Tommy Valentine's Diary

Here is both my first post in English and my first full story in English. The drawings are mine and unrelated, but you might find some connections between the story and the illustrations, which I made while working as a bilingual interpreter. Writing in a foreign language is challenging, and although my writing feels fluent while I’m working, I still need to improve my spelling. I’ve had some help from the internet with that, but apart from a little grammar and spelling correction, the story remains the same. Thank you for giving it a chance.

(On the cover: A Lover Spurned (1989), by Pierre et Giles)

Hello? Yeah, is this the assistance line for desperate queers? I'm calling for... a friend

Tommy Valentine was the kind of boy who dreamt about getting married and having kids. Big blue-painted house with a smoking chimney in winter and a golden retriever messing around with the kids while opening the Christmas gifts. Tommy used to draw this scenario in his book every day at Saint Ballsey School. His school notebook was full of this type of drawing: two blonde kids, a blonde golden retriever, himself —blonde and tall and slim—, and his husband, who had to be a taller, wider, stronger black man.

After finishing the drawing, Tommy Valentine used to feel guilty, and then he would scratch the page with his pencil, ruining his perfect dreamed family scenario. We would look around to see if other boys had been looking at his drawing, but he wasn’t much of the popular in class. Mostly, he was left alone and remained ignored in his chair, while half of the class would gather around Tammy Orleans, the most withe-theeth, blonde-haired, fair-skinned, bitch-looking bitch in the whole class. That fuck Tammy Orleans. Tommy Valentine would have stabbed her with his pencil. She would walk around his desk, and then one of his books would accidentally fall and crash onto the floor. Sorry, Timmy, she would say, and then she would keep strolling around the classroom, all ponytail and nail polish.

The other half of the classroom was for Buck Buttters, Tommy Valentine’s secret crush. Was it a secret? At that point everyone in class knew that the big black man in Tommy Valentine’s drawings was inspired —or was, indeed, the very Buck Butters—. But he didn’t seem to care about that, Buck, I mean, he was carefree about sissy Tommy being in love with him, wanking in the bathroom whispering his name. He would treat Tommy Valentine the same courteous way he would treat everyone in class. That was what made him so popular: he was good, he was nice to everyone, he was a sportsman, and he even managed to get high grades. While Tammy Orleans’ beauty and sassiness were her ticket to popularity, Buck Butters was on the kind side of the popular spectrum.

I wish I were popular

And there were the leftovers, the ones that nobody wanted to speak with, and of course, the ones that weren’t following either the blonde bossom pony tail bitch, nor the massive muscular smiling black guy. Those were us: Tommy Valentine, Pussylda Pussyngton, and your server, Anal Rockets. I was supposed to be called Alan, but there was a misspelling. During my first year I tried so hard to hide the error from the class’ eyes, until I was exposed and stopped being just Alan, and started to be the ass guy.

Somehow, we manage not to speak to each other. Maybe we internalized the idea of us three being the scum of the class, so low that we didn’t even try to ally. When our schooling ended, we never saw each other again. Not in any way possible. We didn’t even add each other on social media, while I still followed bitch Tammy Orleans, and her group of pussy suckers. She grew up to be the fattest, prematurely old-looking, plain, unimpressive mom of five. Yes, fucking five!: Chasity, Cassidy, Trixie, Tootsie and the boy, Timotheus. I was about to delete her, or block her, or something. I put my click on the “Block user” button... But I just couldn’t. I know, it’s absurd. And she moved to some other state, so why do I care? But I just couldn’t.

Well, Tommy Valentine and Pussylda Pussyngton were following her too. So I did a quick research, to find out if they were following each other. But they weren’t. But do you know who both of them were also following? And I was following too, of course. The Buck Butters guy, yes. That one, he was the opposite of the Tammy Orleans girl. He grew bigger, stronger, and nicer. He had this look from the PPT presentations, where they use these smiling models to picture some sort of perfect office human-looking person, with a perfect office type of behavior. That was Buck Butters. He played baseball, he played golf, he swam in the fucking Baikal Lake. He had one of these charges you get in offices when you’ve been working there for years. One of those sing-song manager somehing of the something of something, which basically means you don’t do shit and that you have lots of free time and you get to basically live inside a gym. Of course he had this well-built, big-breasted, horse-theet black body builder girlfriend who also happened to be the something manager in a something-something company that does, you know, tech things, and IT things. What would you expect a baby of those to look like? That thing would come out of the womb with a gold medal in the obstetrics Olympics, or something.

But, anyway, I was saying about Tommy Valentine, well, I completely lost track of him... What? What about me? Well... I started losing my hair at 16. What am I going to tell you? And started gaining some weight as well. But I did what I had to do, you know? I studied, I got the degree, I got the job, I got the money and... What else? Was I supposed to get something else? A man, you say? No, I didn’t get no man. But I had... Dick, you know? The basic stuff, nothing so... Groundbreaking. Or ass-breaking, should I say? But now that you just mentioned it... It was finding cock that I found Tommy Valentine after so many years. And he wasn’t alone, that one...

II

I was on my way to commute, I had recently had a car accident, nothing serious, and I had to take the train, which I never did. The fucking train was taking too long, and I had a terrible urge to use the bathroom. Just to take a piss, nothing more serious than that.

The train’s bathrooms were underground; you had to take some stairs and go right if you pussey and go left if you cockney... Oh my! I love my sense of humor! Anyway, I went left, and entered the boy’s bathroom. First you had a small hallway, and a wall. You turned right, and it made an absurd snake curve. You reach the end of that hallway, and turn left, and then you were finally at the men’s room. You had, on the left, some urinals, those old things, without walls, woods, or any kind of blinding thing.

