The Lie (8 page)

The morning after
the homecoming party I was coerced into throwing by my supposed best friend, Kyle, the voices of my father and stepmother were audible enough to wake me up. My room overlooked one of our back patio areas, so I got out of bed and went to my balcony. They were having breakfast together, which was abnormal.

As I turned to go back into my room, thinking about joining them for breakfast, having some strange need to participate in this rare family moment, I raised my right hand close enough to my face to smell the asshole of the naked girl who was still passed out in my bed. Normally I would have made her get up, perform one last act of sexual humiliation, and then I would have introduced her to my stepmother as the “girl I filled with semen last night.” But, again, I felt some strange need to be a part of this genuine family moment. So I recognized that this nameless whore was in such a deep state of unconsciousness that I could easily creep out of my room undetected and avoid dealing with her altogether, which is exactly what I did. I assumed she would wake up at some point in the next few hours, realize that my absence was her cue to exit as quickly as possible, gather her belongings, and leave.

When I got downstairs and out onto the patio I was almost happy about sitting down to breakfast with my father and stepmother. They rarely did anything together when they were both in Dallas simultaneously. Most often my father would be at work and my stepmother would be out wasting the money he was making.

I poured myself a glass of orange juice, realizing that I was actually too hungover to eat. My father started up a conversation with me about the game, which I had managed to miss every second of despite the fact that he had paid a large sum of money to be able to show a closed-circuit broadcast of the game at the party on ten seventy-inch televisions throughout the house. He also mentioned meeting several of my “friends” and went on to say that many of them seemed like they’d make great junior sales executives at Keller Shipping when they graduated. I was unsure if he was telling me this information because he was thinking of hiring them himself, or if he wanted my first task as an employee of Keller Shipping, upon my own graduation, to be the hiring of these douchebags.

I realized too late that sitting down was a mistake and that whatever semblance of family interaction might have drawn me into this was fleeting at best. My stepmother brought up how much she liked Kyle’s girlfriend. It wasn’t hard to see why she would have liked Heather. They were essentially the same person separated by twenty years—superficial money-grubbing sluts who would fuck any man they met if he offered the slightest possibility of elevating their material status. My stepmother further inquired as to why I let Kyle land “that girl” when I could have usurped her from him. When I told her I would never do that to my best friend, she said something about friendships coming and going but love lasting forever.

She went on to probe my relationship “situation” and assured me that although Kyle might have gotten that specific girl, there were probably others at SMU who were similar enough to make suitable wives. I wanted to tell the horrible cunt that I had found a girl who was every bit as nice and charming as Heather. I wanted to tell her that I couldn’t remember the girl’s name but I could remember that she gave a slightly better-than-average blowjob, and let me fuck her in the ass and then slap my dick across her face for five minutes before she jerked me off all over herself. I further wanted to tell her that this angel was sound asleep upstairs in my bedroom with my dried semen all over her face and tits. I also wanted to tell her that this nameless collection of holes allowed me to put my dick in every one of them because she knew it gave her a slight chance to acquire a piece of what my family had to offer, much the same way I was sure my stepmother had allowed my father to do all the same things to her for the same reason. I held back this information, though, and maintained that my special girl was out there somewhere, I just hadn’t met her yet. I said this in some part because I knew my father was listening and it would placate him to know that I was following the grand pattern that had been laid out even before him by his own father. But more than that, I said it to successfully end the conversation.

I sat at the table sipping my orange juice for what must have been five more minutes or so. The next person to initiate conversation was the girl from my bedroom, who had found her way downstairs and onto the patio where we were having breakfast. She apologized for interrupting, which was considerate, and then thanked my father for throwing the party and thanked me for a “wonderful time last night.” Her disheveled hair, incorrectly buttoned blouse, and general mauled appearance made it more than clear that I had done every vile thing imaginable to her the night before. I would also add that some of the specifics of the previous night’s activities were most likely made obvious by her walk toward the table. Her gait was more than somewhat labored, appearing unusual to anyone who saw her walk, due to the amount of time I had my dick and fingers in her ass the night prior. My back was to her when she approached the table, but later when I actually saw her walking I noticed very clearly that significant discomfort, if not outright pain, was radiating from her asshole with every step.

The girl lingered for a moment, and I realized that she might have been too hungover to remember where the front door was, so I indicated its general direction with a head nod and told her I had her number and would call her later in the day, both of which were lies.

