print and tape (the oldest on the bottom, newest on top). From infancy, I explained, patterns are established within each of us, they resonate throughout our lives, they constellate desires, terrors. The bottom drawer contains the heaviest: the manacles, the fattest weights, iron collars, the silver gift box sealed with masking tape. I said, It is unavoidable. Inside the box there is a tupperware container with two thick rubber bands across the lid. It accommodates cupfuls of Tiny: fine, chalky, gray.
Trigger brings a riding crop from the dresser. He slaps the end against Bucky’s belly, across one hip, swinging high and wide he smacks the side of Bucky’s ass, his left thigh, he makes his way to Bucky’s knees and then reverses – slapping flesh – back to his navel, down the other thigh. Trigger smells a sweetness in the room, thin and cool. He pauses, sniffs twice. He squats to the floor, sits on his heels; he slowly strokes Bucky’s cock, moist with perspiration, until it thickens, stiffens. Trigger swings the crop at Bucky’s cock – from its nested root and down the shaft. He strikes the head of Bucky’s cock. Bucky tightens his thighs. The head turns pale, white. Trigger counts to five. When the head turns red, Trigger licks the tip of the crop and strikes again. Bucky swallows so hard his ears pop.
in the deepest underwater valley there might be an underwater city and bridges people only wonder at there would be a city hall a gothic cathedral row after row of houses and buildings filled with water and darting agitated fish upon a hill a single hospital covered in algae and barnacles inside a room somewhere a team of doctors would surround a man leo lies in bed unmoving bandages wrapped round his head into his lungs a respirator pumping air when he exhales a flock of silver bubbles form emerging from the mouthpiece they make their way across the room out the window clambering upwards through the water brushing the soles of my feet tickling the hairs on my ankles they pass my navel then my chest and now they collide they form a single egg of air the egg is burst the bursting makes a human moan husky hoarse i’ve heard this moan before passing leo’s parted lips sweetness on his breath a stuttering groan on the pavement from his head dark and slick pulsing to a puddle i bite my own lip now to keep myself from groaning the weight on my nuts is unbearable steel teeth gnash at my tits but this is what i came here for this is what i seek
Trigger stands and studies Bucky’s skin. “The body is a fact,” thinks Trigger, “it will not be appeased.”
This is the room where Tiny slept, woke, and slept again, diminishing, waning. Each day he grew more feeble, more fetid. Pissing the sheets, shitting himself, he would stare at the television, at poor Tonka, who was pacing, toenails clattering upon the floorboards, she would wander up and down the hallway with her tail between her legs. They sat together on the bed, looking out the windows at those spindly, scrawny trees. Goddammit, he said, as I cleaned his ass with baby wipes. I said, Do you want some tea; do you want some more squash soup; do you want to smoke some weed? He would not answer me. Tiny, I said. I climbed on top, kissed him on the earlobe, I gently pressed myself against him. He said, I’m sick of wanting. I woke up late that night, I had heard a horrid retching. I swung my legs off of the couch, ran down the hall; I stubbed my toe against the threshold. I heard the sound again: a wailing, spewing, suffering groan. He heaved; sputum, black and viscous, ejaculated, exiting his nose and mouth, clinging to his lips and chin; on his cheek there was a strand as dark and sticky as coal-tar. I lifted him; I held him. I rocked him very slowly. It’s alright, I said, It’s all right now. His body lurched and racked. His mouth went wide. There was an expiration, thin and faint. I whispered, Be a good boy now. He shuddered in my arms; his body acquiesced. This is the room where I let Tiny die.
Trigger stops. The fume of whiskey reaches him. He crosses to the french doors and fumbles with the handle; he opens them. A breeze moves through the poplars and fills the room: the sting of whiskey, the cloying scent of sweet vermouth. In the doorway Trigger stands, stiffly, looking out at the yard, searching for the odor’s source. Behind him, Trigger hears a cry – sharp and quick – the sound of something being split. He turns and walks to Bucky, whose mouth is open, belly heaving, shoulders trembling. Trigger kneels, struggling with the kerchief; he finally loosens the knot, unties the blindfold. Bucky’s lower lip reaches up for his teeth, over and over his mouth makes the shape enough enough enough. Trigger dismantles Bucky. He drops the gear to the floor. He pulls Bucky close, embraces him; with a shaky thumb he strokes the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky shudders, moans.
you’ve had enough you and your manhattans room for one more buckyboy through the crowd out the front down the street at the corner crossed against the light half a block and then a turn into the alley i know a shortcut stopped and pissed against the dumpster shook and buttoned up follow me little boy jesus leo christ how much further is this place trust me three of them in front of us a knife a stubby pipe a little league bat take it here take it it’s all i got a crack on my jaw a crack on my nose a roll to the gutter kick in the gut mouthful of blood roll and heave and spit and heave cough choke up above high overhead leo smacks one on the chin shoves him up against the wall drives a knee into his crotch they take him from behind kidneypunch and blade and pipe against his crown i see them turn to look see what i see and this is why i came here this is what i need i closed my eyes held my breath i prayed that they would leave i opened them and they were gone and leo’s head lay in a red red sea the stink of human salt whiskey piss and sweet vermouth so sweet sweet sweet —
Outside, the wind picks up, the poplars bow and sway; leaves scurry along the deck. Trigger presses his chin into the back of Bucky’s shoulder; Bucky feels the scrape of stubble, the bristle of mustache; on his neck he feels the brush of eyelashes, blinking forcefully. Moisture gathers on his neck, hot and quick. Bucky reaches up and rests his hand, palm-down, on top of Trigger’s head. Trigger says, “ – god damn it.” Sweat rolls off the hair in Bucky’s armpit and falls onto the wooden floor. “It’s OK,” says Bucky; he strokes the tough, short hair on Trigger’s head. The wind is gusting now: the house murmurs; the flat creaks; the back room whistles from the rushing air. Above them, on the roof; around them, on the walls; before them – on the floor below the opened doors – tentative and lucid, a pattering begins.