THE JOHN BRUNI MUSEUM OF MEDIOCRE (AT BEST) SHIT #34: BOBBY YANDELL, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR

[I had been writing hetero porn for quite some time, trying to sell out so I could make real money off of my writing. None of it got published, but then I discovered that gay porn sold for more money. The way I figured it, sex was sex. What do I like? And how can I apply it to a man instead of a woman? Boy, was I fucking stupid. I thought I was brilliant when I came up with the idea of a gay private investigator. There were no gay detectives in fiction, so why not make one? Also, I would like to point out that there are no gay action stars. I think there would be a big market for that. Anyway, I sent in my version of this story, but the editor must have sensed that I didn’t know much about gay sex. He changed a lot of things in this story. Up to this point in my life, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as ass orgasms. He also made the sex way rougher than I wrote it. But I am jealous over one thing: the pull quote. “I jerked my meat, fast and hard, feeling guilty for being such a pig.” I wish more than anything in my writing career that I had written that line. Nope. It was the editor. I should also note that this was published under my porn name, Anthony Haversham. This is from Indulge for Men #71. I’m fairly certain they went out of business. They were a skin magazine much in the way of Playboy. No sexual acts are depicted; just a whole bunch of dudes showing off their dicks. They had about three stories an issue. I thought that I might make a series detective out of Bobby Yandell, but when I sent the sequel, it was rejected. I published that one in issue 1 of Tabard Inn, also under Haversham. Someday I might even write a third one. The first is in the vein of Chandler, the second in the vein of Spillane. Maybe the third would be more of an Adrian Monk?]

It all started when he walked into my office. I noticed his legs first, two pillars of muscle encased in tight jeans. There was a pleasant bulge between his legs, and his torso, covered with a t-shirt, looked like a washboard. There was a light beard on his cheeks, and his hair was short and combed down over his forehead. His eyes were bright blue, and I felt a tingle below my belt when he looked at me.

“Mr. Yandell?” he asked. I could detect an accent, but at that point, I couldn’t tell what kind it was.

“That’s what it says on the door,” I said. “Why don’t you take a seat?” I pointed to the chair in front of my desk. He sat down.

“I was wondering if you could help me.”

Aussie, I thought. Mmmmmm. “First of all, I’d like to know who referred you to me. For my files, you know.”

“Mark Redmore,” he said.

Ah, Mark. The ex-love of my life. It was kind of strange that he would send business my way, considering how pissed off he was at me. “Your name?” I asked.

“Eric Tankersley.”

I made note of his name. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tankersley?”

“It’s about my boyfriend,” he said. “I don’t know where he is. One day, he just up and disappeared, and he didn’t tell me where he went.”

“How long has he been missing?” I asked.

“About a week, now.”

“Have you called the police?” I asked.

“Yeah, but they haven’t been doing much,” he said. “I don’t think they care much for . . . our type, you know?”

I nodded. “When and where was the last time you saw him? And what’s his name?”

“His name is Harold Jackson, and the last time I saw him was last Saturday, in the morning. He was at my place. After he took a shower, he told me he had to go out, and he’d see me later that evening.”

“And he never showed?”

“No.”

“Does he have a job?” I asked.

“Of course. I don’t sleep with loafers.”

“Where did he work?”

“At a strip club,” he said. “It’s a terrible place for him to work, but he makes more money than I do. That’s the only reason I tolerated him working there.”

“Which strip club?”

“The Full Moon,” he said. “An utterly stupid name for a strip club, but like I said, he makes more than I do.”

“Any relatives?” I asked.

“Just a mother in New England,” he said, then gave me his boyfriend’s mother’s phone number. “He also mentioned having a brother somewhere, or a cousin, but I don’t know anything about that.”

“Friends?” I asked.

“Just at the strip club,” he said.

“Do you have his Social Security number?” I asked.

He did, and he gave it to me.

“One more question, Mr. Tankersley, and it’s a tough one. You ready?”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think he just left you? That he doesn’t want to be with you anymore?”

“No,” he said, and he held up his hand. There was a ring on his finger. “He gave that to me a couple of days before he left.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do. As for now, fill out this contract, and sign it down here.”

I gave him the contract and waited as he filled it out. It was a shame he was taken. I could look at that scant beard and blue eyes all day long. Not only that, he looked like he had a nice piece of dick meat on him.

I knew it wasn’t right for me to be ogling him like that, but in a job like mine, you get your kicks when and where you can. You never know when you’re going to come in contact with the wrong person. You never know when the person that ends up missing is you.

After he finished reading the contract and signed it, I signed it and sent him on his way. He left me a picture of Jackson, which I put in my jacket. Once the contract was filed, I decided I’d start as soon as I had a talk with Mark.

