A Boy and His Wolf
A (Mostly) True Urban Fable for Hard-Core Fags at the End of the Millennium
By horehound stillpoint
This excerpt has been edited for content, and is incomplete. It is a hint, a taste, nothing more. The story as you read it in Rough Stuff is more intense and powerful than we can possibly display here.
horehound stillpoint is a poet and a pervert, and his stories are not quite like anything else we've ever read. We all know, or hope, that wild promises lurk within the darkness of surrender. stillpoint drags us down the road of excess, to the place where a crazy transcendence burns.
The boy sold his soul for leather, and God never said a word.
This young man (who wanted to remain nameless) traded his freedom for belts, heavy metal handcuffs, a chrome-plated dog collar, and yards and yards of rope. He was tied to a pole in the middle of a basement-cum-dungeon-cum-temple of renunciation.
A man called Wolf picked him up, walked him home, and then they went to church.
One hundred candles burned and 200 crystals glittered in the dark temple of the Wolf. A ten-inch dildo, "Black Bob," sealed the boy's mouth off from any idea of a kiss. Its eight-inch circumference choked his screams and made him swallow many hallelujahs.
This strapping young body wrapped in leather for three days and three nights produced a river of sweat that was Biblical. He also produced an ocean of come that was preverbal.
The tears, though, the tears of the boy were not his own but seeds of the past.
One weekend with Wolf rolled back 5,000 years of civilization.
Barely 18, new to the city, this kid was homeless and penniless but not without assets. His Olympic legs, prime-cut butt, Coke-can cock, and jet-black eyes stopped traffic everywhere he went. Young, wild, and cocky, he thought he was ready for just about anything. He was right. He wanted it. Needed it. Loved it, all of it.
Wolf wasn't bad either. Walking down the street, he seemed to be pure animal, scruffy, with hungry eyes and a rolling gait. The energy he exuded had a lone and dangerous spark.
This was only one weekend, among many, for them both.
The stereo down there raged ear-blis
