Tell Me Who You Are Read online

  Tell Me Who You Are

  By R.W. Clinger

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2021 R.W. Clinger

  ISBN 9781646567867

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  Tell Me Who You Are

  By R.W. Clinger

  We’re left behind. My Uncle Cliff’s boyfriend of three months and me. His name is Sam. Sam Schmidt. I call him Sam the Jew. I know I shouldn’t…but sometimes I’m not a nice guy. Sam’s a book editor from New York City. He’s thirty-six. Twice my age. A rock-hard hunk who causes me to go dizzy. Beautiful from toes to head. Thick curly onyx hair. Bottom of the ocean blue eyes. Clean-shaven. Dimples. Six-two or maybe -three. He wears a size thirteen shoe, which tells me his dick is big. Penny loafers. There’s a penny in each one. His navy-blue Kenneth Cole polo shirt is snug against his ripped chest and his pecs and abs pop like inflated rafts. The material is so tight around his arms that it causes his biceps to bulge. I give Uncle Cliff props: he knows how to pick boyfriends and I want to jump on Sam while we’re alone, maybe ride him, and prove to him that I’m a bad guy. Because deep inside we all want to be bad guys. I think. Or tell myself.

  I have to look away from him or I go hard. I’m eighteen and boys like me always become hard. Eighteen and nineteen year olds use me for just about anything sexual these days. Use your imagination and you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

  He sits in my mother’s recliner like a king: legs separated ever so slightly, upright back, royalty all the way. The one where she works her Sudoku puzzles while my dad watches the Steelers play football, or other sports. Sam looks up from the book he reads. Something by David Leavitt. A hardback. He catches me popping a stare at him, studying his good looks, licking my lips, drooling. “What, Timothy?”

  “No one calls me Timothy. It’s Tim or Timmy.” Never Timothy. What the fuck?

  “I’ll call you Timothy.”

  “Whatever.” I roll my eyes. I’m good at this. All the guys who I blow tell me this.

  “Go put some clothes on. Cover up your shit. Don’t be running around here half naked in your Speedo.”

  “You don’t like my yellow briefs?” I swing my dick in his face, flirting with him.

  He pushes me away, shakes his head. So adult. So annoying. So…Sam the Jew.

  It’s almost six in the evening. Summer heat boils the almost-purple horizon. The family has left for ice cream. They took two cars and drove into town. I’m not good enough to join them for such a pleasure. I’ve been bad recently. I’m grounded for the rest of summer. And I have to be watched. Closely. My parents don’t trust me now. They will never trust me. It’s Sam’s turn to watch me. Poor bastard.

  What I do: I purposely strip out of my summertime shorts and a T-shirt and run around the lakeside cottage in nothing more than a pair of canary yellow briefs that accent my balls and dick. I strut my swimmer’s build for him: flat stomach, broad shoulders, narrow trail of dark hair beneath my navel, plump package between my legs, hairy inner thighs.

  Maybe he wants my shit.

  Maybe he doesn’t.

  Some older men do. I can name a few. Sure I can.

  I’m a troubled young man who wants to find out if Sam the Jew is into me. Will he fuck up his relationship with Uncle Cliff and bang my bottom? I can only hope so.

  My mind drifts…Last November, the Saturday after Thanksgiving, an older man fucked me. He was thirty-five-years old, bald, and showcased tattooed arms, chest, and back. More tattoos than I could count. Called himself Jason. I didn’t care what his last name was. Picked me up at a bar called The Den in downtown Pittsburgh. Took me back to his dungy flat along the Ohio River.

  Told me his boyfriend was in Seattle and he wanted to fuck around behind his boyfriend’s back.

  Told me, “I know he’s cheating on me. So I want to cheat on him. A dick for a dick.” He winked at me, smiled. It was a devilish smile. One I could appreciate.

  Asked me, “Do you ride cock?”

  I did.

  Was more specific with me, “Do you ride eight-inch cock?”

  I did.

  On top of him, pleasuring the both of us, I studied his inked chest: bullfighter, ostrich, angel, dice, unicorn, covered bridge, waterfall, two crosses, an apple, violin, and so many other colorful items. Beneath his left nipple was the word killer.

  I should have asked him about that when he came inside the condom that separated our moving bodies.

  I didn’t.

  Should have.

  I come to…

  My family leaves Pittsburgh and comes to the cottage next to Lake Erie every Fourth of July. My parents, Vivian and Ray Titan, own the place. I’m their only child; spoiled rotten. It’s a huge place and has four bedrooms. Most agree it’s more of a house than a cottage, but this is what we call it. Vivian’s two sisters came: Rita and Marge. Marge brought her two daughters, Lisa and Lynn. And Ray’s queer brother came, Uncle Cliff. This is Sam the Jew’s boyfriend. The place filled up quickly. You can barely breathe. Bring oxygen.

  I pace the cottage’s living room in my briefs, attempting to distract my uncle’s boyfriend. My task eventually works.

  “Is this the worst holiday for you, Timothy?” Sam asks, setting his book aside. He blinks a number of times.

