Bobby was looking for something a little special that night in the Hostility Suite, but the pickings were looking picked over. Billy had already been through; he had done a good deal of damage to both the foxes and the buffet: frightened four girls away, humped two in the bathroom (with the door wide open while shouting, “Hey, guys: look! I’m fucking!”), exorcised one, and tossed one out the window for–and I’m quoting–“having the facial features of a Macedonian, but the ears of a Norwegian.”
Billy had also torn the shrimp platter a new asshole.
But Bobby had something new, something he wanted to try, something bubbling inside him like Beverly Sills being herself in his ribcage; it was not promising. There were foxes, of course: you weren’t let into the Hostility Suite if your foxiness was even in question, but were they right? Bobby saw teen foxes. Stone-cold foxes? Buyer’s market, friend. But stone-cold teen foxes? Bobby wouldn’t settle: he knew his value as a sexual commodity.
Shoddy product weakens the brand.
The cruditès looked used and haggard as a coal miner’s ballsack and twice as salty. Brent had a couple of the lesser foxes cornered behind the sofa, showing them pictures of his kids, then taking his dick out, then the kids, then dick, kids, dick, etc. He was also crying. This was bringing the room down, except for one of the lesser foxes who was weirdly turned on.
It was, Bobby noticed, getting late. Soon, Mickey would arrive with his hockey bag full of raccoons and, yes: it was funny as hell if you knew what was happening beforehand, but it tended to de-hornify the majority of foxes. (If you didn’t know that Mickey was about to play “the Raccoon Game,” as he called it, it would statistically be the most traumatic thing you ever live through. If you live through it.) (People did not live through the Raccoon Game sometimes.)
Time was running out. Bobby could hear Mickey coming down the hotel hallway. (Mickey drums constantly, so he’s easier to track than Darth Vader walking on bubble wrap.) But then: there she was. Black hair and green eyes. Posture that says the butt is in play. The right amount of fingers and toes. (Polydactylism is a Bobby no-no.)
Bobby wanted to say hi, so he said, “Hi, I’m Bobby,” Bobby said. “I’m in a little band you might have heard of–” and the stone-cold teen fox grabbed his junk. She did it well: competently, like a salesman at the furniture place really taking care of you.
Just then, Mickey burst in and hurled the hockey bag against the wall. This served to both release and infuriate the raccoons, who began taking out their clever, thumbed rage on the closest humans they could find.
Bobby snatched up his stone-cold teen fox, threw her across his shoulders, looked at her ass, nice, smelled her butt, very nice. Best date Bobby’s been on in a while. He called out the raccoons, “Ik IKIK ik IKIK ik,” and they waved at him, let him through.
(Bobby had befriended the raccoons years ago and was fluent in their language. At least, he thought he was: Bobby was really just making raccoon noises, and the raccoons pretended to understand. Raccoons are assholes on every level.)
They made it back to Bobby’s room without a scratch: he was so excited to try out his new presentation. As the stone-cold teen fox oozed onto the bed, losing what little clothing she was wearing along the way, Bobby made ready his boner.
Bobby had full control over his erections and could deploy them with split-second timing, for purposes tactical or strategic. It is his talent (he will do it at parties, or backstage, or in a bakery;) it is his joy (when Bobby is sad and has what he calls “the Bobby Blues,” he will often just bone up and that would make him smile.
Getting boners gave Bobby boners.
He whirled around, naked and engorged.
“Black Dirt live again!”Bobby cried and then, you know, nothing. Not an uncomfortabe nothing: it was just that the stone-cold teen fox had no idea what was happening. Happy to be there, nonetheless, but confused. She smiled and cocked her head.
“What?” Her long chain had gotten caught up on her right nipple, and Jesus hung askew.
“I named him Black Dirt. My penis. And he’s come back to life.
Jesus swung back and forth.
“No, my penis–”
“Your dick’s black?”
“–is named…what? No, y’see: we have a song called–”
“I think that’s awesome. This is America, and if your penis works hard and follows the rules, it can be black.”
“What’s your name?”
“OH MY GOD.”
Please stop this. It makes less sense than usual.