Serial short story for avid Delacroix readers …

All right, friends and readers:

Many of you have clamored for free fiction. (I know, the economy sucks…) So, over the next few days I will post portions of an unpublished story titled The Drape Man.

Yes, I will give you the entire  story, but it will arrive in pieces, per Charles Dickens, so be patient. Understand? This story’s “on the house” as we say in the U.S. The Drape Man is a suspense story — don’t read it if you are squeamish. It is not a love story, and it’s not a “we all lived happily ever after” piece either, so proceed with caution:

Fifteen-year-old Justin has the house to himself for the weekend. In an Internet chat room Justin meets Evita, a girl who’s a few years older than him, and they agree to meet at Justin’s house for a sexual encounter. But there’s a problem, one Justin’s not aware of: Evita’s not a girl, “she” is Russell Stillwater, an ex-con and serial rapist who preys upon teenage boys. Can Justin survive the encounter?  If he does, who will he be afterward?

Beware, once you start reading, you’ll be hooked:

* * *

The Drape Man, Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

It’s Friday afternoon and I ride the school bus home with my best friend, Bryce. He’s cool and witty and he’ll kick anybody’s ass who messes with me. He’s got a key to my house and I’ve got a key to his, we’re that close. Bryce speaks of an Internet chat room on a website called Hot Teens in Heat. He heard about it from Will Kuykendahl, another friend. Will claims he met two girls through Hot Teens — both of them babes. One chick gave him a blow job, Will told Bryce.

I don’t believe Will’s story about the girls. Zits dot Will’s forehead and braces squeeze his teeth and he’s skinnier than me, so I don’t think any chick’s going down on Will’s wiener.

I’ll try the website anyway.

My folks will leave town for the weekend and they’ve agreed I can stay home by myself. “I’m in tenth grade,” I told my mom, “I don’t need a baby sitter.”

I wait till Friday evening, after my parents leave, to power-up the computer in my bedroom, to find the Hot Teens site. It doesn’t take but a minute. The site’s home page is nothing but ads touting their porno service. (“Our models are legal, but they don’t look it!”) For a monthly fee of $14.95 you can look at videos and still photos of naked girls and boys doing all sorts of nasty stuff. I check out the previews and they are pretty hot, I spring a boner looking. But who’s got $14.95 to pay Hot Teens? Not me.

Before I can enter the Hot Teens chat room I must register and create a profile for myself. I must describe my physical appearance, say where I live, how old I am, and so forth. I have to post at least one photo of myself, too, one which shows my face. I’ve got a good picture Bryce took with his digital camera. I’m wearing my Yankees cap and I’ve got my shirt off so girls can see my abdominals, and I choose that photo to post. In the background you can see my track and tennis trophies, very cool.

The nickname I select for my Hot Teens profile is one I use on every website I’m registered with: Slick Dick. I list my interests as, “babes, tennis, gaming and more babes.” I claim I’ve got a nine-inch pecker (okay, it’s only six, but whatever) and I say I’m eighteen. (If you say you’re fifteen, no one but perverts will message you on these kinds of sites.)

The chat room is mobbed when I enter — something like four hundred people. Two-thirds are guys, but that still leaves over a hundred chicks. If you click on a girl’s name you can look at her profile before you send her a private message, to see if she’s fat or ugly or whatever. I check several and they look pretty good and I finally settle on this one girl, Cassandra, a blonde, eighteen, from Ft. Myers. I send her a message and tell her she looks hot. Then I wait for her response, but after five minutes I get none, which means she viewed my profile and it didn’t suit her, so I move on, I check other girls’ profiles, occasionally sending a private message, but I get no responses.

Then something weird happens: I get a message from somebody named “Jacob”. (That’s right, a guy.) He says, “What’s going on in Bradenton?” (My home town, as stated in my profile).

I say, “Not much.”

I figure my curt response will get Jacob off my back, but he writes, “There are plenty of hot women here tonight. Have you checked out Red Sonja?”

