Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) Read Online Free Page A

"Have you ever noticed," Julian said, his voice shaky from fucking the guy's mouth so hard, "how people don't get erections with us? Is it that the type we respond to is sort of asexual or something?" I pursed my lips. "Yeah, it's weird not to swallow their sperm." Julian shrugged. "I intend to, abstractly," he said, "but all I ever think about is dumping mine."...
    ... Henry stank, worse or better depending on where Julian licked. He'd had so much sex he could rank body odors. Asshole, profound. Crotch, overrated. Mouth, profound. Hair on head, underrated. Hands and feet, nice. Armpits, too blatant. Julian settled down on the ass. My face was wedged between Henry's thighs, pupils dilated, open mouth stuffed with wrinkly balls. "Mmm." Julian kissed me, imprisoning the balls, which he jabbed with the tip of his tongue. Occasionally I batted one back, as if it were the "ball" in a very crude sport ...

    ... "Take control, yeah?" Julian let Henry go. The body toppled against me, slid down. I caught it. Hair was stuck to the sweat on Henry's face in ugly, hippieish patterns. Julian reached under the glass coffee table, grabbed the guy's discarded Adidas, unlaced one, threw it over his shoulder. He gathered and tied the locks into a tight ponytail. "Better," he said, sitting back on his heels. "Definitely. He's almost perfect now. Hmm. Eliminate one, two ... two scars, some body hair, an eighth-inch around each nipple ... maybe a little less nose ... uh..." Julian squinted.

     

TENSE
    1969-1986
When I was thirteen ...
    Saturday afternoons I'd ride my ten-speed downtown and see matinees, usually horror films. I can't remember their names anymore, since they were never the point of my trips. I'd tune in, then recount their plot twists to my parents at dinner to explain how I'd wasted my day. But as soon as the credits rolled I'd be outside, hunched over, unchaining my bike.
    A couple of blocks off the main boulevard in a row of Salvation Army-styled junk shops was a nondescript storefront called Gypsy Pete's, full of sex magazines, run by an old, unshaven alcoholic. Pete kept a few comic books near the register for kids. But when the usual customers cleared out, he'd let me browse through the hard-core material. I'd be looking at two naked, tangled adults. Suddenly Pete would yell, "Hey, twerp," which was the prearranged signal for me to return to the comics.

    Pete used to talk drunkenly about how many women he fucked and how easily. I didn't believe him because he was ugly. He swore he'd been cute as a teen. One day he showed me a picture of him in the army or something in which he looked better but not good enough to get laid very much.
    I thought he'd throw me out if I got near the gay porn, confined to a sleek, revolving rack near the register. So I'd browse in that area, glancing occasionally at the things on the rack. If I hung around long enough, Pete would go into the store's little toilet to shit. Those were my minutes to flip through the magazines. Once I thought Pete was heading off for his usual shit, but he was just taking something new out of the stockroom. I got caught with my hand on a copy of Muscular Boy. He didn't blink. "Skin's skin" was his philosophy.
    Pete trusted me since I nodded along to his bull. So he started to show me the gay stuff before putting it on the rack. For the most part this stuff starred young hustler types, heavily tattooed, being fucked behind little black rectangles. Some dispensed with the rectangles. In a few, hustlers were tied up. Other hustlers, sometimes johns, pawed their crotches and spanked them while they pretended to scream.
    Each Saturday Pete would produce a few new articles and let me sit in the stockroom with them for as long as I liked. At some point I realized he meant I could jerk off in peace, so I usually would, with a magazine spread on my knees, left hand holding a Kleenex, right hand turning the pages or jerking myself.
    It stayed so dark in that stockroom I