I was surprised at my stepmother’s general lack of outrage in the situation. My father had witnessed more than his fair share of sluts I had discarded leaving the house the next morning. His acceptance of this whore’s intrusion into our little family moment that morning was expected. I wouldn’t say my stepmother had been blind to the fact that I indulged in treating girls with disregard, even contempt, and viewed them only as a means to sate my carnal impulses. However, she hadn’t been face-to-face with one of the objects of my cock’s momentary attention very often. The other two times I can remember, my stepmother literally looked the other way and pretended not to see the girls. In this case, she was forced to deal with the evidence of my disdain for her own gender because it was interrupting our breakfast.

Instead of being embarrassed or angry with the slut, both of which are reactions I would have expected, my stepmother was apparently angry at me for mistreating this whore. She stood up and insisted that I drive the slut back to campus immediately. Judging by my father’s silent smile through this entire event, he was deriving some comic pleasure from the whole thing. Rather than put up any opposition to my stepmother’s demand, which would only prolong the situation, I acquiesced, agreeing to take the girl home. At no time during this exchange was the girl’s name ever inquired about, which seemed strange to me later. My stepmother would have been even more difficult to deal with had she discovered that I not only didn’t remember the girl’s name, but had probably never even learned it the night before.

I took a final sip of my orange juice and accompanied the girl out the front door to my car. When I got close enough to her, I could actually see some of my dried semen on her face. I wondered if my stepmother had detected it. I hoped she had.

The drive back to campus was uneventful. The whore tried to sucker me into going to breakfast with her and, no doubt, paying for it. I used the excuse that my hangover was too severe to even entertain the idea of eating, which wasn’t entirely untrue. She had no choice but to accept my decision as I pulled onto campus.

Getting out of my car, she asked me what I had planned for the rest of the day. I told her I had a date, which was untrue but blunt enough that I hoped it would dissuade her from further conversation or desire for any interaction with me. This was not the case. She asked me who the date was with, and for some reason I was unable to concoct a lie in that moment, maybe because of the hangover. Instead I just told her that I had no date, that the date was a lie, and the truth was I just didn’t want to see her again or have anything to do with her.

She didn’t cry, at least not in my presence, but the look on her face, combined with an admittedly pleasant smell she had achieved through the application of some unique combination of perfumes, soaps, body sprays, et cetera, elicited in me a rare emotion. I actually felt like I had been unnecessarily harsh to this girl. I felt some kind of genuine sympathy for her and I apologized. This girl, whose name I would most likely never know, had through no intentional action reached something deep in me that I scarcely knew existed. I felt for a brief moment that I knew what Kyle must experience when he deals with girls. But the moment was, as I stated, brief. And a few seconds after my apology I again wanted nothing to do with this girl. She was the equivalent of a dirty sock I had blown a load in, a sock I didn’t even care enough to wash, a sock I would rather throw away than wear again. I didn’t tell her this. Instead I got back in my car and drove away, although I originally intended to spend some time on campus, find Kyle, see how the party went for him, et cetera. I watched the girl in the parking structure as I pulled away. I wondered if she had a boyfriend and I found myself, in another rare moment of compassion for the gender of whores, hoping that if she did, she would have the wherewithal to wash my semen off her face before seeing him.

The next month
was probably one of the best in my life. Or maybe, looking back, it just seems that way because it was the last month or so before everything started getting really shitty. In either case, the month after the homecoming party was honestly one of the happiest times in my life.

I aced every one of my first finals, including chemistry, which was supposed to be some big deal. Professor Grant even told me after our last class that I had the highest scores on just about every test we took throughout the entire semester that he had ever seen a single student score. He knew my ultimate goal was to go pre-med, but he tried to convince me to at least think about some kind of professorial type job in chemistry.

School aside, the real reason that month was so incredible was Heather. We were a couple, an official couple. And it’s obviously fucking ridiculous at this point, but the little gay things that she wouldn’t do before Brett’s party, like holding hands in public or introducing me to her friends as her boyfriend instead of just her friend—all those little stupid things that made me think she actually loved me added up, over the course of that month, to make me feel like I had the best life of anyone on the planet.

And of course we had a lot of sex. I know we were having sex before we became an official couple, but there was something different about it after the party. Again, I know this is about as gay as it can get, but Heather would look into my eyes more than she used to and squeeze my hands a little harder when she came. Shit like that goes a long way as far as making a guy think you’re really in love with him.

I remember one time during that month we were in her room and Annie was there with two or three other girls. They were all talking about rushing in the next semester. One of them said to me, “So what frat do you want to get into?”

I said, “I don’t really care about that stuff.”

“That’s a good attitude to have. Just, like, whichever one you get into, that’s all that matters.”

“No, I mean I’m not into the whole Greek scene.”

