Blue Velvet - 1. Chapter 1 The Boy I Love is Up in the Gallery

"Mr Beaumont, you're under arrest."

 

What?

 

"You have the right to remain silent."

 

This is so not happening. Am I dreaming?

 

"If you do say anything, what you say can be used against you in a court of law."

 

Quick! Wake up! Wake up dammit! This is not how this day was supposed to end. And this is sure as hell not the way this evening was supposed to have come down to. I couldn't breathe anymore. Fuck! I needed to breathe. I needed to get out. The burly policeman moved forward with a purposeful and demanding pace, bringing out the cuffs with a metallic clang. The other policemen were cordoning off the stage which was now bustling- not with the actors as was the case a half an hour ago or a confused and screaming horde of the cast, the crew and the audience fifteen minutes ago- but with officers, detectives, forensics and all kinds of people who you would call when such a thing had happened.

 

Such a thing... a terrible thing that is sure as hell going to get this university town a lot of press way beyond its annual gardening competitions or garage sales. No sir, no! This was going to go down in the town's memory as the evening when its modest and moral population finally got to meet its underbelly, its repressed secrets, bound in flesh and strung with blood. This was going to be the evening when a series of unfortunate events would be kick started that would irrevocably change the memories of this town.

 

I felt my throat constrict. Fuck! I was hyperventilating. I could not breathe. What the actual fuck! When did I become this snivelling anxious measly boy? I was cool, I was Mean Girls' level of indifferent and snappy. But here I was facing down a huge policeman walking towards me as everyone in the crowd stood watching. Many had let out a whelp, a collective hiss of shock that quickly ebbed into murmurs, the hisses and the whispers of small townsfolk that would make you want to take a meat knife and carve out these gonad gossipers.

 

Wrong thought! Wrong thought! Do NOT think of murders and knives and carving out people! Damn you Troy! Not now! This is exactly why you're in this trouble right now! You're stupid, so darn stupid. First, you ended up here, surrounded by policemen and these annoying pests, and now you're thinking of murder as Patricia Roy lies fine as hell, and fine as dead, pretty much dead centre of the stage. Good going, bud!

 

"Troy! TROY!"

 

Oh No! They were here. They were finally here. Okay! Now I'm officially booked. This is worse than an episode of Game of Thrones. At least there you don't get a heads up and people just get killed and everyone moves on till the next murder; and no one has a problem with being gay or being retarded, or breeding and hatching dragons or fucking their sisters. (God! I hate that show!) Here? Well, here you've got judgemental pricks of the good ole American township, post-segregation and post-immigration but still frowning multi-racial-don't-talk-about-it-diversity, and my Catholic parents who crossed themselves at the mention of them homosexuals aka devil's spawns and went to Sunday mass to pray for these demented possessed sheep-in-wolf's clothing; and who were now running up to the gallery where I stood surrounded by policemen and townsmen, with my date for the evening right by my side, who was now going to get charged and arrested with first degree murder.

 

Brilliant!

 

Oh! Did I forget to mention? So, I'm not facing these idiots alone, and technically I'm not the primary in this trouble. The primary is my evening's date, something of a took-me-by-the-heels of a relationship of 5 days, a pretty jock with blue eyes and the lean body of a bloody footballer with the head cheerleader as his girlfriend while I was the 'chic on the side'... the new kid in town and the town's high school who had been smitten by blue eyes, chiselled pecs and abs, post-practice musky scent from a gorgeous cock. Guilty as charged. So much for my high IQ and aced classes, and my arrogance and my ego, here I was just like one of those pansy gay dudes smitten by a "straight-acting-jock". ending up in the gallery for a play that I was not going to watch but blowjob my way through, only to be somehow end up with a date charged with murder and about to be arrested.

 

Karma really has a bitchy sense of humour, no? Except I didn't think karma counted when you were screwing the bitchy cheerleader's jock boyfriend. I thought that would balance the karma. Oh well, so much for sex and high school, boyfriends and dead girls.

 

Oh! Dead girls! Patricia Roy was being bagged now. Poor girl. She was a nice girl, pretty in a waiting to be Lindsay Lohan post meeting the Plastics, and nice and naive, and well, now she was dead. I guess what they say is not quite right. You might just not survive high school. Okay! Sorry. Yeah I'm a bit of an asshole for making jokes about a dead girl, but really, if you ever see the movie 'Dead Girl' you'll know why, I mean like come on, bunch of dudes get up and fuck a kinda dead girl in some freaky basement: chlamydia is the last of their worries, eh? Perhaps, a therapist for these dreaded sexual urges; and while I'm at the point of therapy, I don't think any therapy is going to get me over this evening any time soon.

 

"Down on your knees! Hands above your head!"

 

Oh Fuck! With three swift paces and one swift move, the burly policeman caught hold of my not-so-secret-anymore-homosexual-affair Chris Beaumont and cuffed him.

 

"Time to hit the road. Off you go!"

 

With that the officer took Chris with him who was just aghast and plain shocked. He hadn't said a word, not even a 'What! No! I didn't do it!" Maybe, it was his part-jock brain that had taken over. Don't get me wrong. I'm not all cock. I do like my guys with some substance beyond the impregnator. So, Chris is a pretty smart dude, except hanging out with the jocks all the time does affect you- like if you're American and you hang out with a Brit for a while and you can't stop doing the accent- whether you hate it or love it. Something like that, a part-jock brain which currently exhibited itself in an open mouth and ludicrous expression on Chris' face, with blood down the front of his white t-shirt that settled so well on his abs... Bam!