  I don’t slip into more clothes, always a troublemaker, and scratch my navel. Once. Twice. Three times. “Could be worse.”

  “Your father’s a fine lawyer.”

  “And wealthy. Money talks.”

  He snickers. “It does.”

  “It doesn’t mean I have to be baby-sat all summer long.”

  He snickers again. “It’s a minor punishment for what you did, Timothy. You could have gone to jail.”

  “Fuck what I did.” He’s drinking a Twisted Tea from a can. It’s peach flavored. I’m underage but help myself to it. Take a swig.

  He doesn’t stop me, although I think he will. Instead, he tells me, “Have a seat. Tell me how you almost went to jail last month. The story’s a bit sketchy. Cliff’s only given me a few of the details. He doesn’t like to talk about you and your…situation.”

  “First off, I wasn’t supposed to be there that night. The party that is. I was supposed to be on a date with Fox…Fox Hillterman. Uncle Cliff probably told you about the Hillterman family. Very prestigious. Loads of old money. Three houses. Fox’s grandfather wrote paperback mysteries back in the fifties under three different pseudonyms. They sold all over the world. Millions and millions of copies. Not as big as Agatha Christie, but big. You can still buy the
m in bookstores and on Amazon today.

  “Anyway, Fox’s mother, Tilda, became sick in Nashville with the flu or something. So he had to fly down there and be with her. Our date was canceled. No biggie. Fox would come back for my bottom. He always did. He loved it. And I always gave it to him. We banged all the time when he was around. It was our thing.

  “That’s why I went to the party. I knew Jessica Chagen was having it. Everyone knew. Her parents were in Denver and she invited me a week before. So that’s why I ended up at her residence. There had to be one hundred people there. Maybe even two hundred. The Chagens have six acres next to the Onslaught Golf Club. A lot of the kids were spilling on to the golf course with their drinks, which was probably expected. Most of the kids were from high school. Some came from Jules College, which you already know is beside the Onslaught Golf Club.”

  Sam takes a sip of his Twisted Tea. He doesn’t offer me a sip. I take a sip anyway. Pass it to him as he shakes his head. He sits it back on the end table to his right. “You are bad. Tell me more.”

  “Wally Spindrift was at the party and—”

  Sam snaps his fingers at me and lights up with an ear to ear smile. No wonder Uncle Cliff finds him attractive. He’s adorable when he does this. He abruptly cuts off my comment with, “The Jules College quarterback. Cliff told me about him. He looks like Chris Evans. He’s a senior this upcoming year. He’s a legend. He might even be up for the Heisman this year.”

  “Yes. That’s him.” I roll my eyes. “The one and only. He was on my radar to get naked with. I mean, who doesn’t want to lick Wally’s chest, among other things? I wanted to get him out of his clothes and blow him. If I could get him alone and fuck him, I would. Dick-to-ass stuff. Either I would do him, or he would do me. I didn’t care what happened between us.”

  “Did you know he was going to be at the party?”

  I nod. “Of course. It was all over social media.”

  “But he is straight. Right?”

  “As a toothpick.”

  “You didn’t stand a chance to get with him.”

  “I knew that. Don’t think I didn’t. I’m not stupid.”

  “How much did you have to drink at the party, Timothy?”

  “Tim. Call me Tim. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

  He ignores me. “Were you drunk at the party?”

  I nod. “Who wasn’t drunk at the party?”

  “How much did Wally have?”

  “He doesn’t drink. He’s into Jesus and his Bible. The Lord prevents him from drinking.”

  “Cliff mentioned that. Cliff told me that Wally and his family have forgiven you for what you’ve done. They’re devoted Christians. The Spindrift family loves you. Just as Jesus loves you. You’ve been forgiven.”

  “Whatever,” I tell him, finishing off his Twisted Tea. “They’re all freaks if you ask me. Bible whores. You can’t trust any of them.”

  Does he smile? I think he does. Not sure. “What was Wally drinking?”

  “Sprite.”

  “Your uncle told me you took a drug of some kind?”

  “I did. It was called Mata Hari. Something synthetic. Three purple pills. It made me feel like the Hulk.”

  “Where’d you take Wally?” Sam the Jew asks.

  “To the golf course. Among a few oak trees. No one could see us from the house. It was just the two of us. I wasn’t his friend. Hell, he didn’t even know me. Not my name. Nothing. But I learned quickly that he liked to talk and talk and talk. He wouldn’t stop talking. Some guys are like that. And it gave me the opportunity to walk with him. Because he liked to talk and walk and…”

  “And…?”

  I scratch one of my nipples. Blink once. Blink twice. Blink three times. “And what? Didn’t Uncle Cliff tell you what I did to Wally?”

  “He did. But not all the details. Remember, he doesn’t like to talk about what you did. Give me some details.”

  “Why do you want details?”

  “Because I want to hear the truth regarding what happened that night. From you. No one else.”

  “Are you sick, Sam? Do you really want to know what I did to him?”

