Christos Tsiolkas - Merciless Gods

He grabbed it back, his grip tight. Then, letting go, he threw his arm over my shoulder, bringing me in closer to him. I felt safer. I noticed the thick hair on his arms, was aware of the heaviness of his body. We kept walking, his arm around my shoulder, staggering, mostly silent all the way to his house, except for when he asked me what football team I barracked for.

‘Essendon.’

He nodded.

‘And you?’

‘Carlton.’

And that was it. We kept walking, through the park, down back alleys, all the way to his house. He was humming tunes I recognised.

When we got to his house he put his finger to his lips, opened the door and navigated me quietly to his bedroom. The light, when he switched it on, was far too bright. A naked globe hung low from the ceiling. He sat on the unmade mattress. I remained standing, wanting to be there and not wanting to be there, looking around at the bedroom walls. There were a few snapshots, a poster of Taxi Driver , and old record sleeves, Lou Reed’s Transformer , Hunters and Collectors’ Human Frailty . I looked everywhere but at him. Until he started stripping.

His body was firm but not tight. He took off his T-shirt and I looked at his chest, almost hairless, the long nipples, the three small folds of his belly. I felt a locker-room shyness, as if caught stealing illicit glances.

He dropped to his knees.

I looked away to a picture on the wall opposite me, a page torn out of a magazine. The edges were ragged. Jessica Lange, her gaze intense, straight into the camera. He was unzipping my trousers, kissing my cock through my briefs. My cock remained flaccid and I was blushing.

‘Good movie,’ I said, making conversation. He stopped kissing.

He looked over his shoulder and up at the picture. ‘Yeah, ace movie. A fucking classic. What they did to her, you know, Frances Farmer, that’s the worst thing you can do to someone, take away their soul.’

I was looking down at him. His hair was limp and fine. I was feeling tenderness: the footballer’s shoulders and inside them the little boy. I stroked his hair, his face, and

we were kissing and

his mouth was harsh, not a girl’s mouth, and his body was hard as it pressed against

me, covering me, but the skin was just so soft, like touching the underneath of bark

and I thought a few times, as we were making love, that

fuck, it’s a man, this is a man

but our bodies worked together, and I liked him coming all over me, groaning and swearing loudly,

repeating

oh man oh man oh man

and as I was coming I had my eyes closed but I was digging my mouth into his neck and

I had to stop myself screaming, so I bit into him, because what I wanted to scream was something about love. Which is terror, which made me want to hit him, kick him. And then I came, the tremors stopped and I could finally breathe out.

He got up, switched off the light, grabbed his T-shirt and wiped the cum off me. I lay there, still. From the street I could hear cars, the screech of cats fighting. He held me, his arm wrapped around my chest. The sharp odour of his perspiration, overwhelming, nothing of sweetness in it. I kissed his skin just to have the taste of it.

‘Are you going to tell your girlfriend?’

‘No.’ The streetlight was making ghosts of the pictures on his wall.

‘Is this the first time you’ve slept with a guy?’

I nodded.

‘Me too. I mean, I’ve had sex with guys before. But you’re the first guy I’ve brought home.’

I was aware of the pressure of his thigh on mine, coarse hair digging into my skin.

‘You believe me, don’t ya?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I remember thinking, women taste of nectar, men smell like citrus.

‘Of course it fucking matters.’ He whispered it. ‘Of course it matters.’

I fell asleep in his arms, watching Jessica’s hair dance silver.

•

It’s ten o’clock and my stomach is rumbling. He’s back from another trip to the pub. There’s an English cop show on television but I’m not taking it in. He’s lying on the couch drinking. I notice his belly’s got bigger.

‘You’re getting fat.’

He pats his stomach and lets out a Tarzan yodel.

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Order some pizza.’

‘I’m tired of pizza. You said you’d cook.’

‘Can’t be bothered. Order a pizza.’

‘Who’s going to pay?’ Fucking user. I don’t say that. I don’t want to believe it.

I get up off the floor and walk into the kitchen. There’s dry bread in the cupboard. Two tomatoes, a lettuce, a jar of mustard and some tinnies in the fridge. That’s it. I walk back into the lounge room and position myself in front of the TV screen.

‘Let’s go out. Get something to eat.’

‘Get out of the frigging way.’

I don’t move.

‘What the fuck is up with you?’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘Well, go out and get something to eat.’ He opens another can of beer.

‘Come with me.’

‘Look, mate, I just want to watch some teev. I’m not in a mood to go out.’

‘You were last night.’ Without me. I’ve not forgiven him.

‘Last night was different. Now get out of the way and let me watch the show.’

‘You’re a drunk.’

He takes a long sip, he’s silent, watching me.

‘You’re also a pig.’

He finishes the can in two long gulps, throwing the liquid down his throat.

‘You always stink of piss.’

‘That’s enough.’

I sense the outrage in his voice. I don’t move. I keep going. ‘And you’re dumb. Dumb as dogshit.’

‘I said, enough!’

I keep taunting him. Call him more names, give in to my anger, call him a poofter, call him a loser, call him a bore, I keep yelling until he bolts up and it happens so fast that I don’t have time to run, not even time to plead, though I hear myself screaming something before he’s hurtling into me and I’m kicking but he’s stronger and bigger and tougher and knows how to fight and he cracks me sharp across my face and as I fall his knee crashes into my stomach and that’s it, I’m crying, flat on my arse and it’s not even that it hurts very much until he punches me in the middle of the mouth so my teeth bite on my tongue, I’m tasting blood, and he turns me over and twists my arm up my back and with his free hand he pulls at my hair, banging my head on the carpet until he hears something break and he lets go and I slump on the floor.

Then he pulls my shorts down to my knees and sticks his fingers up my arse, so hard it’s like a punch going right up me, in me, through me, and he tries to push his cock in and I’m struggling, squirming, screaming so he bangs my head down on the carpet again and again until I’ve shut up.

The first five thrusts,

I’m counting them because they’re slicing through my gut, it feels like a blade has torn through my bowels and up into my stomach.

All I do is grunt like a pig and then the thrusts become a pounding.

And I prefer the hammer to the blade because the pain is duller and I’m waiting for it to finish, the television is on and a cop is running after some white kid who’s been dealing drugs on a housing estate, out of nowhere I’m hearing a shit Bryan Adams song in my head, and as the thrusts become more rapid he is throwing himself deeper into me and all I’m thinking is please god, don’t let me shit, oh please god please don’t let me shit please god don’t let me shit.

He comes, goes soft inside me, and falls heavily onto me. There is wetness on the back of my neck, maybe his tears, but probably just spit.

The cop gets the white kid.

•

Neither of us makes a sound. I’d be sick if he tried to talk to me. There’s not a word. All I’m aware of is the acrid stink of the alcohol. There’s blood in my mouth. I spit it out.