That dropped all the jaws in the room except Heather’s. One of the other girls, whom I had met a few times before but whose name I couldn’t remember—just that her ass was strangely too small for her body—said, “Are you fucking for real right now? You’re not even going to rush?”

I said, “No.”

She said, “Seriously, are you for real?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you some kind of big nerd or something? Everybody rushes.”

And this is where Heather did something that was maybe the nicest thing she ever did for me. The bitchy chick in the room wasn’t really bothering me. Heather knew that. But it seemed like the fact that this girl was giving me a hard time pissed her off in a weird protective kind of way.

Heather said, “Well, when you’re thirty years old, twenty pounds overweight, wiping shit off your third kid’s asshole and wondering why your shitbag husband, who you met at a frat, didn’t come home the night before, remember this exact moment when you called my boyfriend a big nerd and know that when he’s thirty he’s going to be making shitloads of money as a doctor and you’ll still be cleaning up shit.”

Everyone in the room got kind of quiet and then started laughing. I don’t know if I mentioned we were all high as hell, but we were. So there was no real animosity between anyone, but nonetheless she stood up for me. At least that’s what I thought. After thinking about it I’m pretty sure she was actually standing up for herself. You know, defending her choice in boyfriends to her friends. It had nothing to do with her sensing that I was being attacked. For Heather, it was more like she was being attacked and had to justify why she would ever date anyone who wasn’t interested in being in a frat. Fucking cunt.

That month came and went and then we were on winter vacation. A lot of very important firsts happened on winter break. I met her mother for the first time, who seemed very nice, but in retrospect was too much like Heather to actually be nice. Heather met my parents for the first time. They seemed to like her, but in retrospect they were just trying to be supportive of my choice of a girlfriend. And a few days before Christmas—which my family celebrates even though none of us actually believes Jesus was the son of God—in the Quiznos on Josey Lane by her mom’s house, Heather told me she was pregnant for the first time. I never found it strange that she actually included the qualification of it being her first pregnancy. I guess I was just too shocked. But, obviously, I should have known she was lying.

She claimed she was a few weeks late on her period and she had taken a home pregnancy test that day and it was positive. She further claimed that she thought she got pregnant at Brett’s party, based on timing and the fact that we didn’t use a rubber and failed to get the morning-after pill the morning after. This is how fucked up and completely in love I was: My first reaction wasn’t to punch her in the stomach as hard as I could. I actually said, “Well, I know my parents will help us. I’m sure your mom will help us. I can even get a second job if I have to, but I think it’s important we both stay in school. My parents won’t care that we’re not married, but if that’s a big deal to your mom then I think we should get married. I love you and we can do this.”

After saying all that, I swear to fucking God she laughed. I don’t actually know if she did, but my memory of that moment always has her laughing just before she says, “I’m not fucking having a baby.”

And as much as that was obviously the best thing to do for both of us, at the moment I was a little sad. There was some piece of me that really wanted to start a family with her. Fucking insane, I know, but true nonetheless.

I’m sure I said something like, “Are you sure? Have you thought this through?”

She said, “Yeah. You don’t have some problem with this, right? You’re not like pro-life or something, are you?”

“Me? Fuck no. But I just mean, this is kind of a big decision. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it or anything?”

“Kyle, like we go back to school in two weeks and then in one more week I’m going to be rushing. I can’t be pregnant for that.”

I don’t know if it was the fact that the moment was kind of overwhelming or if I was just so in love with her that I had lost all sense of reason or what the fucking deal was, but in that second her fucking deranged and literally psychopathic reasoning made absolute sense to me. She was rushing, she couldn’t be pregnant. Of course not—what in the fuck was I thinking even insinuating that she might want to take a second to think before getting an abortion?

I said, “Do I need to help you make an appointment somewhere or anything?”

She said, “No. I already did it. But I’ll need a ride.”

“Yeah. Of course. I’ll help you through every step of it if you want me to. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

So we finished our turkey-and-Swisses and walked out holding hands just like the conversation had never happened. It was strange to think that a Quiznos turkey-and-Swiss would be one of the last meals our unborn child would ever have.

When we got in my car Heather said, “Also, it costs three hundred and fifty dollars.”

“So how much more do you need?”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Shit. All the money I had from my work-study job I spent on books. You don’t have any money at all?”

“No. My mom just gave me a thousand dollars for the month and I already spent it on some shirts and pants.”

“Fuck.”

“Can’t you just ask Brett or something?”

I had never asked Brett for money in my life. The thought of that fucking disgusted me beyond belief. But after the hour or so it took to drive Heather back to her mom’s house and then drive back to my parents’ house it seemed like my only option. I didn’t think of it at the time, but I’d be willing to bet anything Heather spent the thousand dollars she got from her mom after she knew she was pregnant, because she knew she could coerce me into asking Brett for the three hundred fifty. Fucking cunt.

