Saturday, March 13, 2010

Tiger'ish Tales Vol. 8: My Sticky Situation


The discovery that I was living with a goat-fucker caused me no small amount of distress.  It did, however, also give me hope.  Hope that I finally had an escape from Logan.  To be fair, I had come to look at him like a younger brother -or more accurately Lennie to my George, and kind of enjoyed that I managed to live with him.  But then again, Lennie never fucked those rabbits.  So with na├»ve hope I requested a meeting with my dormitory’s Residential Life Coordinator.
There are few people on a college campus as uniquely pathetic as the RLCs.  At my school each dorm (in a few instances dorm-pairs) housed 5 floors of students.  Each floor had two Resident Assistants, or students paid to be the “interface between students and the administration in manners of on-campus habitation”.  So each dorm’s RAs reported to an RLC, who was their interface with the Dean of Student Life and Housing.  These RLCs were career dorm rats:  not pursuing any higher degree, these mid-to-late 20-somethings chose to live in the dorms because they enjoyed it that much.  A shitty “apartment” on the ground-floor and a reserved parking space was their reward.  The only thing they EVER had to do was approve and coordinate room changes.
My freshman year RLC was Jennifer, a person whom I had never met nor even seen until the meeting I had scheduled by signing-up on the “Office Hours” paper tacked to her bulletin board.  (What office hours?  Where they hell else would you be between 1-4 PM TWTh? What Office?)  So at my appointed time I found myself sitting at her pathetic table for one next to her half-stove and mini-fridge.  I broke it to her gently, that my roommate has pictures of himself raping goats and that I don’t feel as if I can live with him anymore.
RLC: Why not?
Me: Because…I don’t feel safe?
RLC: Why not?
M:   Isn’t it illegal? 
RLC:  Are you a goat?
M: Did I mention my roommate is Logan?
RLC:  If you aren’t a goat I can’t help you.
M: So if he had raped a member of my species you could, but rape in general isn’t enough?
RLC: If you were a girl you’d get your own room tonight.  So…you got a cigarette?
M:  I don’t smoke.  Anyhow, you won’t switch me to one of the empty rooms?
RLC: No, you need to work this out.  Good luck.
I would find out the following fall that Jennifer’s contract wasn’t renewed due to the fact that for our dorm, for the entire year, she had not approved a single room change.
My fate sealed, I went back to my chamber of horrors and thought long and hard about what this actually meant for me.  After all, she kind of did have a valid point.  Logan had obviously been fucking goats long before we met and, for whatever reason, knew enough to keep it quiet.  In fact, if he had known how to use his scanner I might never have found out.  So, could I live with it?  If only for a semester?  I figured that I could, but that I shouldn’t have to tolerate it.  I put up with so much of Logan’s bizarre shit: the toes, the movies, the nudity in general, but here I drew the line. 
That evening, I sat Logan down for a little chat.
Me:  Logan, I put up with a lot of your shit, you know that?
Logan: Well so do I.  You’re no peach to live with, either.
M:  How so?
L: You always leave, you don’t have enough laundry money, you buy bad food…
M: You don’t do laundry!
L: No, but I need the money to go to the candy machine because you don’t have anything good to eat!
M: Look, I know you don’t see the harm in your goat-fucking, and I know that whatever the fuck you do back home is none of my business, but what happens here is.  I am going to warn you only once.  If I ever see any of those pictures ever again, or anything else related to people fucking animals I will destroy you.  Do you understand?
L: You wouldn’t understand.  You’d like it if you tried it.
M:  You don’t understand.  What you like about it is that it is simulating human body parts.  If some girl would let you fuck her you would give up the goat.  I don’t need to try it.
L: That’s not the best part.  I like making the goat happy.  He releases so I release.  You don’t even know what you’re talking about.
M:  I don’t?  Listen to this….
I then proceeded to tell Logan the following true but tragic tale:
I grew up in a neighborhood in Milwaukee that could be categorized as “urban”.  In my case that meant we didn’t rent from Blockbuster but from Sweatpants George.  Our backyard picnic table was chained and bolted to our fence because otherwise it would be stolen.  Nobody played at the baseball field under the bridge because of all the heroin needles.   It was a simple fact of life that you would get into “gang fights” even as a small child, and as such, each family kept a mean guard dog.  At my house that dog was Goliath.  Trained to protect rather than attack he toed the line perfectly between doing his job and getting taken away by animal control.
(Tangent to the tangent:  When Goliath died, my mother left the following note on the kitchen table, “Boys, Goliath died last night.  Don’t touch the trash bag by the garbage cans, but make sure the garbage men take it with the trash.  Mom.”)
When I was eight, the only thing in the entire world that I wanted was to be included in my older brothers’ activities.  I lived in a world where without their protection I would certainly get maimed and possibly killed and to suffer their abuse seemed fine by comparison.  The summer of my eighth year, my brothers, Peter and Paul (and thanks, Mom, for that…”You must be Mary!”  Fuck you and my M-first-lettered name.) started playing a version of whiffle ball that allowed them to stay in the relative safety or our back yard.  Of course, the game only allowed for two players, so I was out.  Luckily for me they needed a ball boy who could run out into the alley or the neighbors’ yards to retrieve the occasional stray ball.  Despite their being 13 and 11, I was obviously the man for the job. 
