Buster was queer if you paid enough. He amazed even himself what he could get hard for, speed or no speed, but it certainly came in handy when he needed more. Speed, that is. Crank. That delightful burn up the nose was more sexual than any squirt from that strange fellow below who would respond to virtually any command. "Up, Jumbo!" "Give, Queenie!" Or even if he's shot his wad, it will still get hard. Such was the nature of his 19 year old speed freak cock.
Hustling was relatively easy. He found more action at the bus station than Chickenhawk Row. Too much competition on the Row. Too many drug addicts or just plain hungry or just plain crazy runaways. Hang out at the bus station, just inside the Terminal near the vending machines. Only make eye contact with the ones who looked first, who you could rule out as dealers, since the quality of drugs in the Terminal was cut to shit anyway.
Buster was good-looking in a square-jawed military sort of way, and the mohawk just gave him a sort of futuristic soldier look, as did the homemade tats of skulls, ghouls and monster rodents. He'd been athletic in high school, and still had the build, and speed and dehydration really made the veins pop in his biceps and rope down his arms. He'd make sure he was well into the speed high, so waiting around in the terminal buzzing with his philosophical thoughts of God, the Devil and Man was almost like reading a Stephen King novel in 3-D hologram kinda way. Damn, it felt so fine—that clean white noise one note buzz that pervaded his entire body, including his cock.
He'd try to wear the Levi cut-off vest if he could stand the weather, and sometimes it seemed he could stand just about any weather—future soldier that he was. Dirty black jeans tucked into motorcycle boots held together with duct tape. A glow-in-the dark rosary around his neck. Not that he believed, per se, but the clientele liked that touch—it made them feel dirtier, more sinful, vermin that they were. And they were, brother, Buster laughed to himself.
Ah and here was one now. The old pops kinda guy, pants up high, round glasses, wispy hair mostly white, he was virtually licking his dentured chops at the sight of Buster—that simpering look, it was disgusting, like Bambi. Buster knew one day he might give in and just bash one of these guys, just sink his face with a brick, right when they had that quivering Bambi look—well, I'm the hunter, baby, and that's a shotgun up your ass, like the one that killed your mom in the Disney cartoon, and shoulda killed you in her womb.
Buster could feel his teeth grinding so he stopped this chain of thought. Right now he could rage just by pounding the fuck out some bony, leathery old ass, drooping like a melted watch of flesh—like those paintings, that guy—Sir Real or something. With luck, that would hold, since he knew the Slam was likely if he crushed an old geezer's head—since the police could read his thoughts, he was sure, and were always trying to raid the various squats he and his pals would find and would just LOVE to catch him with some sort of ectoplasmic evidence so they could toss him away in a concrete room and then HIS ass would be pounded into a hemorrhoidal jelly donut mollusk-mouthed mutant pussy. Like Videodrome, man, like one of those sci fi movies.
He'd heard the cops sometimes wanted their dicks sucked but that hadn't happened to him—he was too rough trade, Molly said. She'd had to do it. Some of the girly boys did, too. Or get fucked. But no cop asked to be fucked.
So the old coot was cruising him now, his tongue snaking slightly over the dentures, his lip quivering. Maybe he was some palsied motherfucker. Or desire gave him the shakes, like too much speed.
Buster got up and followed him out to the parking lot, got into the car, and they drove. Buster knew he could take the guy if he acted up, just kick him right out of the car. So Buster relaxed. Let's take a spin, a moonlight drive, let's watch the city swim.
"My soul cries out for a little rumpus," the old man said. "Has your soul ever cried out for a little rump...us?" Seriously, the things these guys could say sometimes. Unbelievable shit. Buster looked straight ahead. These dudes knew they weren't paying for some fucking girlfriend experience—they wanted the danger, anyway. Maybe I'll die this time—maybe I'll get the brick. Yeah, maybe you will.
The old guy parked in a drug store back lot. Buster knew it—it was a good choice. You'd have time to pull up your pants or whatever because you'd see the lights from any car come down the alley-like driveway. Still, it was relatively unknown—since a little inconvenient, a little too far a drive. Mostly shops, low-rent, not even worthy robbing. So no neighbors to complain about the in & out traffic as it were, so to speak, hum hmmm hmm.
Buster's cock was getting hard before the guy even turned his buttocks, his bony old pelvis, pulling down his old-man underwear. Buster tried to stick it in. But there was something, a shell, a chastity belt back there, even with a dick copiously lubed with a good spit of phlegm. Buster bucked at it, but it wouldn't give. He had to see for himself, and reached down, despite distaste—motherfucker, there was a flat old turd there like a giant scab, like the scale on some deep sea motherfucker, one of those with a light on his head and horrible teeth (and the street light shining over the drug store roof briefly seemed the light of this giant undersea motherfucker kraken he just thought of)—but Buster was enterprising. He reached down and yanked that shit scab off the old guy's anus and plunged his cock in, not even waiting for the anus pucker to admit him, to say hello, to relax, and the old man let out a deep visceral sound, beyond pleasure and pain and for a moment, Buster held still to make sure he hadn't gone too far with all of this, still eyeing the crisp $20 on the dashboard like a strokebook for inspiration.
"Please, please, fuck me—fuck me in the ass!" So Buster did, smearing his hand that had yanked the scab on the old man's shirt, but there was nothing to smear, that turd had been fossilized.
Allen Ginsberg said "Marc Olmsted inherited Burroughs' scientific nerve & Kerouac's movie-minded line nailed down with gold eyebeam in San Francisco."
Olmsted teaches the on-line course "WRITING KEROUAC/SITTING BUDDHA: Spontaneous Poetics & Big Mind" at Writers.com. His book, What Use Am I a Hungry Ghost?—Poems from 3-Year Retreat (VCP Press, 2001), has an introduction by Ginsberg. For more of his work, see MarcOlmsted.com.
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