I stopped at Mark’s office (he’s an accountant), and he seemed pretty pleased to see me. I know I was happy to see him. Out of all my lovers, he was definitely my favorite. When he sucked my dick, he had this nice trick he did with his tongue that could make me come quicker than a bullet leaving a barrel. He’d just slip his tongue up under my glans, and it would make me blow my load.

I can still remember the last time we’d had full on sex. We both knew it was over, and the sex was incredible. I was determined to give him a fuck he’d never forget, and he must have been doing the same thing. He had come over to pick up the last few things he’d had at our apartment. He thought I wasn’t home, but I was just about to jump in the shower. He walked in the bedroom just as I’d slipped off my boxers.

“What are you doing here?”

“I live here, remember?”

For some reason I grabbed him.

“What are you gonna do, hit me?”

“Yeah, I’ll hit you all right.”

I pushed him down onto his knees and swung my cock at him. It slapped him on the face, and he groaned.

“Is that all you got?”

“You want more?”

I cock-slapped him again, this time on the other cheek. My dick was getting hard, then I crammed it in his mouth. He choked, then took it in his mouth. He took me do the pubes and held his mouth there until I was fully hard. He finally pulled off his head and gasped for air. He spat on it, grabbed it with a tight fist to make the mushroom head flare, and said, “If that’s your best, you got problems.”

He was pissing me off. I picked him up off his knees, and we struggled. We fell on the bed, wrestling one another. He was fighting me like a wildcat, grabbing my cock and squeezing it, calling me names even I’d blush at in normal circumstances. I knew what he wanted. I knew he was craving my dick. I may not be much of a boyfriend, but I know how to fuck. I finally spat on his hole and shoved a finger in there with full force. He yelped.

I grabbed a rubber from the nightstand while holding him down with one of my knees.

“You’re not getting away from me now. For the next hour, you’re mine.”

I rolled down the condom over my cock with lightning speed and squeezed a huge amount of lube on it and Mark’s hole. I smacked his ass, grabbed his hips and brought him up to me. He was writhing around.

“You haven’t got the guts to fuck me like a man?”

“Oh yeah, baby? You think so? How’s this?”

I plunged into him. The full length of my cock ripped its way into him. He cried out, paralyzed from the pleasure for a moment, but he wasn’t about to give up.

“Come on, you gonna fuck me or just stick it in there? Maybe that’s why I left!”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”

I started pounding the hell out of him. The headboard was slamming against the wall, chipping the paint and denting the drywall. I got off my knees to get in him deeper. Mark wasn’t calling me a faggot fuck anymore, his body was just shaking, fighting the urge to give into the pleasure. He started moaning, and I could feel his ass spasm on my cock. He was coming. Four more hard thrusts, and I shot my load, my entire body convulsing with the power of it. I loved him, but it was over.

I snapped out of my daydream to keep my dick from getting hard in front of him. I sat at his desk and shook his hand.

“Good to see you, Bobby,” he said. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“Eric Tankersley,” I said. “Not that I’m complaining, but I’d like to know why you sent business my way. I thought you were pissed at me.”

“I am, but Eric’s a good friend of mine.”

I wondered how close they were. I know Tankersley had a boyfriend, but it wasn’t out of the question that he had a side dish to go with his Jackson.

“He was really distraught over Harold’s disappearance, and I thought that everything would go much smoother if he hired someone like you.”

“Like me, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah. A dick.”

I’ve heard that stupid joke many times, but it was the first time it ever hurt me. Still, I was sitting across from the man who enjoyed sucking my dick at one time. I had him when he was relatively unsure of his own sexuality. Not that he was still a virgin, anal-wise, but he was still pretty tight back then. The first time I sucked his dick was the first time he’d ever gotten a blow job, and I knew as I gazed up into his eyes, his member in my mouth, that he loved me. I don’t know if he did now, but I knew that at one point, he did. Once a lover, always a lover, right?

I asked him more questions about Tankersley and Jackson, but I didn’t learn much. I went back to my office where I had to go through the mess of papers before I found Jackson’s mother’s phone number.

The phone rang five times, and I was certain she wasn’t home when the phone clicked and a feminine, elder voice said, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Jackson?” I asked.

“Yes. Who’s calling?”

“I’m Bobby Yandell. I’m a private investigator, and I’ve been hired to find your son. I was wondering—”

“Who hired you?” she interrupted.

“That’s confidential,” I said. “As I was saying—”

“This is about my son. Tell me who hired you. Was it his . . . his boyfriend?”

