Christopher Leppek - Abattoir

Derek was 12 years old. His uncle Steve was watching over him, as he frequently did when Derek’s parents were out of town, on one of their many jaunts to exotic locales. The uncle and his nephew had always been close.

On this particular evening, Steve tried to expand those interests, in a direction that the boy did not anticipate.

“I want to show you something. You won’t believe this, Derek.”

He pulled out a number of slick and glossy magazines. Derek read their titles—Penthouse, Hustler and Oui. He recognized some of them from his forays into the 7-11, but had never gotten a good close look.

Especially inside.

Steve fanned them out on the carpeted floor, the pages turned to the large format centerfolds. There, before Derek’s unbelieving eyes, were photographs of what he considered older women.

His first reaction was one of shock to see the hair. How odd, he thought, for hair to grow in such an unlikely place.

There were other photographs—close-ups. These were even more shocking, the way they revealed the secret contours and surfaces of places Derek had never seen nor imagined.

“Doesn’t that turn you on, man?” Steve whispered. “Look at their faces. Pretend that they’re thinking about you. Thinking about you fucking them.”

The use of the profanity shocked Derek; that it came from a grown-up, his uncle .

He didn’t seem to take particular notice that his uncle had laid down beside him on the floor.

Derek found it difficult to imagine that these women were thinking about him “fucking” them. To him, they all seemed to be pouting or in some sort of mysterious pain.

“You can borrow these anytime, kid,” Steve offered, pulling himself onto the couch. “Just call me whenever you want to see them, and swear never to tell your mom and dad.”

Derek took a place beside his uncle on the couch. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to borrow these magazines, and he didn’t know what Steve meant when he said “turned on.” To him, the naked women pictured in their glossy centerfolds looked more like photographs of animals in a biology book. He took in their breasts, huge mounds of flesh, their vaginas, strange and dangerous looking organs, wondering what the big deal was.

He found it all very confusing.

“There’s a lot I could teach you, kid,” Steve said softly, placing his hand on Derek’s thigh. “There’s a lot I could show you.”

Even then, Derek didn’t quite get it. He didn’t want to get it…

It was more than a horror to him. Much more. It was also painful, embarrassing, humiliating, confusing, Dirty.

When Steve left late that night, he gave his nephew a grateful kiss on the lips, and repeated his warning never to tell his parents:

“We’ll have to do this again sometime, Derek,” he said, winking as he closed the front door.

It never did happen again. Steve moved to a faraway city not long after, and he never once brought it up during his brief visits.

It was like it had never happened at all. After a while, Derek stopped thinking about it, stopped crying himself to sleep at night. It was as if he’d hidden that awful memory, locked it up , perhaps in the same secret and dark place where Uncle Steve stashed his nasty magazines.

Susan gasped and sighed at Derek’s bedroom. He laid down on the bed and watched her explore every nook and cranny—the closet with his collections of suits and shoes; the art; the mirror on the wall behind the bed; the stunning Cartier clock on the nightstand.

He could tell that she knew it was of silver. She struck him as the type of girl who studied the composition—and value—of articles very closely.

He smiled to himself: It is silver, and it probably cost more than she made in a year.

She began to undress, doing an impromptu striptease on the bed. She was wearing black satin underwear, a push-up bra and matching thong.

He smelled her perfume—something heavy and musky—and tried not to yawn.

Derek was 16 years old.

He was feeling pretty good about himself. He’d landed a date with Debbie; one of the hottest girls at Central High. It was his first date alone with a girl. He was excited, and a little nervous.

Derek knew she liked him. The grapevine at school had made it very clear that she wanted to, as they put it, “… jump his bones.” He knew what that meant, of course, but he worried over the proper way to get there. When should he first take her hand? Put his arm around her shoulders? Kiss her?

He’d been told by more experienced lovers that the best place to make a first move was in the haunted house ride at King’s Park. They had progressed through the carousel and bumper cars before Derek suggested the “Tunnel of Horrors.”

Debbie didn’t hesitate.

The ride progressed through a predictable phalanx of zombies, mummies, vampires and witches, before entering a long stretch of total blackness. Recognizing his cue, Derek leaned over for a kiss.

He closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and was met with a mass of Prell-scented hair in his mouth. He felt her recoil in surprise and then, with amazing smoothness, gently brushed her hair aside and brought his lips to hers.

The sensation was pleasant at first—soft against soft—but then something happened. Debbie’s hand grabbed the back of Derek’s head and she thrust her tongue deeply into his mouth.

It felt like a writhing slug; wet and slimy. He lurched back, striking his head against the metal side of the car, and coughed loudly.

“What’s wrong?” she whispered, the hurt evident in her voice.

“Nothing,” he replied lamely. “It’s just that I… that I’ve never done this before.”

Debbie didn’t buy it. She never spoke to him again.

Susan was very aggressive, and surprisingly skilled. She took full command of the situation, bringing him to full arousal with her hand and tongue. He liked the way she purred as she worked him.

He laid on his back, watching in the mirror as she performed, admiring the smooth, perfectly-tanned curves of her body, the way her long red hair encircled his groin, the fullness of her lips, the tautness of her nipples.

She’d make a perfect model for a sculptor or an artist… pretty and passionate.

Derek brought his mind back to the task at hand. Susan was slowing down, sending him a subtle but unmistakable message that it was his turn. He resigned himself to the obligation.

“What would you like?” She told him, assuming the appropriate position.

Derek positioned himself behind her, inwardly groaning at the cold and mechanical labor to come.

It was not so for Susan, her moans escalating to screams. Derek struggled to keep up with her.

Her screams grew to such a crescendo that they drowned out all other sounds in the flat. Neither of the lovers noticed that the handsome Cartier clock by the side of the bed had momentarily stopped ticking.

As they continued, Derek watched himself in the mirror above his head board. He admired his own body—the lean firmness of his chest, the way the muscles in his hips moved with their gyrations…

Something was happening.

Derek felt it first in the heightened sensitivity in his loins, then everywhere . His heart raced, his breath grew rapid, his skin and hair acutely sensitive to every motion.

He didn’t believe it, but he was actually making love. He didn’t think of it at the moment, nor did he yet understand its source, but knew it subconsciously: It was the first time he had ever done this.

His partner clearly felt the change as well, responding with even more fervent movement; louder, more animalistic exclamations.