Polarizing

By Jem Morgenstern

Jason was on his bed with his arms and legs stretched to each corner. His mind was blank, he was running out of savings, he was feeling poor. His search for a job wasn’t leading him anywhere. This was due to his dwindling will to survive and his professional ineptitude. His lack of willingness and lack of respectability had always hindered his success, and he was beginning to consider putting his best foot forward in resolving those issues.

Then, the phone rang. It rang again. He thought about ignoring it, but decided it was best to see who it was before letting it go to voicemail. He pulled it from his pocket and took a look at the caller ID. It was Michael.

Michael’s calls never take less than an hour, so he went back to thinking about ignoring the call. It rang. It rang again. It rang again. It wouldn’t be long before the opportunity to make his decision would expire. He decided to answer.

“Hey, Michael.”

“Took you awhile to pick up, what are you up to?”

“Nothing much. I was just getting out of the shower. You called at just the right time.”

That was a lie, but it was believable enough.

“Cute. Well, I’m glad you’re finally picking yourself up. I can help you find a job, you know.”

“It’s fine, Michael, I can handle that on my own.”

That was a lie, and it wasn’t as believable as his last one.

“It’s been a bit.”

“I know it has. I’m still collecting myself. I’ll get around to it.”

They both knew that this topic wouldn’t bring them anywhere interesting, but neither of them were sure how to change the topic, although michael was eager to find an opportunity to swing the conversation over to the story that gave him reason to call. There was a pause.

“Well, okay. I’m always willing to help you out though, just so you know.”

“Thanks, Michael,” he realized ending his sentence here would give their conversation another stiff pause, “what’ve you been doing?”

This was the opportunity Michael needed to tell his story.

“Well, I’m just todd in my flowery, thinking about the bona cartes from the night before funting my omi-palone corybungus, slapping my eek, giving me a good zhoosh. He was dolly rough trade. I met him down over at Charlie's, where I'd downed a bit of schlump and I was getting desperate for charver or to at least plate a good chicken. Looking about the bungery, there were a few too many bijou twinks for my taste, so I was about to give up on my cottaging, but I glanced around another time and I saw him, this gorgeous hoofer with a real nice basket. Real butch though, so I got a bit worried he might be naff, which wound up to have some partial truth. I think he must’ve caught me ogling ‘cause he walked over to me as I was lost in his thews and asked me if I’m so. I let him know and then we got talking. As we settled into it, he put his famble on my lally, which always gets me stirring. Onward. He told me he’s bibi and that he’s had more experiences with palone, but the last one he was with was a vogueress and the stench put him back on omies for a time. Turned out she was a palone-omi anyway. They got on so well at first because they could cackle on about being bibi. Then, after he bumped her out ‘cause he was sick of her vogue stench stucking on his clobber, she did some more thinking on it and found she really liked the willets and clevie more than cartes in her clevie. After talking over her awhile, he told me about a barney he’d gotten in over at a bung closer to his lattie ‘cause the omi there caught onto rumours he might be blue. For some time, he stopped cruising because he was too afraid to. He’d heard about Charlie’s from a dilly boy he picked up maybe about say dooey days after the barney and so here he was. I put my yews back on his basket while we were cackling on. He was real pleased with that. He moved his stimps wider, flexed his thews, rubbed the bump on his strides. I was getting tender for some trade. He knew it too, so he invited me over to the cottage for a better view. All dally, he was. He got me a glass of vera lynn on the way and nudged me on with his luppers right on my dish. Right as we got in, we were yanking on each others’ kaffies. Finally got to see what I’d been ogling under the clobber all night. Fortuni. Frankly, maybe the single most gorgeous lucoddy that will ever grace my own. Bone as big as I like it. We went straight to it. Well, bent, I guess..."

Michael laughed with pleasure for a solid second over his own joke before he continued.

"...I was giving him some good hada, but it wasn’t long before he flipped me and bent me down for uros. We overlooked the cumdrum, but we got the candy cane wet enough to bugger easily enough. He was such a man. I never felt more like a bucket boy in my life. Though I really did enjoy it, I couldn’t help but be a little disappointed I hadn’t had more of a chance to brush my teeth. I talked myself up as an artiste and I was excited to draw the curtains and defend my claim a bit. Whatever. The browning was excellent, he gave me his number, and he wants to stick me with his butcher knife again. In the meantime, it gave me plenty to imagine while I beat off. I’m hoping to suck some cream off his cob the next time. Loved feeling it in my cheeks, but there’s not much better than letting it pop right in the oven.”

“I barely know what any of that fucking means, Michael.”