In front of the urinals you had the sinks, and I forgot to mention, there were six urinals, and only four lavatories, which makes me think about how poorly designed the train station’s bathroom was in the first place. Anyway, the toilets were at the front of all of that. Are you following me? There were, listen this, not six, not four, but only three toilets. I just think it’s absurd. Just imagine how  it is for men like me, with urinary anxiety, to have only three private toilets available. Those will  always be full, with people shitting. While the peeing ones, we, will have to wait longer, or resign ourselves to peeing in front of other men.

Getting the urine out was never my problem. The hard-on was always the issue. And that’s why I stopped using the bathroom at school those entire three months they closed the toilets for reparations. Some other guys were noticing that I was getting... excited, when they approached with the innocent and simple gesture of urinating. I couldn’t let them think of me as some other queer. Tommy Valentine was the class’ faggot, not me, I was Anal Rockets, the shy, mysterious guy, who might or might not be an undercover shooter. Are you following me?

Back to the train station’s bathroom. I was so lucky to find an empty toilet. It was the one on the left, which was facing the urinals. I set my penis free and started peeing. Oh, God, what an urge I had that day! My train was to arrive in 20 minutes, so I still had plenty of time. The stream was intense and abundant, yellow and glowy. I was there, just thinking about some forms I had to deliver as soon as I was seated at my desk, when a muffled sound captured my attention. I turned around, trying to look for the thing that was making the noise, but I found nothing. Then I looked closer at one of the walls in the toilet room: it had a hole, just at waist level. A mouth came crawling from the hole, Santa Maria! I thought, remembering my Spanish classes. I had to do something.

Well, he was such an amazing cocksucker, let me tell you. I don’t like to brag, but we, the petite ones, can hide some of our most valuable treasures between our legs. Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you. The mysterious mouth had itself some big chunk to work with. I gave it plenty, lemme tell you, plenty. And it did a wonderful job.

While mouth was busy sucking, I gave myself some time to look around that grim toilet room. What I thought was mere graffiti at first, were actually phone numbers, and names. And no ordinary names: there was Braxxxton Butcher, Dong Cocklord, Hole E Spirit, Smegma Cummings... Everyone was welcome, it seemed. But there was more, buckle up: there were appointments under some of the names. Yes, I am being a hundred for real here. There were fucking days and there were fucking times.

Let’s say you are... Milk, the man —not my favorite name, but whatever—, well, you were supposed to be there on Tuesdays and Thursdays, exactly at 11am. Administration for Idolization and Delightfull Services —you got it? No? A-I-D-S, AIDS, duh!—, well, that one was from Friday to Sunday, from 7am to 10am. 3 hours! Can you believe, that motherfucker? While there are some anxious bladders around... Yeah, you got that already, don’t you? Alright, but listen to this one: Magnum the Widener —yes, he really knew how to get the attention on those walls— well, he was supposed to work... Was that a job? I don’t think so. But it was some sort of labor, indeed; I’m pretty sure of that. Well, the Widener was supposed to be there that same day at the same time I was being blown. Did this generous mouth know it was worshiping the wrong cock? I didn’t mind. You know what I did? I thanked Mr. Magnum, because he was late. Had he come earlier, he’d have enjoyed that mouth, not me.

Well, I came, finally. I’m one of those later cummers; I hate that. Some people get tired after the first fifteen minutes. But Mr. Sucker was devoted, let me tell you, he was working it.

I came out of the toilet room, dick pressed heavily against my pants. The train was about to arrive, and I hadn’t washed my hands yet. When I got out, there were two men at the urinal, their cocks stone-looking on their fists. Is Mr. Magnum the Widener present? I just wanted to thank him. I wanted to say it out loud, but I just splashed some water on my hands and left that hideous bathroom immediately.

I did the snake hallway twist and got out the stairs, where a not-so-old old lady was smoking and using the mop. She gave me a renegade look, like she was saying, I know what you were doing those 20 minutes, you wanker, you cruiser, you nasty queer... I gave the look back at her, of course, and jumped up the stairs and reached the train at its last minute.

That day I wanked like three times. I know it doesn’t sound like too much, but it was for me. I’ve never been much of a wanker, I prefer good ol’ sex, wether I’m able to see the man’s face or not, it doesn’t matter, that’s what parks were made for. I used to go to this park in the outermost part of the city, Cocoo Coonch Park, was called, I think it's closed now, since that time they found a dismembered corpse rotting in the bushes. Of course the gays didn’t care about the smell, they would suck dick with a brooch on their noses, for all they care. Like I did, I won’t deny it.

The case was, I didn’t have my precious SUV to take me cruising at the Cocoo Coonch Park, so I had to settle for some porn, and my own bare hands. Pitiful, I know, terrible, but that was what I did. Huh? Hookup apps? Yeah, right, I was about to go just there, honey. Of course I thought about opening an account on First fists first, Razor’s edge or Jasmin, but I already did that many many years ago, I already wasted my time there, and I got tired even with thinking about the registration, picking a name that was sexy and playful, and writing about me in the bio section. What was I supposed to write? That I wanted to be pounded as much as possible so that I had to go to the proctologist afterward? Well, now that I say it out loud, it sounds catchy, sexy, and carefree.

But you have no idea how ruthless those motherfuckers on hookup/dating apps were. They created this false sensation that we had so many options for picking a man that we liked, and of course he would pick us too, and everything would be perfect. I know how stupid I just sounded, ok? I never expected to find a man right away, let alone find one I really liked. I was ready to settle up for whatever monster I was able to find, as long as he had a monster cock too. Or a cute guy, why not? A young, simple, nice and clean young boy. Or not so young, let’s say, a 30-year-old... Or a 40-year-old... Or a 50-year-old daddy... I was ready to settle up for whatever, I told you. How old was I? I think I might have been around my middle thirties, not the youngest, not the oldest. Some might say that’s a man’s better time, and it’s a fucking lie. I already looked like I was an old divorced smoker functional alcoholic, and I wasn’t even any of those things. I was just... Consumed. By the company and bitchface Caroll. My boss, yeah. She was promoted recently; I gave her this beautiful blue cardigan as a gift. Why did I give her a gift? Yes, I hated her, and still do. She was cruel, she would use me to picture the "don'ts" part on the do’s and don'ts talk to the newcomers at the office. But she was my boss; that’s what you do, right?

