I’m Not Gay
by William Ollie

Let’s get one thing straight: Jerry isn’t gay. Let’s get that right out front.

Jerry is a red-blooded, beer drinking, dyed-in-the-wool, all American redneck, and he likes women. Not men. He likes hunting and fishing on the weekends, playing basketball on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and watching his beloved Green Bay Packers. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Must be something wrong with it, because after seventeen years of marriage, his wife threw him out. Said he didn’t pay enough attention to her. He didn’t appreciate her, didn’t make her feel wanted. She needed more. One Sunday afternoon Jerry came home from fishing, looking for a little Sunday afternoon loving. He found most of his clothes laying in the front yard and thought, What a fuckin’ bitch.

Jerry dropped by after work the next day—thinking she would come to her senses—and she’d already changed the locks. She did let him have most of his belongings: basketballs, shotguns and pistols, the rest of his clothes. She even boxed up some sheets and towels and some old plates and stuff.

When she said he could take their bed, Jerry knew what was going on. She had found

somebody new. Of course, she angrily denied that and sent him on his way.

He rented a cheap little unfurnished apartment. All he had was a bed. No couch or chairs, no television; nothing.

It’s funny, you know? When you’ve been married as long as Jerry, sex with the wife loses its luster. The passion quickly fades. Where once he found himself at work, thinking about the wicked little things he was going to do to her that night, now all he thinks about is hunting and fishing and afternoon beers with his friends. He went from thinking about sex all the time to hardly thinking about it at all.

Until it wasn’t there anymore.

* * *

Now Jerry wakes up thinking about pussy, and when he goes to bed at night he dreams about it. He can’t keep his mind on his job because all he thinks about, twenty-four-seven, is, you got it: pussy with a capital P.

And it’s not as easy to acquire as it used to be. After being with the same woman for seventeen years, it’s hard to just head out to the bar and sweet-talk somebody. Hell, it’s hard to talk to a woman, much less talk her back to your apartment.

Being horny chases the shyness away, and now Jerry has no problem whatsoever of talking to any woman he sees. He has a routine: work late, come home and take a quick shower, mess around till nine o’clock and then head off to the bars. He’ll hit a lounge, but if there aren’t many women there, he’ll haul ass somewhere else. And I can tell you; Jerry’s hauled a lotta ass lately. After six weeks of hunting and chasing damn near every woman in Milwaukee, he still has not had any luck. He tries not to think about the fact that if he had put this much effort into pleasing his wife, he probably wouldn’t be in this situation.

* * *

Late last night on his way home, Jerry decided to take his drunken ass and stop at each and every bar that he saw. He’d walk in, take a quick look around, and if there weren’t any prospects he’d go to the next place. There were four women and sixteen men in Mabel’s. The next dive had two fat old gals, and Jerry ain’t that horny… yet. He had just about given up hope when he saw a bar not far from his apartment with a parking lot full of cars.

Jerry went inside and looked around. It was very dark, but he saw eight women and one man sitting around a table. The bartender gave him a Jack and Coke and Jerry made a beeline for the women.

They were young and very friendly. They invited him to join them and introduced the guy sitting with them as J.D. Jerry leaned over and whispered to J. D., "Let’s take a couple of these babes back to my place."

J.D. laughed and said, "Hell, let’s take them all."

They laughed and joked and drank.

J.D. went to the bar to get another round. A few minutes later he came back and gave everyone their drinks. It was late and Jerry had to go to work in the morning, but he didn’t care. He was knocking them dead with his redneck humor, fishin’ stories and tales about his dumb-assed boss and his job. Jerry really had the women laughing and was pretty sure he was finally going to get some.

Jerry’s eyes adjusted to the dark. He noticed two guys hugging each other in a corner of the lounge. There were men dancing with men and women dancing with women. He felt uneasy. He asked J.D. if this was a gay bar.

J.D. winked and said, "Yeah, but these chicks swing both ways."

The booze was getting to him. Jerry was dizzy and his stomach felt queasy. He mumbled something about going to the bathroom. He stood up, stumbled across the room and passed out.

* * *

Jerry woke up lying naked in a strange bed with his hands cuffed to the headboard. He heard somebody yelling, and the disgusting smell of death and decay. He saw a leg, swollen and black, sticking out of the open closet door, and a severed penis lying on the floor like a discarded paintbrush. There was a skull sitting on the dresser and photos scattered across the floor. One showed a man's head lying in a sink. Another displayed a victim cut open from the neck to the groin, like a gutted deer. Jerry spotted a uniform shirt hanging on the closet door. The nametag read Jeff Dahmer.

He tried to cry out, but there were leather straps around his face and a red ball was jammed in his mouth. His ass was killing him and he wondered what that sick son of a bitch had done to it.

J.D leaned over the bed, punched him in the mouth and screamed, "You fucking faggot! Queer!"

Jerry tried to call out, "I’m not a faggot! I’m not gay!"

The madman leaned over, eyeing Jerry curiously. "Yeah, you’re a faggot."

Jerry heard something whine and whir, and when J.D. raised his hand, Jerry saw a power drill.

J.D. yelled, "I’m gonna turn you into my sex slave, you gay motherfucker!"

As the drill bit into his temple, Jerry whimpered, "I’m not gay!"

©2003 William Ollie