STREAKING
VILE SELF PORTRAITS, CHAPTER SIX
Rob dared me. Called me a pussy. Said I was afraid.
I was never afraid of anything but my father.
"Fuck you, Rob!"
Bubbles rumbled, roiled, and surged.
"Keep ya fuckin’ voice down, Joseph. Ma and Dad ah sleepin’."
"I’ll do it. I swear I will."
"You’re not gunna do shit, faggot. Shut up," he sneered with glee.
"You wouldn’t last a second," Kyle said.
Smitty was in the fourth corner stoned to the gills.
"I don’t care either way, man."
He never sticks up for me, I thought. My "best friend" never sticks up for me. When the older kids are around, I’m nothing.
"Nobody’s comin’? Fuck it!" I stood from the hot tub and stepped out into a thin layer of snow, outlining my feet in slush. With every exhale I saw my breath—my life—drift toward the Murphys’ house two fences away, illuminated by their backyard spotlight.
I took off running, rounded the deck, and yanked at the gate. It snagged on a patch of frozen grass. The cold invaded my bones. My boxers went stiff. I squeezed through, scraping my bare leg on a wooden fence post.
Approaching the driveway, I contemplated cowardice.
Something foolish—perhaps youth—gifted me the will to proceed. I pulled my boxers down to my ankles, stepped out of them, and lobbed them at the front stairs before starting my jog. Past Father Charlie’s, the Murphys’, the Bonos’, the O’Learys’, the orange burst of streetlamps against the shadowy sky, the bushes dressed with neon Christmas lights, the blow-up Santas, the single-family homes with icy vinyl siding, the sleeping midsize sedans and minivans. I cupped my balls with one hand and pumped forward with the other. Pebbles dug into my pruned feet. I was halfway around the neighborhood loop when the balmy suds of the tub froze and my dick made a full retreat.
As my house came into view, so did Rob, Kyle, and Smitty—steaming bodies with rigid hair. Rob stood by the pole where my father proudly displayed his American flag. The flag was absent, but something else flapped in the wind.
My boxers.
Rob’s smirk was barbarous. His buck teeth glistened, crusted with fluoride.
"Rob! Get them down!"
"Yeah right! Good luck, pussy. C’mon, guys, let’s go back ta the tub."
Cupping my shrunken balls, I stood at the base of the flagpole and struggled to free my boxers. Rob had impossibly knotted the rope.
My parents’ bedroom window opened.
"Joe? Whadaya doin’? Are ya naked?"
"Rob… he put my boxers up there!" I pointed.
A car passed.
"Get the fuck inside! Whadaya thinkin’? Fa Chrissakes, Joe."
"I’m sorry!"
"Honey, he’s fuckin’ naked on the front lawn!"
"Naked? Lemme see… Joe, what the hella ya doin’?"
"Rob took my clothes!"
"Sure, Joe. It’s all ya brutha’s fault. Where’s my fuckin’ flag?"
He slammed the window shut before I could answer.
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VILE SELF PORTRAITS© AS AN ALTERNATIVE TO DRUG ADDICTION
Older brothers can be brutal. LOL. Great story.
Great chapter! Loved it! Wow! 🤘