I was tired as fuck of that job, and I just wanted to get pum pum pum. And what did I have to do? I had to get home, have a Coca-Cola, sit with my phone, and start scrolling all the profiles. I would send a heart to every man-like thing on that app, but I would just text the ones I thought might reply to someone like me. The first week I felt like I succeeded, and on Friday I ended up having a date with this 45-year-old customer service representative of a bank. He was fine, just fine: tall, slim, ugly feet, flat bottom, and an unimpressively pinky-pink cock. We did it in the back of his car because his roommates were having a party at his place. Do you still live with roommates? I asked him, and I thought I sounded polite. What can I tell you? But the man gave me this awful look, and drove me to the closest bus stop.

Humiliated as I was, and waiting for my bus with the smallest amount of dignity I managed to get that entire week, I kept scrolling on the app, and found a guy nearby. He asked me to wait for him at the bus stop, so when the bus came, I let it go. I was feeling so damn stupid. What if this guy never showed up and I ended hookering on the street just to get a ride home in exchange for a blowjob? Did I mention it was raining? Terrible.

But the guy did show up on this old motorcycle. He was the shortest guy I ever slept with. But he was young, about 22 years old. I felt like a princess being rescued from the dragon of the hookering, and went with him. Well, he really knew how to fuck me. It was wonderful to feel a man inside of me, finally, after such struggle. Only two hours had passed since the tall, slim guy, but whatever, I needed to get my dignity back, and what better way to do so than with a shorty cutie like that one? The thing was, we were leaving the apartment, and there was a party outside, some other roommates of his or something. At first I thought, This is curious, two roommate parties on the same night, but. Yes, exactly, it was the same apartment, and Shortey was living at Costumer Service Representative’s house, and we crashed into each other in the hallway. I shook my hand in the air like a lunatic and left, almost running.

It all seemed cool, you know? I got to be with two guys in one night, right? So the Jasmin thing was working, right? Yes, it was Jasmin I was using. That one was supposed to be for men looking for “something else”, not only sex but “something else”. What was that something else men at Jasmin were looking for? You would ask me. Well, ask someone else, because I just don’t know. They were the same pigs as usual; they would request at least three photos: one of your dick, one of your butt, and one of your face. And you were supposed to have a dickpic that wasn’t too vulgar, like you couldn’t just hold your penis and photograph it; you would want to put yourself in a comfortable position, with your dick hard, and a face like, Oh look, my dick is hard... oops!

The anal pictures... Well... Oh my god, you would think humanity evolved to become an enhanced version of monkeys or something, you know, to write books, paint, make music, and be dictators, or whatever. But no. After millions of years of evolution, here we are: lying in bed with our legs spread, butt cheeks wide open, and our assholes shining with the flashlight of the cellphone. The pictures I had to watch, that I had to tolerate... You had the anal ones and the butt ones. And there were some advanced thinkers that would actually take nice pictures of both them buttcheeks and assholes, their hairy assholes looking like some piece of furniture where you could go and take a nap. But the big disturbing majority of gentlemen on Jasmin were sending their most doctor’s-office-like pictures of their assholes, just some ribbon-like pieces of flesh. I was disgusted because only those freaks were sending me their ass pics, not the hairy cute ones.

Face pictures was the easiest part. I mean, if you were a model. But I’m not talking about being handsome, pretty, or cute. Nowadays it’s cool to be ugly, and it’s even cooler if you were born mildly cute and you fuck up your face with some piercing, tattoo, surgery, or whatever. The thing is, do you know how to take a picture? Every time I had to pick a face photo to send, I felt so stupid, I swear. No, I didn’t have any face pictures on my profile. Only the feet. I wasn’t gonna let everyone at the office think I was that thirsty. And I didn’t even tell anybody I was gay. No, I wasn’t in the closet. It was more like some sort of don’t ask, don’t tell kind of company policy. Of course there were queers, and they were treated like such: one month a year everyone would be nice to them, condescending, making the entire world look gay or trans or whatever. After that they would stab stab stab, they would keep making their mean comments; they would keep not inviting the queers to their weddings; they would whisper rumors about their sex lives, slut-shaming them, just to feel happier and safer in their boring sex and love lives. Was I gonna be part of that lame club? No, I had standards, and I wouldn’t let no profile picture out me like that.

So, every time I had to share my face, I would make the biggest of efforts not to show it so plainly. I would use sunglasses, or maybe use a group picture from work where I could blend in with the rest. I would use a picture where I was kneeling, or doing something else, like jogging or moving somehow, so I didn’t look so small. I have to admit it was my fault nobody wanted to meet with me; I was terrible for that type of interaction. And one month passed, and I wasn’t even able to fuck again. And I had already paid for the subscription, which was supposed to give me access to more dick, and to the easiest dick. But it was a fucking scam.

Hot Correspondence: I'm sick with fever :( / You can have this burrito (little donkey) tea

Then I tried First fist first, an app allegedly designed to have fastest and nastiest encounters. At first, I felt more comfortable there, no face pics were asked from the men that I spoke to. But they would ask for other types of pics.

Oh God! Buckle up, now. When you think it can’t get weirder... Those men were just... built different. They would send me these crazy photos of them being pegged by some donkey. I am NOT kidding. Those men were wild; they made men from the Cocoo Coonch Park look like preadolescents wanking over some lingerie magazine. I thought putting someone's fist inside your rectum was the last frontier the human body could handle before breaking in half, I really thought, like, what could be more extreme than that?

