Page 247 - Gay San Francisco_Eyewitness Drummer
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Gay San Francisco: Eyewitness Drummer                227
                shade. His cock hardened untouched. He looked for the faces
                out there in the dark.
                    Other hands, other intentions, shuffled the evidence spread
                across the table, turning pages, trying to sort fiction from non-
                fiction,  examining  photographs,  advancing  videos  frame  by
                frame. He smirked. Excitement tweaked his nipples. Someone
                had tampered with the evidence: cum had spurted across his
                thousand photographs of naked men; more cum glued together
                the pages of his sixty-nine stories in four volumes; cum, mixed
                with sweat and tears, curled the pages of his 562-page ransom
                note he couldn’t even dance to remember. Everything you say can
                be held . . . against . . . hard against . . . fill-in-the-blank, he figured.
                    At fourteen he had bet he could get away with murder. At
                first, all he needed to pull off the job were yellow legal pads,
                then a manual typewriter, then a Selectric, and finally a laptop.
                He moved on to cameras, black-and-white print film, 35mm
                transparencies (mmm, that first willing lifeguard on the beach
                in Chicago!), 8mm, Super-8, 16mm, video, digital, high-defini-
                tion. He was an analyst. He lived it up to write it down. He was a
                part of all he met and vice-versa verite, baby. He nailed a warning
                above his bed: “Enter here to become a story told at night around
                the world.” He could have sold space in his books and stories so
                eager were the accomplices wanting to be mentioned in code or
                in reality, desperate for him to write, “When the hero came into
                the bar, he walked by X who stood by the pinball machine.”
                    He could have admitted to none, some, much, most, or all
                of the fiction that was truth that was fiction, but he didn’t. His
                pen was mighty. He was a rich man with a big dick driving a
                fast car. As they had when he played football, everyone patted
                his ass. He always knew exactly what he was doing, who he was
                doing, when, where, and how he was doing it. His brain was his
                ultimate hardon. He had the last laugh.
                     — “Excerpt,” unpublished work in progress

           ©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved—posted 05-05-2017
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