 

My ears rang and my eyes watered up a tad as I grabbed my bleeding and possibly broken nose amidst hysterical sounds from the surrounding chorus including now my mother's distinct "Good Lord!" I gathered some sense to notice a fuming Kate Dolores glaring at me, albeit with another one of her hyena pack member padding her possibly hurt hand.

 

"You awful Awful boyfriend stealing faggot! You abominable twat!"

 

"That's rich from a chic whose abominable twat has had more hits than Hillary Clinton 's 'Deactivate your account' destruction of Donald Trump!"

 

A round of collective shocks and sighs (my mother's "Troy!"), though a bunch of winks and smirks from the high school students watching the show down between the head cheerleader and the uber cool newbie known for his brain and brawn. I doubt most of them knew where their sympathies or loyalties lay. This was probably much about the kicks of the night: you know, a Shakespearean play, a murder, an arrest, and finally a showdown.

 

"That's enough, Troy. We are leaving now!" My dad grabbed me by the elbow and tugged me away before it got ugly. My mother tip toed her way after us apologising profusely to anyone who would listen. I caught a glimpse of Cory and Tracy, my friends of two weeks signalling me with their phones, possibly suggesting a regroup later. Well, that would definitely be needed.

 

Straight down the gallery, across the theatre, out the door, in the parking lot and into the car. A very quiet ride home while my senses slowed, my adrenaline receded and my breathing relaxed. The car pulled into the driveway. I quickly rushed out. No way I was going to have a conversation tonight. Unless I was planning on blowing my brains out, this needed to wait.

 

"Wait, Troy. wait!" My mother called after me.

 

"No Theresa. Let it be. Not tonight."

 

I heard my dad stop her. Phew! Thanks dad. For once you've got the good sense to not pursue something. I got to my room, locked the door, took off my sweaty shirt, threw it across the room and fell on the bed. Damn!

 

As I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the room lit by a lone streetlight filtering in through the only window in the room, lighting it with some diffracted diffused light throwing a slightly surreal shade to the dark, the events of the day started whirring in my head. How did this all begin? What had lead to this? Why the hell was Patricia Roy dead? Why was Chris in jail? What was going to happen tomorrow at school? And how on earth had I ended up right in the middle of this within three weeks of a new life in a new town?

 

Why?

 

The darkness unsettled, the shadows shifted, knocks on the window. I jump up and stare through the dark at the guy leaning against the sill.

 

"What the fuck are you doing here, Liam?"

 

"What the fuck were you doing with Chris Beaumont in the gallery?"

 

Fuck! I guess news in high school travels faster than the holy plague in the 17th century London. In the troubles of the day I had completely forgotten about Liam.

 

"Well, will you care to explain?"

 

Liam walked towards me with a determined threatening pace. I must admit it really turns me on to see Liam fuming and pissed, just makes this one all the more hotter and our fucks all the wilder. Inches away from my face, towering a good one feet over me, his massive chest near my face, the scent of his sweat through the grey fabric hugging him tightly, I was sporting a sudden hunger in my loins but i dared not do anything. Not this time, I was in trouble.

 

"Well, when were you going to tell me you were fucking Chris?"

 

"Umm..."

 

"Cat got your tongue. What happened? The suave and confident Troy hasn't got a bitchy or witty one liner for this occasion? You really thought you could get away with this?"

 

"Get away with what?" I managed.

 

"Get away with murder."

 

"WHAT!?" It was like someone dropped a baseball bat on my head.

 

"Yes. Murdering my trust for you."

 

"Oh!" I managed yet again.

 

"Oh? You seem relieved. You really don't care about me, do you?"

 

"Listen, Liam. I've had a long day. And a fairly long evening. I don't want to do this now. And really trust? We were not exclusive. We were not anything. We were fucking, and I made no promises of monogamy. So like really, if you've got a problem, discuss it. Don't barge into my room accusing me of shit."

 

"Fuck you." He raged and pushed me onto the bed. He got on top of me and started kissing me, his tongue savagely parting y lips and fucking my mouth. I responded at once, my legs wrapped around his waist , his hand grabbing my ass as we kissed, our bodies in sync, savage and raging. I tugged his sweaty shirt off, unveiling his hot muscled frame covered in a sheen of sweat, a whiff of sweat and old deodorant hit me hard and my desire raged against my jeans. Damn it. The jocks really get to me. For all my poise and desire to be different, I do have generic tastes. Well, fuck.

 

One thing let to another. Next thing I know I was on my fours against the bed and Liam was savagely pounding me. I think his rage at me and his rivalry with Chris was really filling him up with the savagery to claim and fuck me so, and I sure as hell was not going to complain.

 

As the moans and grunts rose and ebbed, as the room slid in and out of shadows, as the pressure in my loins built up and climaxed all over the sheets, as I lay down with Liam falling on top of me, back to front, covered in sweat and semen, the last thought that came to me as I gradually drifted into sleep... I was really up to no good. I'm sorry Patricia.