Just imagine this scenario: a reverse birth... How does it sound to you? Aha... Aha... No, no. Well... I didn’t think about that. Oh my God. What if some of those freaks would use a real baby to do it? That would be some John Waters material, for sure. Using baby dolls would have been boring, honestly. When it came to the anal world, aesthetics didn't matter. Size was the real deal, my friend. And what can be wider than a human adult’s head? Yes, I know you could go for something else, like a watermelon, but it wasn’t somebody’s body part.

How do you stick somebody’s head into somebody’s ass? Well, first, you will need some lube, for sure. And a small breathing tube for the head guy. It’s like scuba diving on a colon, really. Some type of prehistoric colonoscopy. The head would lick lick lick, or bite, or move somehow, and the hole would not shit. I mean, are you really capable of only thinking about such a behavior, and you get scared of poop? There were a lot of poop eaters on First fist first, by the way. And furries. Oh, don’t get me started, please don’t.

Alright, those men really gave the term giving head a new meaning. It is potentially dangerous, and physically challenging. Of course it must have some dark psychological explanation. But furries, oh my! There were plenty of those on that app. They seem all kawaii and shit, but those motherfuckers own the dark side of the darkest things you would find out there. Using costumes and masks, it's just their public image, the way they say to the world: we are not freaks, we’re just different. So, let me ask you, is filling someone’s throat with horse entrails fairly different to you? What about fucking missionary... With a rabbit under the bottom’s body, so you can kill the damn animal and ejaculate over its hot blood. What about that?

I’m telling you I was disgusted as fuck. I even googled how to become a Mormon that day. I’m not kidding, I’m for real; shit was crazy. And I wasn’t getting any luck in finding someone I liked, because those perverts were in love with me and my plain boring bald-ass face. They thought there was a psychopath hidden behind those sunglasses, ready to stick an entire dalmatian dog inside their arses.

Then I tried Razor’s edge. It was a mix between those two other apps. Like the place where the cool kids from Jasmin were to try their kinkiest side, and the maniacs from First fist first chased them and recruited for their borderline illegal sex practices. There wasn't a place for a John Doe like me there, so I abandoned my expectations of finding quick and sloppy sex around the corner.

III

I was feeling so empty. A loser with a big hat over his head: LOSER. I could feel how the world was evacuating me. I started thinking about suicide. I freaked out, completely. And I didn’t have anyone to speak with. Yes, I had a couple of male friends, but I never came out to them. And these two girlfriends: Lingam and Piroca. One was Indian and the other Brazilian. We met at some congress, and there was some cool vibe between the three of us. I confessed immediately. They were like yas gerl this, yas gerl that. Between them, they would talk like real human beings. But as soon as I entered the building, they were sassying at everything. I got tired of them, but we used to meet every now and then. We still do, and they keep like It’s raining man, hallelujah, every fucking time. Those fuckfaces. I like them.

So, I was severely depressed, I’m telling you. Not even bitch Caroll was harassing me as usual; that tells you how plain the suffering was painted over my face. And I started doing weird stuff. Ok, what I’m about to tell you is top secret, and not even God is aware of this sort of behavior of mine. I would go to the supermarket and buy a lobster. Alright? A plain, nice, innocent, and tasty lobster.

Sanatorium-Purge-Talk-Repent

I read one time about this woman who died when millions of lobster eggs hatched inside her womb. She would put a lobster’s tail over her vagina, and burn the poor animal with a lighter on its face, so the lobster would move in desperation, looking for how to get its way out of the fire, slapping the crazy woman’s vagina in the process. That’s what I call a Rock lobster type of sex. Get it? I’m just so funny, I swear.

One day she was all fine —I mean, the woman, I suppose Lobster died that day, hopefully—, and then she started feeling an unbearable, excruciating pain. So she sat on the toilet, and little baby lobsters started coming out of her... Alive. And there were so many, and they were so eager to, you know, go to the sea, and live their happy lobster life, that they basically skinned the woman from the inside. And she died. And baby lobsters too. The woman tortured Lobster Mom and got one point. Baby lobsters hatched. Baby lobsters: one point each. That's, like, millions of points.

Anyway, I wasn’t going to put no lobster mommy on my vagina. Or anus or anywhere in my body. But that first day, I hold lobster in my hand, and light a lighter. Yes, I was about to torture lobster, alright. But that’s not the point. Point is, the flame was getting closer to its eyes. And then, Lobster looks at me. And I swear, I swear it wasn’t an animal or lobster-looking look. It was just so human. So so so...

What did I do? I filled the tub and put lobster there. If I needed to take a shower, I would use the other toilet. She looked so happy, so relieved. I told her: Lobby —I called her lobby. Cute, right?— Lobby, look. I know working-middle-class queer tubs are not your natural habitat, so I will do what it takes to set you free from the hands of the cruel fish market business. And that was exactly what I did. I drove five hours to the coast, and set Lobby free. One month had passed since we had met, and Lobby and I developed some serious affection for each other. Not some zoophilic kind of love; I’m talking about something fraternal, family-like. I even thought about calling my mother, can you believe it?

But then it happened again, almost like I wasn’t noticing it. I bought another lobster. A month passed, and I repeated the process. I did that, at least, twelve times. An entire year. No man, no sex, no dick. Just a lobster, swimming in my tub, listening to all the drama from that day at work.

I started wondering: is this normal? Is this how a grown-up, middle-aged man should behave? I wasn’t going to no therapy. I knew exactly what I needed, but I have to admit, I waited too long to actually do what was needed from me to do. I had Lobby number twelve on the pool. She was floating, lifeless, and I was devastated. I was about to set her free that weekend, but it seemed God had other plans for me. Well, I got in the car and drove, blindly drove to the Cocoo Coonch Park. It was about midnight, and I was silently riding through some earthy roads that bordered a lake in the park. There were some other cars parked around, so I left my SUV there and walked near the border of the lake.

