Dear Diary -
For a full month I hardly left my slum apartment. Fears of arrest lingered over me like a black cloud. I watched every local news program for a hint of what I had done to the old man. But there wasn’t any story about an old man being kidnapped and raped. Nothing, not a story in the newspapers or on TV. But the fear stayed with me. I lay awake at night waiting for the loud knock on my apartment door.
It never came.
Slowly, I began to believe that the old man hadn’t reported me.
Why I didn’t just get on with my life and try to forget what I had done to the old man, I can’t explain, except to say that he populated my dreams. I relived the experience of his wonderful manly kisses, and his tight ass as I fucked him. The dreams were so vivid that sometimes I would wake up in a pool of cum.
During the day I'd fantasize about him, and on the rare occasions I went out I'd imagine I'd seen him, somewhere in the crowd at the mall, someone just out of the corner of my eye.
The compulsion to seek him out came over me again and again. I wrestled with it - oh God, did I fight with the temptation. I really did. I tried everything, but couldn’t get him out of my mind. Every time I thought of him and the night inside my van, I would end up jacking my dick until it squirted.
One night, after midnight, and after a few tequila shots, the compulsion came over me so bad that I left my apartment and went to the nearest pay phone. My fingers trembled as I dialed Frank’s home number. It rang so many time that I feared he was not home. Finally a sleepy voice said, “Hello.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Words just wouldn’t come to me.
“Who is this?”
The voice on the other line suddenly sounded fully awake.
“It's you!” he accused. “It is you, isn’t it?”
He was becoming angry.
“Yes,” I said softly. “It’s me.”
There was a long pause.
Then the old man’s voice said, “You fucking asshole!”
“Did you visit you girlfriend tonight?” I whispered.
Again there was a long pause.
“Yes! And I fucked her. I told you I’m not a fucking queer!”
His angry tone bristled over the wire. I was covered in goosebumps from the sound of his voice.
“You didn’t go to the police.” I said.
“Fuck you! I should have! I should have gone straight to them and your ass would be in jail already and they would have locked the door and never let you out.”
“Why didn’t you?” I asked.
“Fuck you!”
The phone line went dead.
I stopped at an all-night market and bought enough junk food to do me for several days and went to my lair. I stripped naked, and jacked off. It wasn't enough. I jacked off again thinking of the old man. And even then, I later dreamed of him.
The next night I when to the same payphone, knowing that if he had reported me, the police had more than likely tapped his phone and could trace the call. I tried, but couldn't resist. I dialed his number, shaking. This time he answered the phone on the second ring.
“Why are you calling?”
It sounded as though he had expected me to call. I remained silent.
“Haven’t you done enough to me already?”
His voice sounded a little less angry.
“I keep thinking about you.”
“Fuck you! You damn queer!”
He didn’t hang up though. Sitting there. Listening in silence.
“I jack off every night thinking about you.
“Jesus! Fuck! You are sick.”
“When I kissed you, it was so wonderful,” I told him softly.
“You made me kiss you. You had a damn gun pointed at me."
“Are you naked?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’ve got a hard on.”
Still, the old man didn’t answer.
“I’m going to jack off when I get back to my apartment. Do you ever jack off?”
The phone remained silent.
“Do you think about me fucking you when you fuck your girlfriend?”
My dick began to throb so hard it was painful.
“I want to fuck you again . . .”
The connection went dead as I shot off in my pants.
When I left my apartment around midnight the very next night, I had intended to call him again, but I drove past the phone and found myself heading east on Oakland Park. Several times I slow down to turn off Oakland Park but couldn’t stop myself for heading east. I was shaking almost violently when I pulled into the driveway of the old man’s house.
The small ranch style home was completely dark as I quietly pulled into the driveway and parked beside his white Mercedes. I sat in the van staring at the house for several minutes before finally getting out and walking up to his front door. I knew that what I was doing would get me arrested, but the knowledge didn’t stop me from ringing his doorbell.
I could hear the loud chime echoing through the house. I rang it again.
“Who is it?!”
The old man's deep voice had a nervous, angry edge.
I didn’t answer. I saw a curtain move slightly.
“Fuck! It's you! Are you crazy coming here?”
“Let me in.” I said, softly.
“And, if I don’t, what are you going to do? Shoot me through the door?”
“I don’t have the gun.”
He hesitated.
“What’s to stop me from calling 911?”
Some of the anger was gone from his voice. I could hear a new edge, a reluctant interest.
“Nothing.”
“Just go away. I don’t want to see you,” he said, but his voice was more pleading than demanding.
“Fuck it! Go away!”
He seemed to be trying to stir up his anger again, almost as if he was talking to himself.
“Let me in.” I said softly. “I got to see you. Please let me in,” I found myself saying in a desperate voice, “Please, I've got to see you.”
Honestly, I didn’t expect him to open the door.
But he did.
The old man unlocked the door and slowly opened it until we were standing face to face. I took a deep breath as I realized he was standing in the doorway completely naked. I had to fight myself to kept from reaching out to touch the thick patch of gray hair on his chest, visible in the dim light from the street lamp.
“C'mon. Please, let me in. Please?”
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