What the hell? I thought. She already guessed, and maybe she would talk more freely if I admitted she was right. “Yes, Mr. Tankersley hired me. Now, could you tell—”

“I didn’t even know he was missing,” she said. “Don’t really care, either, if he was still . . . funny at the time.”

I mentally sighed. “Do you know where he would be? Did he have any favorite places to go?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe he’s with that foolish brother of his.”

“So, he does have a brother?” I asked.

“Yeah. He’s funny, too.”

“Do you know where I can find his brother?”

“No,” she said. “He moves around a lot. Stays with a lot of incorrigible reprobates.”

I could tell I was going to get nowhere with her. She was too ignorant to care. I asked her what her other son’s name was (Henry), and then I thanked her. She couldn’t help but spout some more ignorant bullshit about telling her son to wise up, he’s hurting his father, etc., etc., etc. When she got it out of her system, I hung up. It was time to visit a strip club.

The Full Moon wasn’t much. In fact, it looked pretty sleazy. When I walked in, there was cheap porn music being played (you know the type: just about every ‘Seventies porno used the same soundtrack) while a well-hung black man danced around the stage, flapping his dong so much it looked like a swinging hammer. There weren’t many people in the audience.

I stopped at the bar and lit a cigarette. The bartender wore tight jeans and a net shirt, showing off his perfect physique. I thought he would make a pretty good dancer.

“What can I get for you?” he asked.

“Bourbon,” I said. “Straight.”

“You sure?” he asked. “It’s only four o’clock.”

“I’m sure,” I said. When he laid the drink on the bar and took my money, I asked, “Do you know Harold Jackson?”

“Of course,” the bartender said. “He used to work here.”

“Used to?” I asked.

“Yeah. He stopped coming in about a week ago, so the boss fired him. If you see him, tell him that, would you?”

“Well, that might be quite a feat,” I said. “His boyfriend told me he hasn’t been seen in a week.”

“Are you a cop?” the bartender asked.

“No,” I said. “Private investigator.”

“Do you know what might have happened to him?”

“Not yet. How well do you know Mr. Jackson?”

“Well, enough to know that he’s the type to run out on a boyfriend.” He explained to me that he’d had a fling with Jackson, but after a few days, Jackson was seeing kissing another man, presumably Tankersley.

“Who was the closest to him here?” I asked.

“That would be Frank,” he said, pointing to the black man on stage. I thanked him and headed for the stage. There were a few dollar bills near his dancing feet, not much, but I’m sure that when night fell, he would be considerably richer. I waited until his song ended, and he walked off the stage, picking up his greenbacks.

“How much for a lap dance with you?” I asked him.

He turned his head to me, and even though his lips were closed, I could tell he was running his tongue over his teeth. When he walked, his dick bounced. “How much action you want?” his deep voice boomed.

“Whatever you got,” I said.

“A hundred and fifty.”

I wondered if I could chalk it up to expenses. Probably not, but just one look at that dick of his made me want to wrap my hands around it. I nodded and handed over some of the retainer fee that Tankersley left with me.

He guided me to another room with large cushioned booths and dim red lights. I sat down and he turned on the radio. He squeezed his dick to make it plump and smacked his ass.

“Remember. I can touch you, but you can’t touch me. Got it?”

“Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

He grinned, and the next thing I knew, he was in my lap, his buttocks working madly against the bulge in my pants. It had been a long time since I’d been touched down there by someone other than myself, and I felt myself straining instantly at my zipper. His ass felt warm against me, and I started breathing heavily. I wanted to fuck him and make those ass cheeks of his shiver with delight.

Then, he turned and started shaking his dick in front of my face close enough for me to smell his sex. I resisted the urge to grab it, which was fine; a second later, his cock was rubbing up against my coat collar, and that was enough for me. I could see every pore on his glans as it moved up and down my chest.

“You want it, don’t you?” he asked.

Yes, I definitely wanted him, but I remembered why I was getting the lap dance in the first place. “Oh yes, but I was . . . uh, wondering if I could . . . ask you a few questions.”

His dick fell away from me. “You a cop?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of Harold Jackson.”

“Harry, huh?” he asked, and he turned to grind my knob with his ass some more. “I liked him a lot. Had a dick almost as big as mine.”

“Yeah?” I asked, and I knew that I was going to come soon.

“Yeah,” he said. “What do you want to know about him?”

“Do you know where he is?” I asked.

“No,” he said. He flexed his buttocks, and I felt a tingle in my groin.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“He came down here last Saturday,” Frank said, and he turned yet again, this time letting his member rest over my throbbing unit. He started rubbing against the lump in my pants. “He wanted to borrow money from me.”

“Money?” I asked, and that alone took a lot of energy. I was on the verge of orgasm. “What for?”