As soon as I reached the view of the lake, a man with his penis sticking out of his pants was standing, his skin glowing with moonlight. I immediately kneel, and put his cock in my mouth. Gosh! What a sensation! He face-fucked me. While I was blowing him, I felt his hands ungrasping my head, like he wanted to leave. So I did my turbo stuff, and in less than a minute I got myself covered in his sperm. He left, and I remained there, face covered in semen, looking at the moon. Then some other man appeared from the bushes. He came straight to where I was, and I blew him too. While he was on me, some young, muscular boy came. He held me from the hips, pulled off my pants, spat on his hand, and thrust his cock inside of me. We were like some sort of supra human machine. Three pieces of a perfect system. First the guy I was blowing came in my mouth. The one in the back seemed stimulated by the view, and he came afterward. A few seconds later, he pulled out, and left. The one I was giving head to had left as well. I was left alone in the night, my dick hard as a rock.

I lay on the bare ground, some ants crawling over my belly. Instinctively, I held my legs up, spread them, and started to masturbate. Some other stranger came, fucked me, and left. Just seconds, that was all. And then a short black man appeared. He was old. I’m telling you, grandfather-type of old. He was bald, had a white mustache, one of those men you know were muscular when they were young. Grandpa stuck out his cock; it was huge. I sucked him. He latched on to me as well. We came together. Grandpa still had my semen in his mouth when he reached my mouth. I had his in mine. We kissed. Each one of us took a part of the mix, and swallowed. We silently stood on our feet, I was helping him, though he didn’t look like he needed any help. Then, Grandpa walked away, inside some bushes, and I lost him. I lost him forever.

But I found something else that night. I got back home. Central nervous system on point. No signs of sadness, no remorse, no bad thoughts about me falling from the office building and landing on bitch Caroll’s face. No. I got home, and while I was having wonderful butter lobster for dinner, I told myself, Anal Rockets, no more stupid scrolling, no more phone fidgeting. It’s time to go out, and see the world.

Pshychiatry

And what better world than Cocoo Coonch Park after 12am? I became obsessed with the place. It’s curious; maybe on the inside I was really trying to meet the black petit grandfather I 69-ed that night. But he never showed up again. Anyway, I felt happy with all the cock I was getting from all those men. Can you believe it? Months, looking at the phone like some imbecile, begging for a piece of some loser’s attention, longing for the smallest small dick, because at the end, that was all I wanted. No chat, no asking about fucking zodiac signs, no playing, just-fucking-pegging.

It was coming back from a meeting with Lingam and Piroca when I crashed. Stupid bitches, they had their boyfriends picking them up from the hotel’s lobby. I had to take myself home. I was actually on my way to the park, and I was a little tipsy, to be fair. But anyway, I was about to take the exit when my speed —and the level of alcohol in my blood—exceeded my own abilities as a driver, and I tripped, and I twirled and twisted, and thank God I was all buckled up, because my only souvenir was a little scratch on my left arm. Well, that, and that my SUV came out as a piece of garbage, not prepared for such a wild trip, and it ended up in the junkyard. Fuck, that fucking car cost me an entire life of ass-licking. And not the kind I am particularly fond of.

See? That’s how I ended up using the train station’s bathroom while commuting. And that’s how I ended up face-to-face with dearest Tommy Valentine. Only that he never knew who I was.

IV

I had to keep commuting; I didn’t have any more options. The train station’s bathroom was always full of adventurers like me, and it wasn’t much time until I ended up being part of the party. I had to make myself an identity, and write my name on the walls so I could save my place in the left toilet. Of course I didn’t have to make such an effort to come up with a name. Yes, exactly, Anal Rockets! What wouldn’t I give my given name such an honorable task?

While cruising in that bathroom, I kept crossing with this same sucker, a white mouth it was, no more than that I was able to grasp from its identity. Two months had passed when suddenly it stopped appearing on the other side of the hole. And it was replaced by other mouths, and sometimes a real shitter would come in, and I would have to pretend I wasn’t poking my dick through a hole in a public bathroom, and leave soon before whoever was shitting on the other side would come out and beat me or something.

No mouth was better suited for the task than those pink lips on the toilet, and I started feeling quite bored about the replacements. I might stay at the urinals and maybe grab a cock and jerk it off a little bit, or at least catch a glimpse of it.

Until that one day. That one last definitive day, when I got to be in the toilet again, and pink lips appeared. I immediately did my duty and poked my dick, but it stayed untouched on the other side of the hole. Then, a book slipped on the floor to my side; it had a pink velvet cover with fur. I stopped, and grabbed the book. In that moment, the door from that toilet opened, and the person, and owner of this notebook, left the bathroom. I didn’t get to see his face, only his back, looking through the space of the shut door of my toilet. He was dressed in a shirt and pants, very preppy, very middle class, you know?

I held the pink book in my hands and opened it. I took a look over the pages, full of drawings, collages, pieces of news from the newspaper. The calligraphy and the style of those drawings looked too familiar to me. Then I went to the first page, and read, This diary belongs to Tommy Valentine.

"Él posa como si nada le importara" "He poses like he cares about nothing"

Can you fucking believe it? I was being blown by Tommy Valentine that whole time. It was absurd, ridiculous... And fun at the same time. It was the only way I would have given a chance to someone like him... He was a freak. What do you want me to do? He was unwell. Of course I was not the most normal guy in class, but, he? He was a freak. And there I was, with his private diary in my hands. I couldn’t wait; I had to take a look right there, so I opened the diary on a random date, and read:

“...black and thick. He lasted like 10 minutes, and disappeared...”

“...Asian, maybe: thin and quite long, needle-like. Funny and all...”

“...ricotta cheese all over the head. ¡Yummy!”

“...first time banged like that, but it was awesome...”

He kept a record of all of his suckings—and fuckings, yeah!— there. And what happened outside the bathroom as well. I discovered there was a black dick that kept coming around, and he was falling in love with whoever was its holder. I haven’t read the whole thing, I wanted to save more for this moment, so... Are you ready?

