Yesterday was the 4th of July and it made me think of my friend, Kyle’s, firecrackers. on that fateful August day back in 2001. Kyle was my mentor at the porn-store when I first started there nearly six years ago. He was a few years older than me, showed me how to mop cum; he taught me how to hang butt-plugs, and how to “up-sale” masturbators from $3 - $5 worth of tokens with a simple way of looking into their eyes, giggling all the while as we brought in the bucks for someone who signed our checks, but we would never meet. Kyle was a lot more sophisticated than me; had a master’s degree in art history; wore these thick, black-framed sort of eye-glasses; was very well-read, listened to classical music and was a snob to everyone around him. But, like the rest of us working at the porn-store at the time, there was a certain “emptiness” inside him that kept him from reaching his full potential in life, and he had already been working there 8 years when I arrived.
Kyle was a dry, bitter sarcastic type; didn’t have many friends; thought he was better than everyone else, you know, but he took quite a liking to me, an “up and coming” porn-store janitor who actually could relate to his sense of humor somewhat. Slowly, we became friends. He liked to critique the crappy, acrylic paintings I made on the cut-out, cardboard sides of 12-packs of Miller while I was staying at a flop-house at the time. He’d critique them and laugh at them. I was one of the few people who could make Kyle laugh! Kyle was bi-sexual, but after two divorces he mostly liked men, I think, and there was a frightening period when Kyle would send me haunting e-mails, referring to me as his “Lady of the Flowers,” alluding to how he’d like to “stick his fist in my ass” and I was like, WHOAH! This came after a long discussion we’d had over a couple Jean Ginet books I’d read, leading to Kyle letting me borrow Yukio Mishima’s “Temple of the Golden Pavilion” (which I loved, actually) and Kyle thinking ”maybe perhaps I swung that way,” and perhaps he should “test the waters”. Reluctantly, and awkwardly, I had to tell Kyle that the main reason I liked Ginet’s “Miracle of the Rose,” really, was because of how he made the act of a man shitting in a tin can in front of all his fellow prison inmates seem so beautiful, and that was all, that it didn’t make me want to have a man play with my asshole, or anything.
Kyle understood, and our friendship became even stronger, full of mutual respect, until one day, after 3 years of working, laughing and crying together, Kyle informed me that he’d gotten another job! Was moving away! All his years of writing porno reviews for AVN (Adult Video News) magazine had paid off, and he had caught the eye of someone who ran this big movie/book review website, based in Detroit, MI, and Kyle was going to move there and leave his Masturbat all alone! Well, I refused to get emotional about it, started acting all cold around Kyle during his final week in town, acting like I didn’t give a crap if he moved or not, when the reality was that it was tearing me apart; making me bitter and sad that my only true friend at the time was leaving me. On his final day at work at the porn-store, the last time I would see him, Kyle stood behind the counter, looking at me sadly and fondly as I swept the floor (perhaps staring at my ass?). He held out his open hand to me. I noticed it had, like, 6 or 7 little firecrackers in it as he said, “Hey, after I get off work I’m going behind the store to set these off to celebrate my finally getting out of here. You wanna come join me?”
Well, first of all it was AuGuSt, the 4th of July was long OvER; and second of all, I fucking HATE fucking FiReWoRKs , dude, and was bitter over Kyle leaving me as I threw my broom to the floor, looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yeah, I’ll "join" you if I can stick one up your fucking ASS and light it, you piece of fuck! Now go back there and light them by yourself, go off to the big city with your new fancy-pants job and leave me the fuck alone!” Then in a storm, I punched out and left. The next day, I went behind the store to smoke a cigarette, stared upon one of the saddest sights I’d ever seen. There were Kyle’s firecrackers, “firecrackers of the lonely,” lying on the cement, having burnt their fuse, sitting amidst charred, solemn black circles of sorrow as I thought of how sad and pathetic it must have been for Kyle, standing there all alone, lighting these silly firecrackers to celebrate the end of 11 years working at the store, and no one else really gave a fuck. And I imagined him driving down the highway just then, on his way to a new life and new job, all alone, imagining how pathetic his bare, skinny ass must have looked as he got naked and climbed into the shower in his new apartment in Detroit that night, all by himself, as I pulled my cock out and started stroking it, teary-eyed and muttering to myself, “I’ll miss you, buddy. I’ll miss you.” And I do, I miss him sorely, and I every time I hear a firecracker go off I think of him, and that is why this past 4th of July was nearly unbearable for me.
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