“He said he had to go away for a while,” Frank said, looking into my eyes as his hips gyrated, rolling that enormous thing of his around my lap. “Loester, I think the town’s name is.”

He was breathing hard, and so was I. He was working his body to make me come. He was into it as much as I was, grinding and grunting like a pig. I couldn’t take it anymore. My buttocks tightened, and I bucked my hips, lifting us off the booth. I felt the satisfaction jet out of me, making my head light, darkening the front of my pants. I shook with each convulsion, but not enough to miss Frank’s eyebrow go up and a smile crack his face.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

I tried to think of something else, but nothing came to mind. All I knew was that I was extremely content. “If I come up with something else, I’ll call you,” I said.

Frank winked and left the room to go back on stage, swing that huge dong of his. Before going any further, I realized I would need to change my pants and take a shower. I tied my trench coat up and then downed the rest of my bourbon and headed for home.

After that, I called some hotels in Loester and found out a Holiday Inn had a visitor named Harold Jackson staying there. I donned my trench coat and a fresh pair of pants and drove out to Loester. I went up to his room. The manager told me Mr. Jackson was in, but when I knocked, there was no answer. I decided that I’d have to break in somehow. Luckily, this Holiday Inn hadn’t started using the card keys yet, so I was able to pull out my lock pick tools. It took a while (the lock was a pretty decent one), but I managed to open the door without being noticed.

When I saw what waited for me in that room, I quickly eased inside and shut the door. The closet was open, and what I saw within was the man I was looking for. There was Harold Jackson, his throat encircled with an electrical wire, his face purple and his tongue sticking out like a cereal box tab. He was naked, and I could see Frank was right about his size. Under any other circumstances, seeing a dick that big would’ve made me hard. Seeing it attached to a dead man just made me sick.

There was a note under his hanging knees. There were only seven words: I DIDN’T KNOW IT WAS MY BROTHER. Near the note was a video cassette, and I realized that I didn’t want to watch it, but I had to.

I took the tape and went to the VCR, where I plugged it in and watched the scene before me. There was Jackson, getting out of his pants, and another man I didn’t recognize, but I knew who it was. Jackson was blindfolded, but his brother could see perfectly well. I could see their mouths moving, but there was no sound. Why would his brother do something like this to him? I wondered. Why?

Jackson laid back on the bed as his brother took Jackson’s flaccid member and stuck it in his mouth. After a while, the limp flesh firmed into a long staff. Henry’s hand moved rapidly between his own legs, molding his own soft flap into a rod.

Jackson turned around, offering his asshole to his brother, who slid right in. They rocked like that, Henry giving Jackson a reach-around. It looked very strange, as if Henry’s dick was going right through Jackson’s body. After a while, Henry stiffened, and when he pulled out, his helmet was greased.

Jackson took a turn fucking his brother in the ass, and no matter how much I wanted to look away, I couldn’t. I knew that this video had driven Harold Jackson to suicide, but I couldn’t help being turned on by it. I plucked at the front of my pants to straighten out the growing hard-on. It wasn’t long before I was rubbing myself. I unzipped my pants and pulled my dick out. I jacked my meat, fast and hard, feeling guilty for being such a pig. Jackson pulled out of Henry and turned him around so he could stuff his dick down his sibling’s throat. I watched him come all over his brother’s face in gooey strands, and Henry’s tongue darted out, hungry for more. That brought me over the edge, and I blew my load into my hand.

My dick softened, and even though there was still some action going on, I turned off the video and rewound it. As the VCR hummed, I looked to Jackson’s corpse. Why would his brother want to do such a thing? Was it a joke? Or was it downright meanness?

I washed my hands, then pulled the tape out and wiped my fingerprints from both it and the VCR before planting it back where I found it. Only then did I call the police and the front desk.

It turned out to be a long night. The cops ended up cleaning up Jackson before arresting Henry, who insisted that he’d done it out of experimentation. I didn’t care much to talk to him about it.

The worst part was telling Tankersley about what happened. I didn’t tell him much, just that Jackson killed himself in a Holiday Inn in Loester over incestual sex. Tankersley cried a lot, and no matter how much I love a blue-eyed hunk of an Aussie, I restrained myself from taking advantage of him.

When I was finally alone, I lit a cigarette, drank some bourbon, and pulled out my dick, thinking of Frank and his moby of a dick. Maybe there could be something good to come out of this whole ugly mess. I unbuttoned my shirt, getting ready to blow a load all over my chest. I spit on my dick and started to stroke it, nice and slow. It’s the best tension reliever, next to liquor. I bet Frank liked the smell of come, the way he liked making my dick explode with cream in that booth. I pinched my nipple and gave myself one final yank, shooting all over my body. I decided to become a Full Moon regular.