So I called Brett and asked if I could come over. For some reason it seemed like this conversation should be done in person. He said, “Yeah, come on over. Dad and Stepmom are out of town. I have a few sluts here—”

Then in the background one of the sluts said, “We’re not sluts.”

Brett said, “You both just let me fuck you in the ass and you’re both going to again because I live in a big house. You’re right—you’re actually whores. So you should take sluts as a compliment.” Then he got back to me. “Yeah, I’m here. Just come over quick because at some point I will be fucking these whores again. Later.”

When I got to his house, the girls in question were both lying on his couch in bikinis watching
Zack and Cody
. Brett was in the kitchen holding a cucumber and staring at an open refrigerator. He was in nothing but a robe, which was not tied.

I said, “Can you please cover your dick?”

He said, “You’ve seen it before, man.”

“And I’ve asked you to cover it up every time.”

“Lightweight,” he said, and then closed the robe. “So what’s up?”

I said, “It makes me fucking ill to have to do this, but I need to ask you for a favor.”

“Why would that make you ill? I’m your best friend. If I can help you, you know I will.”

“I know, but this is something that I feel really weird asking you for.”

“It’s not gay shit is it? Like you don’t want me to fuck you in the ass a little or anything like that, do you?”

“No.”

“You want me to get you a tranny whore or some weird shit like that? That I could actually probably do. And, of course, Heather will never know.”

“No.”

“You got me then, bud, what do you need?”

“Three hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Money? That was what was making you ill? Fucking money? You know I’m rich, right? You know money is virtually meaningless to me? Asking me for money is like asking other people for, I don’t know, their shit or something.”

“I know, but I just feel weird asking. Like I’m just some other asshole trying to sponge off you.”

“Kyle, you’re my best friend. I know the other assholes are just trying to sponge off me and I know you’re not. If you came here asking me for the money, you must really need it. What’s it for?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Oh shit, some intrigue. Well, you should have just made up a lie. You should have just said you want to buy your mom something nice for Christmas. Now I’m going to have to know what you need it for. I’m interested.”

“It’s pretty personal and I don’t really think I want anyone knowing about it.”

“I’m not going to tell anyone if you don’t want me to, but you have to respect my position here. My best friend, whom I think I know pretty well, comes to me and asks me for money—something he has literally never done in the ten years or so we’ve known each other. Then he tells me he can’t tell me what it’s for. Well, that’s some pretty interesting shit. What if it’s for drugs or some shit? Are you strung out on fucking coke like the rest of the losers at SMU? You playing poker at a pickup game and owe some guy some money after a bad bet? I have to know why you need the money as a concerned friend who just wants to make sure you’re okay.”

“Fine. I need it for an abortion.”

“Oh, shit. You know my stepmom’s one of the chairs on the Dallas Pro-Life League’s board of directors?”

“Yeah.”

“That is some funny shit. Well, who’s the lucky lady who gets her pussy torn apart and a dead baby sucked out? I hope this gets even better and it’s some chick you banged behind Heather’s back.”

“No, it’s Heather.”

“Well, look, I have no problem telling you this. I would give you three hundred and fifty thousand dollars if it meant I was playing a part in ridding the world of the demon spawn that you would create with that whore.”

“She’s not a whore.”

“Sorry. I’m just saying a kid would ruin your life right now, man, and as your friend I’d consider it an honor to pay for the murder of your unborn child.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Come on. I know you don’t have any moral hang-ups about this shit. So lighten up.”

He reached into one of his robe pockets and pulled out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. He gave me five of them. I said, “You just keep hundreds in your robe?”

“Not usually, but the whores are here. I like making them feel like whores, even if they don’t think they are, so I throw money at them when they do something especially demeaning.”

“Also, I only need three hundred and fifty. Why’d you give me five hundred?”

“Because it’s all the same to me and you’ll probably want to buy her something besides an abortion for Christmas.”

“Thanks, man.”

Despite Brett’s outward lack of consideration for the situation, I could tell that he actually did care and I was grateful to have him as a friend. I gave him a hug.

“Kyle, seriously. No need. I know you’d do the same for me or whatever the equivalent would be. Also, some advice—next time use a rubber. A slut might be able to have one abortion and come out okay in the head, but more than one and she’s a fucking basket case.”

“Will do. Thanks again.”

As I left with the money I could hear Brett telling the girls that the first one to jam a whole cucumber up her ass would get two hundred dollars. I waited in my car for a minute or so to see if either of them would storm out of his house, insulted and outraged. Neither of them did.