V

Let’s get started with a random day, but one of the first days he wrote:

February 14th

Dear diary,

I’m here seated at the Smoker Beaver, on 5th and 32nd St. The sun is bathing the streets in honey sprinkles. I had to sit outside only because I felt like warming up my body a little bit. It’s been cold inside my house these days. Not because of the weather, but because of the terrible time I’ve been going through. Windows and curtains shut, no air but my own heavy breathing, bouncing against the walls like I’m living in some sort of butchery.

Since Paul, I haven’t been able to open the curtains at home. It remains as a place of darkness, nothing but the lightbulbs and my cellphone screen.

Can I share a secret with you?

I never liked him.

I just kept telling him to come over so I just to stoped being alone. I didn’t want to go back home like this: the darkness and the cold. And he was nice, after all. Plainly nice, nice enough. But not the kind of nice that drives you crazy. I kept visiting the bathroom while he was kind of moving home.

I cannot even tell if I was really excited about living with him. He was such a good cook, though. And then he fully moved and... I swear I tried my best to like the situation, but it all ended up being a futile effort. When he realized I didn’t have any more interest in touching him, he was unmoved. We spent less than three months living together.

And here I am, on my day, Valentine’s Day. What am I supposed to do? A Valentine boy really looking for some Valentine’s help. And once I find some love, I throw it all away.

Smoker Beaver would be such a nice place to meet someone. I have a couple in front of me, elders, in their sixties. They just drink coffee and every now and then exchange some words, and he stretches his hand and pats hers. Cute, right? That is how love is meant to look. No big thing, just coffee and patting your partner’s hand.

I got nice sex with Paul, but no patting. Why do all my men have to be so closeted? He was all about interiors, you know? He wouldn’t even let me hug him in public. I think I just got suffocated by the situation. Now that I think about it, it might be a good thing that I finally left him.

I pray to God to send me a nice Valentine today. Is he listening? Maybe one of these old lonely smokers from the Smoker Beaver...

Well... It seems Tommy Valentine was not having better luck than myself, right? Anyway, you can tell we were up for two different things: he wanted a relationship. What about that Paul, then? I can see why he ended up in that bathroom.

And that place... Smoker Beaver. It does ring a bell to me.

Let's go some other date, hmm... February 22nd? No, too close to that last one. March 18th, ok, this one will do. This one has a picture on it, look... This woman looks quite familiar to me, oh my! I am quite sure she's the woman from the train station’s bathroom. Let's see...

March 18th

Dear Diary,

Neither Paul nor any of the other men I met this month had a real husband-quality. And this whole app situation... It’s driving me crazy! Can you believe my phone? I have this one application that measures the time spent in other apps. Do you know how much time I’ve invested in Jasmin? About 3 hours a day! All the time talking to boys. They all seem cute and nice at first, but then they stop responding. And it’s never been harder to find a real lover before. Everyone says, "Oh yeah, we might see each other pretty soon," but they never say come over, and when I invite them, all I get are excuses.

I started feeling desperate and, honestly, dirty. I mean, I felt like my time was being robbed. I’m a good guy, Diary, you know that. I’m not the kind of person who would fake liking someone. I devoted my time to every boy I talked to, for what? All I got is more disappointment.

Until...

Alright, does this sound familiar to you? It seems Tommy boy was having a tough time finding dick as well... Times are hard; we need Jesus more than ever! Let’s keep, I need to know who this woman is.

My car was at the shop, and I had to do some things around the train station. I went to the bathroom, you know, to take a wee, only. I got myself inside a toilet room, and suddenly a penis pops up from one of the walls.

I am not the kind of guy who enjoys cruising. Actually, except for that trip to Mexico City —I was in the bathroom of a mall, and everyone was cruising there, and I said, “What the heck, we are already in Mexico,” so I went with the flow that time—, I’ve never done cruising before. I was in this conundrum, questioning myself about whether it was morally correct for me to get on my knees and, you know... Do this.

And I did it, dear Diary, I sucked it. But it wasn’t the end of it. After it finished, that one person left, and from the other wall, another penis showed up. At the moment I thought, “This is too much; I shouldn’t. There are consequences for such behavior... Health consequences.” But I couldn’t help myself; once again I went down and did my duty. And it kept happening. And I didn’t notice, but about two hours had passed, and my legs were numb. It wasn’t until that moment I realized I could be both the taker and the giver, so I did the same and poked mine to one side, and I got myself well pleased.

After the ejaculation, I felt both filthy and so full of life, like now I was this new version of myself: bold and wild and extreme. I washed my hands and left the room. I was on my way to take the stairs up, when I almost slipped and fell from the wet floor. The cleaning lady was giving me her back, and she heard that I was about to fall, but ignored the event all the same. So I politely asked her to put out a wet floor sign. I could tell she was smoking, and she also had a hump-like shape. If I had found that lady in the middle of the night, I would have felt utterly unsettled by the overall look she had.

This lady turns around, and, with a renegade look she only says, “You faggots, are capable of getting AIDS from a stranger’s dick but get afraid from some floor deodorant,” and then she chuckled. I was caught unprepared for such a response. “You are rude,” that’s all I said. And she started ignoring me as she kept sweeping the floor. “You cannot speak to the public like that, lady,” I kept saying, and she kept ignoring me, “as my name is Tommy Valentine, I swear I won’t tolerate such verbal agression. I’m afraid I would have to speak to your supervisor if I were you...” But I had to stop right there. As soon as I mentioned my name, this ragged woman finally turned all the way towards me, and looked me in the eyes.

She hadn’t changed that much in matters of style, or the quality of her overall personal hygiene, but it was plain to see on her face that the almost twenty years that had passed for me, took a toll on her; she was now this old, witch-looking woman, humped and smoking while moping and cursing at the train clients. It was Pussylda Pussyngton.

