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was caramel brown. He took orders from other people. Meanwhile, I made a list of things Sundelin would order me to do.
     
    Stand on one leg outside the shower stall while I jerk off and don’t touch your dick, that’s final.
     
    Stand outside the shower and wait until I stick my ass out then clean my hole with your tongue.
     
    Suck my cock so you gag, that’s nice.
     
    Eat my come off the linoleum floor.
     
    Hold my cock while I piss.
     
    Clean my toilet.
     
    Wash the dishes with a plug in your ass.
     
    Put the dishes away and then pop the plug out and wash your dirty ass smears off with hot water.
     
    Okay, so the list went on. I imagined Sundelin telling me to crawl across the floor on my hands and knees, remote control in my mouth. Probably, Sundelin Ross, Cute Boy of the Universe, would watch something like The Wire , Omar and Dante making out, Omar killing someone, and I’d squat next to the couch with the remote in my mouth. Sometimes, he’d say something like Lick the lint off the carpet , because he was a neat freak, or Go get the plug . Then Sundelin would tell me to stand in front of the TV blocking his view and facing him while I stuck the plug in my ass and then squatted while clenching my hole like a kid trying to hold in a fart in church.
     
    By the way, I’ve never been to church.
     
    And I’ve never been with a dude before.
     
    Also, I don’t know where I got my ideas.
     
    Video games? Marilyn Manson? Gay porn?
     
    I’ve actually only watched straight porn. That’s what my mom and stepdad had when I still lived at home: porns with dicks and cunts, dicks and tits, dicks and bungholes, just dicks all over, dicks doing anything, dicks, dicks, dicks.
     
    By the time I was twelve I knew I liked dicks. I liked the dudes who had them. I liked chicks too, of course, in a nice way, you know, like friends, but dudes, man, they made me nervous. Dudes made me sweat. With dudes, it was a test. I wanted certain dudes to like me.
     
    I wanted them to like me a whole lot: know what I mean? Thus my fantasy life began, in which, due to video games, Marilyn Manson, and probably violence on television I began to imagine dudes having sex with me, dudes loving me, dudes telling what to do, dudes touching me on the cheek, dudes humiliating me by pissing in my mouth or something.
     
    Oh. My childhood was normal. I wasn’t abused as a child. My childhood was a fairly quiet one on the outside, you know, everything sweet and typical, unless you stared through one of my pupils like a telescope and viewed my fantasy life close up. No, maybe not. I’d feel pretty weird about that. I guess I would, unless Sundelin told me to tell you. Okay, so then I’d do it, I’d spill the beans, bend over, and show you my asscrack.
     
    Right now, I’m eighteen and in college and taking this writing class, and the teacher said we’re supposed to keep a journal, and it isn’t anything we have to share.
     
    Well, I fucking hope not.
     
    What would the damn teacher say? Hey, what if the dude was a flamer? In fact, he looks like that gay writer, Stephen Elliott. Except wait. That guy isn’t gay. At least I don’t think he is, but man his book Happy Baby just about killed me. One time he wrote something like, I’ve eroticized my childhood abuse . But since I wasn’t ever abused I don’t know why I’m so obsessed with it. I should be a case study, especially lately. I’m definitely obsessive-compulsive.
     
    For a while, the most I did was show up at the coffee shop where Sundelin worked. I’d stand at the counter and order black coffee, as in straight up. He had a nice way about him, Sundelin, polite and attentive, and he remembered people’s names too, except mine.
     
    “You again,” he said this last time I stood at the counter like a dork thinking, The guy already knows I’m a dirty-minded virgin . Well, not exactly a virgin. There was one time in a backseat with a trumpet player (me, I had a clarinet mouth,