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Loneliness can take many guises. It is insidious in nature, and in some cases, can be practically undetectable to the conscious mind. A person can be surrounded by (what can loosely be defined as) friends, yet still crave a certain intimacy – that no amount of schemes and their related arguments, displays of karate prowess, or Project Badass tapes can satiate.
The Nightman Cometh had been somewhat of a revelation for Mac McDonald. Donning his cat eyes and dry-humping Dennis had provided him with one motherfucker of a boner, sure, but the defining moment – the crowtein in the Fight Milk, so to speak – had been Charlie’s heartfelt proposal to the Waitress. It had all but kicked Mac in the testicles and slapped him in the face with a hissed: “You’re fucking lonely, jackass.”
Of course it had been a grift. The matter was never up for debate. But the fact that Charlie was willing to go through that whole ridiculous charade just for the affirmation that the chick he’s been stalking since high school still wouldn’t piss on him if he were on fire touches Mac in a place he’d rather not share with anybody but the Heavenly Father, and that’s only by virtue of His omniscience. Because Charlie is a dude. And being gay is a sin.
****
The original Fight Milk was just eggnog, crushed Tylenol and a shitload of vodka that Charlie had swiped from his mom. (Mrs. Kelly never even kept that shit locked up either, just left it on the kitchen table, or in the bathroom, or between the sofa cushions, or once even in Charlie’s toy box – which was really just a dingy shoebox harbouring the half-melted bodies of a dozen knockoff G.I. Joes. Jesus Christ, Charlie’s childhood blew.) Brewing this abominable, slightly seminal concoction had given a young Mac his first taste of true companionship. Measuring ingredients, mixing spirits and mashing up assorted painkillers alongside Charlie felt right, in the most inexplicable way. Better living through chemistry.
One particularly exceptional batch contained the contents of a capsule of Restoril that Mac had eagerly traded with Psycho Pete for a couple of dubiously unregulated Chinese firecrackers. Pete prized explosives above all else, frequently raiding dumpsters for shit to blow up – his crowning glory being the spectacular offing of a large Butterball turkey, which showered onlookers with a plump, meaty rain that smelled vaguely of Christmas, if Christmas had gone horribly rancid.
Pete had swiped the pill from his own mother’s personal stash of what she referred to as her Little Helpers. Looking back, Mac can only hope she’d had a Little Help before Pete killed and ate her poor, sorry ass.
The potency of Batch No. 9 remains permanently embossed upon Mac’s memories. Baked out of their tiny, adolescent minds, Mac and Charlie had taken to the railroad tracks to watch the world go by, lying side by side on the cool grass embankment, comfortably sharing silence and occasionally hurling a rock with all the exertion of a baby swatting a fly. Not a single projectile found its target. Mac wasn’t familiar with the concept of affection – Lord knows he didn’t receive it from his own family – but he knew, even then, that his feelings for Charlie reached above and beyond the realm of friendship. But being into dudes was wrong, and it got you beaten the fuck up. So, like any respectable young Catholic, he repressed.
And repressed.
And repressed.
****
Stuffing that shit down with brown (as Mac so often chooses to do) is all well and good, but nothing on God’s blessed earth helps the penitent man suppress his urges like an evening spent alone with the Bible.
It was one of the only things his father had ever given him. Not that Luther McDonald harboured a secret pious streak. “Religion is for weak-minded pussies,” he’d said just before tossing the brown leather-bound New American at his son during one of the family’s traditional Easter outings. Much like Christmas, they involved things better left buried deep, deep down. And then a little deeper than that.
It didn’t matter, though, because Luther had given Mac a gift. For once he’d not just left Mac to his own devices while his wife took a shit and he asserted his dominance over the homeowner. Luther had given Mac a gift. With his own hands. Almost like having a catch.
Mac recalls how happy Charlie had been for him when he’d told the story later that day. How his eyes had gone all shiny – well, more than the usual chemically enhanced sheen – and how Charlie had wrapped his arms around Mac so tight that he couldn’t help but be impressed. And maybe something else, too.
