Johnny Wraith Stories

"Get any action last night?"

Ronald looked up from his book. It was titled Beating the Odds. His eyes were dark and sunken, his face grey. A cigarette was burning in the tray next to him. "No, I stayed at the Casino until 7 this morning."
"You win?"

"Don't ask."

"Alright."

"I need your help. It's time for my shot." Ronald put down his book and clambered out of his recliner. His lumbering body shuffled across the room through empty beer cans, newspapers, and trash. He disappeared down the hallway.

Ronald came back in just his boxy, white briefs. A couple wrapped syringes were in one hand, a large vial of testosterone cypionate in the other. He had to take a shot every two weeks, 2cc. His brain tumor had caused his testicles to dry up and die.

"I'll just pull 'em down and bend over the table, just like always. This time shoot me in the left butt cheek."

I took the vial and syringes, ripped one needle out of its packaging and drew out 2cc. Ron dropped his shorts and leaned over the kitchen table. His ass was large and white and had a deep crack. With a slight squeeze of the syringe, I pushed out all the bubbles. A slight spray of medicine shot into the air.

"No alcohol pads?" I asked.

"Ran out, just hit me."

"Alright. Don't bite your tongue."

I jabbed the needle in and pressed the stopper down with my thumb.

"You do that better than a nurse," said Ronald, pulling up his shorts. "Now I should be able to get a hard-on tonight."

"I'll make sure to lock my door when I go to bed."

"That won't stop the boners I get from this juice. It makes me harder than I ever got, even during puberty. Wind just has to blow slightly."

"That's good medicine."

"So what's up tonight?"

"Going over to Matt's, want to come? It is Halloween."

"Naw, but thanks. I have to go back and win back my money tonight."

"Alright," I said. "I have a 24 pack in the fridge. Want to help me with it before we part ways?"

"That's a stupid question. Let's hydrate. I'll go get my pants on."

I pulled the box of Keystone out of the fridge. We sat at the table and talked for the 30 minutes it took to empty all the cans and stack them up into a pyramid.

"I better get over to Matt's before this beer takes effect," I said.

"And I feel a dump coming on," Ronald replied, got up, and headed for the hallway. "Have a good time," he said, over his shoulder.

"Good luck with the cards."

I went to my room, grabbed my costume and keys, left the house, and made for the car.

Matt's house was only a 10 minute drive, but when I pulled up, the 12 beers were starting to blur my vision. I clambered to my feet in the street, light-headed, off balance, costume in hand. I got dressed in a black mask - one like the Lone Ranger wore - and a black cape. The cape barely dropped to my waist. It was for kids, but it was the biggest size sold at Safeway. The rest of the costume consisted of Levis button-fly jeans, white Reebok tennis shoes, and a maroon Arizona State University t-shirt with gold lettering.

I staggered to Matt's front door, paused, and didn't knock. I quickly turned and teetered to the side of the house, leaned against its red bricks and watered the bushes with beer. A lot came out. I wiped my mouth with the end of the cape, returned to the front door, rang the bell.

Matt opened. He laughed hysterically. "What the hell are you!"

"I'm THE BAD MAN," I insisted.

"Come on in, BAD MAN, let's have a gin and tonic before we go to the party."

"That sounds good."

Matt examined me with suspicion. "Are you already drunk?"

"No, I just had a few beers."

"Yeah, I can tell," he said, turning and leading me to the kitchen.

"Go light on the tonic."

We made it to the party. It was a big house in the suburbs with a huge backyard and patio, and a swimming pool. Hip hop music was playing. Lots of 18-22 year-old university students were there. Some were standing around in groups, chattering; some were dancing on the patio; two were in the swimming pool, making out. I felt old and odd at 28, a stodgy grad student in a stupid costume. And I was one of the few wearing a costume. Other than me, I counted one Playboy Bunny, one cowboy, and one Princess Leia Organa.

Matt got a call on his cell, and his face turned concerned. "I gotta go see Nancy," he said to me. "We have issues to work out, but I can come back and get you."

"Don't worry. I'll call Ronald."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"Thanks man, I mean, BAD MAN!"

Then Matt exited.

Just as I was waving goodbye to Matt's back, a nice kid came up and handed me a ¾-full bottle of Jack. "Take a swig dude," he said. And I did. We talked a while, passed the bottle until it was half empty, then the kid saw some friends arrive and went to greet them. He took the bottle with him.

I leaned against the awning pillar of the patio, and watched the others dance for a while, while the whiskey set in.

Princess Leia approached. She was on the chunky side, short, had blonde hair, big breasts, and a nice face. She looked to be an 18 year-old freshman.

"Want to dance?"

"Sure."

We started talking and dancing, gave our names, said what we were studying at ASU. My coordination was getting worse and worse.

"You're drunk!" She giggled.

"Not drunk enough," I replied.

"Where are your friends?"

"They just dropped me off and left."

"That sucks."

"What's up with your costume?" She inquired.

"I'm THE BAD MAN," I explained.

She giggled. "You're weird."

The kid with the Jack Daniels tapped me on the shoulder and gave me another swig. I handed back the bottle and thanked him.

"You're messing with me. It seems you have at least one friend here."

"I guess you're right. Since I got here, I've made one friend and have fallen in love."

The Princess blushed and didn't talk for a few minutes. A slow song came on, and we pressed together. But, soon she'd warmed up again, and became a real chatterbox.

It turned out she knew the girls throwing the party and had full access to the liquor in the kitchen. So we'd dance, go to the kitchen, mix me a drink, and then go back dancing until I needed another. She didn't drink. She just danced and chattered nonstop. A few times an hour, the kid with the whiskey stopped to give me another swig. He must have emptied several bottles that night, walking around, passing them around.

2:00am came. The music stopped. I could barely stand, even by using Leia as a crutch. "I'll take you home," she said. We said goodbye to all her friends and she helped me to her car, buckled me in, and drove me home, chattering nonstop. She parked in the driveway and turned off the engine.

"You can come in," I slurred. I was still wearing my mask and cape.

"I'll just walk you to the door. Let's save it for next time." She opened her purse, fished out a yellow sticky pad and pen, and started writing. "This is my number, and you'd better call me!" She ripped off the sheet and gave it to me.

"Alright."

"With trouble, we got me down the sidewalk, fished the keys out of my pocket, and unlocked the front door."

I hugged her and made my move, kissed her. She kissed back with an eager tongue, and we made out for quite a while. She wasn't detracted, even though she had to struggle to keep me from falling over.

"This will help you remember to call me," she grinned. She dropped to her knees and started opening my pants. I leaned back against the door for balance. I could hear her mouth working, smacking, but I couldn't become aroused. She kept trying and trying, but nothing… And she tried for a long time.

Leia stood up. From the look on her face, she was quite frustrated. "All that for nothing?"

"Sorry," I said, buttoning up my pants with clumsy fingers.

"You sure are THE BAD MAN tonight."

"Too much booze," I tried to explain.

"Um hmm," she shrugged.

We hugged goodnight, but she only put her arms around me loosely.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

She disappeared down the sidewalk.

Still wearing my mask and cape, I staggered down the hall and fell into bed. I couldn't sleep. I tossed and I turned. I'd never been impotent before, not even when intoxicated. It was a first. I began to sweat cold sweat, my stomach tightened, my hands went cold with anxiety. I kicked my feet and pounded my fists against the bed, and cussed out loud.

After about 2 hours of agony, I staggered out of bed, back down the hall, and into the main room. Waiting on the table, right in front of the pyramid of empty beer cans, sat the vial of testosterone cypionate and an unwrapped syringe. The book, Beating the Odds, was sitting on the table too.