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Whizzer was used to cruel men—his whole life seemed to overflow with them.
His father grabbing and pulling him away whenever he admired a well-dressed mannequin, his disappointed gaze as Whizzer played joyously with his sister.
His father had never been thrilled about Whizzer’s fascination with tailored clothes, shiny shoes, and bright colors, though Whizzer never understood why. All he saw was a blank stare as he explained the diversity of patterns to his dad, and all he heard were the hushed, angry whispers from the kitchen that followed.
Soon after Whizzer’s little fashion lecture, he was forced into baseball. His father smiled and cheered from the stands when he fell down and got hurt, patting him on the back. Praised him for getting a little roughed up for once.
Whizzer hated him.
As Whizzer grew into his teens, he stopped going to baseball and began dressing as he wanted—more flamboyantly, as a means to rebel against his father. To get a reaction out of him. He would saunter down the stairs in tight shirts and flared pants that hugged his figure, shooting his father a purposeful smirk as he walked out the door. Some days it wouldn’t work. His father would just stare, passing silent judgment. Other days, it would work.
Whizzer would rather not remember those days. All he can recall is a sense of empowerment as he applied an ice pack to his face.
In the years following his running away from home, the cruel men came in the form of countless hookups. Random, careless men who couldn’t give less of a crap about his comfort. Whizzer always let it happen, though.
The dull sting in his colon pierced through his thoughts, bringing about a sick satisfaction. Almost justice.
This is what you deserve. This is all you're worth, and each one of these men know it.
Eventually, he got used to the pain radiating through the lower half of his body every day. One week, Whizzer had finally overdone it. That Saturday, on his way home from the last fling of the day, the pain overwhelmed him. He slumped against a bench, panting as the world blurred and faded to black.
Whizzer regained consciousness on a dirty mattress in an apartment he didn’t recognize, clothes haphazardly thrown over him.
He felt something dripping between his legs.
You deserve this. Nobody owes you their gentleness.
Maybe that thought was what drove him to Marvin. That sweet, rich, rude man. Marvin was like a bitter cocktail that burned your throat raw and made you tear up. It makes you gag and vomit a sickly sweet syrup that coats your insides, but only leaves you wanting more. Marvin shuts him down, snaps at him. Forces him to cook, to clean, to be his housewife. Whizzer fights back—clawing, scratching, and lashing out. A vicious cycle of self-loathing from both sides, expressed as loathing for each other.
But he kisses Marvin, and Marvin melts, and for a moment they fit in the universe together. Equally. It never lasts very long.
That night, he and Marvin have an explosive fight about his “promiscuity.”
What is love? If it’s this, Whizzer doesn’t need it. He doesn’t owe Marvin anything. Who the fuck does Marvin think he is, trying to control him? He can screw as much as he wants. Whizzer lays next to Marvin on the cold bed, moonlight illuminating the room in a soft blue light.
He doesn’t need this relationship. All these promises, all this fighting.
But he’ll stay one more night.
Whizzer was used to cruel men.