Overt, unmistakable displays of affection were so alien to Mac that a simple embrace had been like a drizzle nourishing the desert. Mac could have stayed like that forever if an unfortunate boner hadn’t made him pull away in a panic. If there was one thing you didn’t fucking do in Philly in the early nineties, it was get hard while pressed up against your best friend.
Mac never did notice the five bucks missing from his back pocket.
And so, without even bothering to slip out of his Nightman attire – except the contacts, those bastards had made his eyes dryer than a nun’s beaver – and with the melody of Charlie’s proposal still gracing his subconscious (seriously, even though it had been a scheme, did that musical need to go so fucking hard?) Mac turns to the finest method of forbearance he knows. He’ll study the scriptures like a good little devotee until thoughts of Charlie and loneliness are nothing but a mere memory.
He opens the Bible to no page in particular (God will surely show him the way), breathes deep of its reassuring aroma and begins to read.
Romans 1:26-27 – For this reason God gave them over to degrading passions; for their women exchanged natural relations for that which is contrary to nature, and likewise the men, too, abandoned natural relations with women and burned in their desire toward one another, males with males committing shameful acts and receiving in their own persons the due penalty of their error.
In times such as these, Mac likes to imagine Jesus right there next to him, reading from the Word and putting him back on the path of virtue – a shovel in one hand and the Good Book in the other – ready to help bury those sinful urges nice and deep. The ultimate bro.
It goes without saying that of course Jesus is jacked. As Mac envisions his Lord and Saviour, He’s got that post-workout heavenly glow – perspiration-slicked muscles begging to be oiled up and rubbed down – you can tell He just got a pump on. His physique is like a cross between Schwarzenegger in his prime and Dolph Lundgren in Rocky IV. Perfection. Shit, He could probably bench-press Mac without breaking a sweat.
But that is not the point.
Mac swallows the lump that’s worked its way into his throat – beefcake Jesus is definitely not the cure for this particular ailment – and fumbles through the crisp, thin pages in hopes of finding another verse of scripture that’s a little less… stimulating.
Matthew 26:41 – Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.
Flesh. Bronzed, unyielding as steel. Anything but weak. Mac claps the book shut before his imagination can wander someplace very, very wrong. Jesus Christ. This repression is doing some weird shit.
And so, presented with a choice between blaspheming everything he holds dear or daring to acknowledge the thing he’s been burying since the days of fireworks and Fight Milk, Mac buckles.
If it weren’t for the gnawing loneliness, he could probably stuff these feelings down forever, store them right between the memory of his tenth birthday lottery scratchers (two of the three had been used) and every fucked-up Christmas he can recall. And Charlie is crazy, like, glue-sniffing, sticker-eating, batshit-crazy. The toxins coursing through that man’s veins must be enough to bring down the Philly Flyers, for fuck’s sake. But he’s always been there for Mac, from disappointing public holidays to faking their own deaths. Plus, a career of scrubbing toilets and bashing rats has made him strong as holy fuck – not jacked like Jesus but he could still probably pin Mac to the ground without even remotely exerting himself, his eyes suggesting lunacy and an ominous smirk almost hidden amidst his facial hair. Not that Mac would allow such a thing, of course. Absolutely not. Conceding himself to a transgression of that magnitude is about as unlikely as taking his dick out right this second and jerking it, with the Bible laid before him like a mothball-scented reminder of his unmitigated weakness.
Oh, but that would feel so good.
Instinctively, with an eager sheepishness usually reserved for a boy who’s just eloped to the bathroom with his mother’s Victoria’s Secret catalogue, Mac slips off the bed and locks his bedroom door before opening the book to a new passage and kneeling before it.
Corinthians 10:13 – No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, he will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.
Suddenly, an epiphany. Of course he’s having these thoughts about Charlie. His unflagging companionship has been the linchpin to Mac’s sanity through all sorts of trials and tribulations over the years. A paint-huffing, rat-bashing guardian of faith. God has clearly provided Charlie as a means to channel these sinful urges. A way to endure, even. As Mac sees it, it’s not gay if God says it’s okay.
And this – his hand slipping into his pants and giving his dick a cursory stroke – yeah, this feels right. Righteous, even. Praise the Lord.
