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Brendan Kills
By
Tim Jones-Yelvington, Oct 16, 2009
Brendan murders the nigger bitch. That’s what he calls it when he beats Serena at tennis, on his Wii. “Die
bitch,” he says, and swipes his controller.
“What?” he says. “We can say that shit now, we got a black president.”
I know it should bother me, him using that word. I watch him pant and curse and jab the remote, the violence of
him, the stink. Brendan beats his Wii. It tents my pants. I’m not a nigger bitch, I’m just another teenage white
boy like Brendan, but sometimes Brendan calls me one, and these are my favorite times. “Burn bitch,” Brendan
says, and drives his cigarette’s lit tip into my lower back until I buck and thrash. Brendan keeps his hair in a
box. It isn’t a special hand-carved heirloom or anything, it’s just a beat-up cardboard box, like the kind they
use to ship envelopes. The hair is from last year, when we were freshmen, when Brendan cut off his ponytail. He
keeps it coiled, braided and banded. He bends me onto my knees, and he binds my hands behind my back, and then he
stuffs the braid inside my mouth while he grinds the cigarettes into my ass, my thighs, my shoulders. Then I suck
him off until he shoots and I swallow.
Brendan hates how much he likes it when I suck him. He says he only does it because we’re in high school, and
high school girls are prudes, but I can tell he wants it, it wouldn’t be the same with a girl. This is Brendan’s
shame, the boy thing. My shame is everything else. I think sometimes I should stop, but then I hear Brendan curse
and I smell him, and I get so hard I think I’ll explode into pieces tiny enough to fit in Brendan’s box. And when
I think about this, Brendan carrying me around forever and ever, in pieces, pressed up against his braid, I feel
tingly and warm.
Tim Jones-Yelvington lives and writes in Chicago. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in
Sleepingfish, Annalemma, Keyhole, Monkeybicycle, PANK, SmokeLong Quarterly, Storyglossia and others. He
blogs at
Ejaculations of a Perverse Adult.
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