Wait, what? Is this a joke? Are you telling me Pussylda Pussyngton was that rude brat I’ve been facing this whole time while leaving the toilets? That’s ridiculous! And improbable. I mean, we studied together in school. I can’t remember if she was smart or not, only her donkey ears and her donkey mustache, and her donkey look. Oh my! She was the second on Tammy Orleans’ to-be-bullied list. After Tommy Valentine, of course. That bitch liked to mock Pussylda especially, and I dare to think that she was the one who named her that way, and it was such a successful baptism that no one was able to remember her real name anymore. Even in her social media, they would use an alias, not her given name. She was Sarah Connor. Exactly, like the Terminator girl... She was a weirdo, I’m telling you, jokes aside. But never in my life  would I have expected her to end up that way, like a humped, smoking, cursing cleaning lady.

Look at this photograph: she’s smiling! You know what this means? It means Pussylda Pussygnton kept being the cleaning lady after knowing about Tommy Valentine’s affection for cruising. And they became friends, and all. And that whole time he kept giving head while she kept moping.

But, why would Tommy Valentine leave his diary on the bathroom floor that way? Maybe I just... I think I might need to speak with Pussylda Pussyngton. Do you mind if we resume this talk some other day? A gay must do his investigations, you know? Let’s meet next week! I might find some juicy information about this stuff in the meantime. Alright, kiss, bye.

VI

— Hello, good morning, mam’.

—Hello.

— Do you know me? —She looked straight at his face.

— You come here often; that’s all I can tell.

— We know each other. And we also have someone in common.

— What do you mean, sir? —She straightened and put both her fists on her hips.

— Don’t call me sir, Pussylda —her eyes wide open like two marbles—. I know you are Pussylda Pussyngton. I know that’s not your real name, but—

— Who are you?

— Anal Rockets, at your service —she was silent for a moment. Then she took her purse, grabbed a cigarette, and lit it. She took a smoke, blew the smoke away, and said,

— Did Tommy send you?

— I guess you can tell that... He left this —he pulled Tommy Valentine’s diary from his suitcase— on the bathroom floor. A week ago. Then he left; he never came back, did he? I read until the half part of it. Do you have an idea why  he would want me to have this?

— First, Anal boy, I wouldn’t be so sure he wanted you to have that. He might have taken you for someone else.

— What happened to you? —He had to interrupt her.

— What do you mean? —smoke came out of her nosestrills.

— You know what I mean. I don’t want to be rude, but, I mean, you look...

— Awful. I know, Anal boy. And I don’t care. If anyone knew better than to look at my ugly face and find something human behind it, it was Tommy Valentine. And now I don’t even have him.

— What do you mean? Do you know where he went?

— So, you haven’t read the last part of the diary, have you?

— No, I haven’t reached that part —Pussylda waved a hand in annoyance.

— You were always like that, Anal Rockets, weren't you? So organized, so inhumanly neat. I hated that... At least that bitch Tammy Orleans had some humanity inside her.

— I...—

— Hear me out, boy. Do you know why I got myself the Pussylda Pussyngton name?

— No, I...—

— Everybody thought it was Tammy Orleans who named me like that. But she wasn’t. It was me; I named myself like that.

— Why? —Anal Rockets was visibly, and utterly confused.

— I wanted to be someone; I didn’t want to be invisible anymore. You, for instance, always did your best to keep yourself away from the evil gossiping and the bullying. And I hated you for that. Tommy Valentine was a more real person —Pussylda finished her cigarette, threw the stub on the floor, and stepped over it. She reached for another cigarette in her purse—, he didn’t have the ability to hide himself. We all knew he had a crush on that Butters guy. Do you know he finally got Buck Butters to fuck him? —Anal Rocket’s eyebrows raised— A true hero, that Tommy, he told me that before leaving.

— Leaving where? —Anal Rockets manners became impatient; the morning kept going, and there were more people crossing the hallways to get into the bathrooms.

— Don’t you want to know how I made myself with such a gracious name?

— Gracious? I... No, sorry, Pussylda—

— I confronted that bitch Tammy Orleans in the girls's room. Yeah. I pointed my needle right into her womb, you know, my mother... She likes knitting, so I grabbed one of those large needles she used for making me those hideous sweaters. I told her: “you better watch your back, you girlie girlie girl... I know where and when to find you if I want to use this” and I kept pointing the needle to her belly —Pussylda Pussyngton kept releasing the smoke from her nostrils. “From now on, you’ll call me Pussylda Pussyngton, alright? You’ll tell everyone I fucked that boyfriend of yours and that he really liked my cunt, so you named me that way”. She was frightened, you know? Those kinds of bitches are nothing without their stupid friends. Whether it worked or not, I’m not sure. What I know is that her boyfriend became interested in my cunt, for real —Pussylda Pussynton cracked a laugh so hard it made people around to turn and look at her—. And he really got it, Anal boy, he really got Pussylda Pussyngton’s pussy.

She gave another puff to the cigarette, and threw it away. Anal Rockets was standing straight in front of her.

—Why don’t you use that clever brain of yours and go to the last page of Tommy boy’s dairy?

And so Anal did. The date was from that same day, when Tommy had left him the book on the bathroom floor, about two weeks past.

Agust 23rd

Dear Diary,

I’m on the verge of something really big.

Finally, after a decade of comings and goings, Buck has made up his mind, and he is about to leave Trysha. Can you believe it? After all of these years of lying to that poor woman’s face? We are finally up for the wedding. It’s true! We are to be married!

Anal Rockets stopped his reading, and looked at Pussylda Pussyngton. The woman was with her arm crossed over her chest, looking at him like she had all the answers.

— What the fuck!? He and Buck Butters...—Anal Rockets finally exploded.

— That’s right, fellow. Don’t be jealous. And keep reading. You’ll stop being jealous pretty soon.