I click on Red Sonja’s profile. She is twenty-one, a carrot-top from Skokie who shows plenty of cleavage in her profile photo. She lists her occupation as “graphic artist.”

Jacob messages me again. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“What do you think of her?”

I chew a hangnail. Then I write, “She’s hot, but too far away. Illinois.”

“Several chicks in the room are from west Florida, not far from us.”

I write, “Us? Where are you at?”

Jacob writes, “Sarasota.” (A ten-minute drive from Bradenton.)

Out of curiosity, I click on Jacob’s profile. It says he is eighteen, a college student. He’s taken a picture of himself with a digital camera while facing his bathroom mirror and, to me anyway, he looks more like sixteen. But his hair is styled with gel and he looks preppy in his polo shirt, the kind of guy who nabs girls easily.

Jacob messages me again. “You still there?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“This one chick in the room, Evita, says she wants to meet me; she thinks I’m hot.”

I ask Jacob, “Where does she live?”

“Palmetto.” (Bradenton’s between Palmetto and Sarasota. All three towns are close.)

I say, “Why don’t you meet up with her?”

“I can’t. I live with my folks and she lives with her grandmother.”

I click on Evita’s profile. She’s nineteen, blonde, very cute, with a turned-up nose and perky boobs. Her interests: “clothes shopping, the beach and edgy sex.”

I say to Jacob, “Maybe I’ll invite her to my place. My mom and dad are gone for the weekend.”

“You’ve got a place to yourself?”

“Yeah, I do.”

Jacob writes, “Go ahead, ask her if you want. I don’t mind.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

I slump back in my chair and chew another hangnail. Should I contact Evita? Will she like me? I don’t resemble Jacob and I’m not really eighteen, but still . . .

I click on Evita’s name and send her a message, I say, “Hey, babe, I sure like your profile and photo.”

A minute or so passes, then my computer pings and a message from Evita appears on the screen. It says, “You’re cute. What’s your name?”

I write, “Justin.” (My true name, by the way.)

“What’re you up to, Justin?”

“Looking for a babe — one like you.”

She writes, “Are you really eighteen? `cause you don’t look that old in your profile photo.”

I think to myself: damn. Then I tell her, “It’s an old picture; I should get a new one.”

Evita writes, “I’m a wild girl, I’m looking for something special tonight.”

I feel a tingle in my shorts. I ask her, “What do you mean `special?’”

“There’s a guy in the chat room named Jacob. I think he’s sexy and I think you are too.”

“Yeah, so …?”

“Maybe we could do a threesome – you, me and Jacob.”

I squirm in my chair. I’ve never done a twosome — not all the way — and I don’t know how to respond to her suggestion.

Then Evita writes, “Are you there, Justin? Did I shock you?”

“I’m here.”


The idea of getting into bed with Jacob doesn’t thrill me. I write, “Couldn’t you come to my place alone?” I explain to her that my parents are gone, how she isn’t but five or six miles from my house, how hot it would be, just us two.

She writes, “I’m sure we’d have fun, but I’m looking for a little kink tonight. I’m sorry if I –”

My fingers dance on the keyboard. “Wait-wait-wait. I didn’t say no to a threesome; I just need time to think about it.”

A pause. Then Evita writes, “While you’re thinking, I’ll message Jacob and see if he wants to play with us.”

I write, “Okay,” then I swivel in my desk chair. I rock backward and put my hands behind my neck and I stare at the popcorn ceiling. The thought of Evita’s coming to my house for sex makes my pulse race, but Jacob joining us sounds . . . perverted. What if my friends find out?

I think back to a swim party I attended a few months ago. Two guys made out on a chaise longue on the pool deck while everybody else hooted and cheered them on. These guys were not gay, they were only fooling around, putting on a show. Could I do something like that? With some guy I don’t even know?

* * *

Copyright Martin Delacroix 2009

I’ll post additional portions of the story in the days ahead.

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