Charlie is a gift. God has seen fit to bestow upon Mac a gift of the highest order. The greatest gift, in fact, since his own father blessed him with the Word. And if anyone can endure, it’s Ronald “Mac” McDonald. He’ll endure the Lord’s test right here and now, and he’ll endure the shit out of it.
Mac moans softly as he pulls out his cock and begins to stroke with a reverential touch, befitting of the occasion. His abdominal muscles clench in anticipation as he pictures himself kissing Charlie – not with any of that sappy tenderness he’d use on a chick, no, this would be a man’s kiss. Strong, passionate, forceful. Charlie’s beard rubbing against Mac’s skin as Mac’s tongue eagerly explores Charlie’s mouth. Their bodies pressed together as hands desperately grab at flesh and Charlie’s godly boner digs into his hip.
With one hand working his dick, and holding this hallowed image in mind, Mac flips the pages before landing upon a new verse.
Isaiah 41:10 – Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be afraid, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, I will also help you, I will also uphold you with My righteous right hand.
The Lord is always with him. He’s here right now, observing Mac picturing Charlie. Hell, He’s probably right there in Mac’s fantasy, egging him on from the sidelines like a spectator at an Eagles game as Mac establishes dominance over Charlie by wrestling him to the ground and ripping off his shirt. “Fuck, yes,” Mac groans, before quickening the pace with his own righteous hand.
God is no jabroni. There’s absolutely no way He could interpret this as anything other than an act of utmost devotion. Mac has been a paragon of virtue for as long as he can remember, and this is his reward. A true test of faith. And what a fucking reward it is.
He can practically feel the heat radiating from Charlie’s bare chest as he works himself harder and faster, can almost smell the mingling of sweat and chemicals and unadulterated lust of the struggle – an Eau de Dirtgrub, if you will. And Charlie’s hands – Christ, how Mac would love to take one of those thick, calloused fingers into his mouth and suck until Charlie is begging Mac to take his dick instead. God is faithful. No trial of faith has ever been as motherfucking cathartic as this.
His surroundings cease to exist as he dives headfirst into his reverie, kneeling before Charlie, kneeling before his salvation, his lips closing around Charlie’s cock as he works his own in kind. God is good. As good as the weight of Charlie’s dick on his tongue and the sensation of Charlie’s strong hands tangled in his hair as they urge him on. God is great. As great as the groans coming from Charlie’s mouth as Mac satisfies the shit out of him.
All the worries about sin and loneliness evaporate with the overwhelming swell of pleasure building in his gut. There is no wrong, no gay, no sin, no anything but the idea of Charlie’s thick cock in Mac’s mouth and the knowledge that finally something in his life is good. Really fucking good.
“Fuck, Charlie,” Mac groans. Salvation is coming. The reward for his faithfulness. The balm to soothe a lifetime of hurts and insecurities. Salvation is coming.
Charlie thrusts into Mac’s eager mouth, his movements becoming fast and erratic – like an overheated engine about to blow. And when he does – pulling Mac’s head back by the hair to anoint his face with the most sublime offering of all – Mac feels as holy and renewed as the day his father had introduced him to religion.
Salvation isn’t the only thing coming. Mac grasps at the bedsheets with his free hand as his own climax engulfs every inch of his body and his legs threaten to cramp as though he’s spent the whole day working his quads. His fabricated world is so real, so tactile, that he can feel the viscous warmth of Charlie’s semen as it dribbles down his cheek and onto his lips, where his tongue waits patiently for a taste of glory. His own cry of pleasure brings him back to earth as he comes, thrusting hard into his fist and spurting erratically over the pages of the Good Book. Shit.
Spent, utterly satisfied and more than a little ashamed, Mac grabs a bedside tissue and mops up his mess before flipping the pages for one final passage to show him the way.
Proverbs 6:28 – Can a man walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched?
Mac considers this for a moment, allowing his gaze to wander about the room before catching his reflection in the mirror. He’s got his own post-workout heavenly glow – his biceps are glistening with perspiration and his face bears the expression of a man who’s just had the greatest lay of his life. His brow, dripping with sweat, is causing the thick black Nightman greasepaint to sear a path down his cheeks like some sort of legendary rock hero. He looks fucking badass.
Perhaps a man can’t walk on hot coals without his feet being scorched. But perhaps that man just doesn’t care.