— Wait, have you already read this?

— Maybe. All I know is that he was about to escape with Black Superman —Pussylda laughed—. That’s what we used to call him. But keep reading, son. Maybe you’ll find some surprises for both of us.

— Don’t call me son —Anal Rockets replied in annoyance—. We are almost the same age... Though you look like a hundred years older —he gave Pussylda a sassy look. She smiled at that.

— Go on, you fuck. You’re making me uneasy... And I can feel the smell of fresh diarrhea from here, so be quick, I must go and do my duty.

Anal Rockets looked at her with both pity and disgust. He opened the diary again.

The plan is as follows: Buck will be waiting for me at the train station, where we should pick up the train to the East Coast. We’ll take a flight to Madrid, and we’ll get married the next day. He already quit his job, but told his —ex, yay!— girlfriend he was going on a trip to Europe for work.

My plan is much simpler than that: I’ll go a moment to the train station bathroom, I will say goodbye to Pussylda, who has been a great comfort these last months, and I’ll leave my diary to Anal Rockets on the bathroom floor. I hope he will be there to pick this up. If not, who knows where you, my dear dear Diary, are going to end?

— He fucking knew it was me that whole time! —Anal Rockets almost shouted. Pussylda was lighting another cigarette.

— I’m as surprised as you, my friend... I mean, did he really enjoy sucking you? —Anal Rockets didn’t know what to say. He decided he needed to finish the damn diary once and for all—. Keep going, pal. I’ll need to go toiletting really soon.

Anal opened the Dairy once more, and resumed his reading.

Yes, Anal. If you are reading this right now, let me just say: I always knew who was on the other side. Maybe not the very first time, but after you wrote your name on the walls, I became aware of my fellation practices with my old non-friend from School.

Because that’s what we were, right? Non-friends. I know I never liked you, but I always knew you didn’t like anybody, and, I’m sorry, Anal: nobody liked you. But hey, nobody liked me either, nor Pussylda, and that’s fine, you know? To be disliked. I didn’t pick you to be the holder of this Diary because I liked you, but unlike Pussylda, you’re a man, a homosexual guy like me, so you might understand about the challenges of being in love with such an impossible image: Buck Butters.

You see, Buck fucked me once at a party. He wasn’t even drunk, and I didn’t even have to convince him: he just looked at me that way... That way saying come with me, little Tommy, and I followed him. I found him on the back of a tree, quite far from the house itself. He kissed me, he told me: “I’ve never liked a guy before. Let’s just pretend you’re a girl, Tommy. Now get on your knees”. I swear, even though I’ve always had a butt and a penis, I suddenly felt I had turned into a female. I was his woman that night. He called me Tatiana. And I started forgetting about Tommy.

But years passed, and he met Trysha. Of course she was a “real” woman. Inside and outside the sheets. But we kept seeing each other. Well, not me and Buck Butters, but Tatiana and Buck.

He started asking me to wear women’s clothes, to act like Tatiana during our encounters. And after a year, I found myself having dinner at a restaurant with him. Well, it was not me, it was Tatiana, but whatever, I was willing to do anything so I can be with Buck.

I was convinced that relationship —or whatever that was—, was not going anywhere. And I started looking forward to a relationship, a man, you know? Who liked Tommy Valentine, not Tatiana Valentina. And every attempt to get myself into a relationship with another boy ended up in failure. Just disaster over disaster.

Once I met Poll. He was this short, white, muscular man. He was a lawyer. I think I fell in love with him. But Buck found out about our relationship, and you know what he did? He beat Poll almost to death. I got terrified. But, may I say, I felt suddenly victorious for that violent demonstration of interest of Buck towards me. I completely lost Poll, he had to move out of the city.

You know I am a good guy, Anal. And a believer, I am, in God Almighty. And I considered myself incapable of doing any wrong to anyone in my life. But I had this sensation of Buck Butters trying to get the best of me. I felt that if I showed him my evil side, then he would be more invested in ours. So I kind of did the same to Trysha he did before to Poll. I beat the fuck out of her.

This is no good, I know, Anal Rockets, but what can a guy like me do? Surprisingly, Buck felt utterly proud of Tatiana, for once. And that same night he proposed to me, over rose petals, candles and the sound of the sea. His plan was simple, the one I just talked to you about.

You should be wondering why I left you this diary, and why I’m telling you this, and especially if Buck and I made it to Madrid.

The first question is easy to answer: I wanted to show you how fags sometimes win, and even if you were a fuck to me in school —while you yourself were a fag too—, I can show you how high a fag can fly.

The second question is not humanly possible to answer in these lines, since I’m not able to predict the future. But in case you are curious about whether Buck Butters and I made our way to the altar, you can always go to the Smoking Beaver.

Sometimes, the best secrets are hiding in plain sight.

VII

It’s a sunny Sunday at the Smoking Beaver. Cars pass by, and their engines seem to go mute while they cross the 5th and 32nd street junction.

Here we have the clients: Melissa, 52 years old, holding her poodle dog on her lap and enjoying her chamomile tea; Rupert, 68 years old, having his Americano with a cigarette breathing between his fingers; Tom and Tamara, a senior couple, having their pastries and mocha coffee; Valentina and Buck, the youngest of customers: she’s wearing a loose shirt, that falls right on her chest, flattening the already flattened surface of her slim figure, she wears sweatpants and sandals, and her toenails shine bright with red; Buck is wearing a shirt with no sleeves, and a thick fur jacket, looking like a bear inside a bear.

Suddenly, Valentina’s hair flips, the hot water from her tea runs free all over her face, and she’s turning... She’s turning white. And Buck is busy helping her, it seems the strings holding her facial skin are loosening, and she’s about to become something else, something she tries real hard to hide. And Buck looks both ashamed and furious at his girl. And, wait... What?

Yeah. Just a simple sunny Sunday morning at the Smoking Beaver.