All too quickly the ball went astray.  I gamely hopped the 4 foot chain link fence into our neighbor’s back yard and went for the ball.  As soon as I grabbed it I was pounced upon by our neighbor’s dog Max.  Max was a large and stupid mutt.  Known for both his bite and his bark, I braced myself for the attack.  To my pleasant surprise, Max didn’t bite me, but simply wanted to wrestle!  He pinned me down and rocked for a bit, and then suddenly backed off.  I hopped the fence, delivered the ball and followed my brother Peter’s suggestion that I go over to the wild rhubarb plant that grew in the corner of our yard.  I took a leaf and wiped off what Peter identified as fresh bird crap that I must have fallen into when Max tackled me.
Pretty quickly my brothers found it more entertaining to hit foul balls into the neighbor’s yard than to actually attempt baseball, but I was too dumb to know it.  Max loved it.  Every time I came over….he came over me.  I’d hop back, toss the ball to the pitcher and head over to the rhubarb while shouting encouragements that the next hit will be better, I just know it.
The days wore on and their batting skills didn’t improve.  Sometimes, it almost even seemed as if the pitching brother was just tossing the ball over the fence when I wasn’t looking.  The unforeseen result of all this is that Max learned to want me and that his patience had its limits.  Before too long, if Max was inside his house and I entered his yard, he’d rip through the screen door to wrestle.  After that, if I was even outside in our yard Max jumped the fence to wrestle.  I couldn’t go outside without at least one wrestling match, and occasionally Max would jump over into our yard and pace in front of our door waiting for his favorite competitor.
Unbeknownst to Peter and Paul, Ken, Max’s owner noticed something was up.  He called us out to figure out why his dog was recently hopping the fence and waiting at our door.
Ken was a kind but simple man who’d moved up to Milwaukee from Missouri before any of us were born.  His blue-collar life and presumed illiteracy evoked condescension from Peter such that he assumed what worked for me would work for Ken.  Peter stepped outside and told Ken about the baseball and the wrestling, and how Max was such a nice doggy.  Ken then demanded that Paul and I step outside as well.  As soon as I did, Max began to have his way with me and Ken, of course, knew what was happening and pulled his dog off.  He was understandably upset.
“Peter, you’re old enough to know better so don’t pretend you ain’t.  What are you 14?  13?  Old enough to discover your own tally-whacker, I know it.  And you know what Max has been up to.  Don’t you know it’s ruined him?  If he’s jumping fences now for a piece of tail what’s to stop him from jumping for anything else?  What’s more, you’ve got to protect your brother, not whore him.  You make me nervous, boy.  And now he’s ruined.  He’s got your brother’s taint and it’s ruined him.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to break him of it and I certainly won’t ever be able to pair him with a bitch.”
As if on cue, Max decided that it wasn’t right for me to leave him with blue balls and leapt at me again.  Furiously pumping, Ken dove on him to pull him away and Max started to bite his owner.  Peter began to laugh.  Max finished while snapping at Ken and went back over the fence of his own accord.  Ken got up, blood dripping from his body and went over as well, muttering about his dog being ruined, and dragged Max by the collar into his house.  A few minutes later, he was back outside, dragging Max with a piece of rope and carrying a small rifle on his shoulder.  He got the dog into his truck and drove off.
We all knew what that meant and finally Peter seemed to suspect that, perhaps, he had let things go too far.  After some time, Ken returned in his truck with his rifle, but no Max.  He called us over to the fence and handed Peter the collar.  He said, “You ruined him and maybe that’ll make you think twice.”  He turned to me and said, “You’re too young to know what’s happened and I won’t tell you, but I will say this: If you let your brother make you a bitch, then you are a bitch.  Don’t trust him.”  He turned to Paul and said, “You’re the reason there are so many faggots in France.”  Shaking his head, he went inside his house.

I sincerely believe that Logan was an animal lover in addition to being an animal-fucker.  For example, he had so many pictures of horses hung up in our room.  Why not goats?  Because it wasn’t just about sex.  Farm boy that he was, he simply loved animals.  Anyhow, my story touched a nerve.  Maybe it was that sex between a dog and a human directly led to the dog’s death, maybe it was simply that I had been more candid with him than ever before.  Either way, he wanted to honor my wishes.  He vowed right then and there that I would never again be exposed to his goats again.  I sincerely thanked him and we had one of the more civil nights we would ever have.
Of course, with Logan, nothing happens so easily.  If you give up meat you have to find some other source of protein.   And with that, Logan began an odyssey through the annals of internet porn in a noble quest to find his goat-fucking substitute.  Rather than simply deciding to not jerk off if I might be around, he dove cock-first into the fucked up world of fetishes in a search for a new masturbatory muse.
I am happy to say that I was completely ignorant of this search and as such, can only imagine what horrors Logan exposed himself to.  I have no doubt that what he saw would make my stomach turn.  I only realized what he was doing when one day I returned to our empty room and saw sitting on his bed, next to a box of Kleenex, a picture printed off of his computer that more or less resembled this:


Logan had discovered the bizarre world of Furry Porn, and he did it for me.