  He shakes his head. “Of course I’m not sick. I just want to hear your side of the story. You were attracted to this guy. He loves Jesus. You had a strong drug in your system. He is straight. He is a football legend. A super jock. Your uncle told me you grew to hate him because you could never have him. Because he maybe loved Jesus more than he could love you.”

  “He’s right. I couldn’t have him. And yes, I hated him. I still do.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I became like Hulk, angry as hell, and beat the shit out of him. Bloodied his face. Broke his jaw. Broke his collarbone. I was smaller than he was, but pulverized him and…”

  “You stopped talking. Why?”

  “Don’t tell me Uncle Cliff never told you this.”

  “But I don’t know what you did. You tell me.”

  “I’m sure Uncle Cliff told you, though. Isn’t that what lovers do? They tell dark family secrets to each other.”

  He shakes his head. “He didn’t.”

  “But the two of you are lovers, right? Don’t you tell each other everything?”

  He nods. “We do. But he kept these details to himself.”

  “Why didn’t he tell you what I did to Wally?”

  “Because maybe at the time he was embarrassed of you.”

  “Ouch. That stings. That hurts.”

  “I’m only being honest. That’s the reality of this situation, Timothy. You will have to live with what you did for the rest of your life. You took an illegal drug and beat another human being almost to death. Wally Spindrift will hurt you forever. You might not know this now, but eventually you will.”

  “Honesty stings.”

  “This is true. So true. Now tell me what else happened. Set a part of your soul free and tell me the rest.”

  “It’s horrible,” I say to Sam, looking at the boarded floor and his bare feet.

  “But I already know that. I know you almost went to prison.”

  I rub my dick, attempting to tease him, but get nowhere with him. “Guess you do.”

  “So tell me.”

  I pause. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. Take a deep breath. Eventually I whisper, “I broke a few of his ribs and his nose. I almost blinded him in one eye.”

  “Did you leave the party after that?”

  “I did. I left him to die.”

  “Who found him that night?”

  “One of his buddies. A Chris somebody or other. He’s a fullback.”

  “When did you hear from the cops?”

  “The next day. All hell broke loose. Wally remembered talking to me last at the party. He remembered me walking him to the golf course and…”

  He says, “Now you’re grounded for the summer and have to be watched.”

  “Until I go to Pitt in the fall. My classes start at the end of August.”

  “Your dad knows people in high places and kept you out of jail. Your dad manipulated the law and paid a fortune to keep you free.”

  “Something like that. I don’t know. I don’t even care. It’s over. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  “You were old enough to know better not to do it.”

  I shrug. “Guess so. The drug wasn’t even that good.”

  “Will you ever do it again, Timothy?”

  I become quiet, motionless. I don’t even blink. “Probably not.”

  “Probably?”

  “Probably.”

  He shakes his head. I stun him and leave him flabbergasted. He grows ten years older in my mother’s chair. His mouth hangs open. I wonder what he’s thinking. But I’ll never find out. Instead, outside, the gravel in the drive churns and sounds under tires. The family is back from their trip to get ice cream. I walk away from Sam the Jew. I no longer need him to watch me.

  * * * *

  That summer I become a street
boy. I hide in the city from my parents for a few months or years or something. I don’t go to Pitt because my father gets drunk a week after the Fourth of July at the cottage and kicks me out of the Pittsburgh house. He obviously can’t handle the reality and yells at me, “You’re a little piece of shit…You’re a criminal! You will never be our son again!”

  It becomes a rat’s life for me. Moving from one bed to the next. Scavenging for food. Some days I don’t even know where I’m at in the city. Here. There. North. South.

  It’s happened: an estranged relationship with my parents. Fleeing at eighteen. Vanishing. They’ve been looking for me since the Fourth of July. Since our visit to the cottage by Lake Erie. I don’t want to be Timothy Titan anymore. They think I’m a criminal. I’m unloved in August, September, October. I’m lost and confused and damaged and…

  I spend the night on a stranger’s dick. He goes by the name of Knife. He picks me up in Radshay Park and takes me to his apartment. The place is a hole and smells like dog shit but I don’t care. At least it’s a place to sleep, and better than the street. I ride his dick for payment. He likes his nipples pinched and pulled, which I don’t have a problem with.

  When he’s done fucking me we smoke a joint in his bed. It’s kind of romantic, but it isn’t because of the dog shit smell, which is quite rank and floats around the room. He tells me, “You can stay as long as you want. But there are two other guys who live here. Frank and Bill. They’ll want the same payment from you that I just got.”

  He passes me the joint and I take a hit. “I’ll have to let them fuck me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m okay with this. I don’t mind riding dick.”

  Knife doesn’t understand me. I don’t expect him to.

  The following night Frank and Bill do a tag team on me. It’s wicked. I’ve been in threesomes before but this one turns aggressive. I’m bitten and scratched and slapped. Bill bashes my face with his seven inches, and Frank nails my bottom with his eight inches. I’m a piece of meat to them. Nothing else. No one. To them I have no feelings. I’m rent money.

  At one point, I’m not sure when, not that it really matters, their condom-covered dicks are inside me at the same time. They fuck me together: in and out, repeatedly, and egg each other on, unstoppable in their labor.