Rites of Man
by Jorge Saralegui
Turning thirteen had already brought Jakey disappointment. His parents, concerned about the quality of his education, decided he wouldn’t attend the magnet school that had accepted him for freshman year in the fall; instead he’d enroll at Provisional High, like the rest of his eight-grade class. To assuage his disappointment, they had let him cut his hair into a tapered Mohawk even though his dad had pushed hard for mini-dreads, pointing out that they looked much better with the camouflage berets a lot of Jakey’s friends wore these days. Now the year had given him something to dread: becoming a Man. Part of it called for dropping the “y” and transitioning to “Jake,” of which he was all in favor. The rituals were a different story.
He kept this to himself, of course. Most of his friends examined themselves constantly for any sign of incipient puberty, which led to about half of them already having had their Day by age twelve. Sam G missed making it at ten by a week because his mother thought he would look like a freak. Jakey’s Day was scheduled shortly after his perv gym teacher told his dad that Jakey had sprouted a few pubes. Jakey found out the hard way while showering at home; his dad yanked open the curtain and started pointing and hooting.
Now the Day had arrived. His mother had hung the extra-slim gold tracksuit with zippered pockets on the hook behind his bedroom door. She had reminded him that they could return it within seven days if he didn’t trash it today. The white leather steel-toed high-tops had no chance of surviving in a refundable state, but he wouldn’t have wanted to return them anyway. An hour ago his cousin Bonk had come over with a bomber as big as a zucchini. Bonk said it would help him avoid puking later on. They finished smoking it just before his grandpa knocked on the door.
Grandpa Tom’s head was freshly shaved for the occasion. He wore black track pants with a thick white stripe down each leg, scuffed white kicks, and a holey Raiders tee shirt that must have belonged to his dad, all over a gut as big and hard as a Bosu ball. His eyes teared up instantly from all the smoke; Jakey remembered that his grandfather had to wear goggles if he wanted to smoke dope or vape or even snort glue, which his sister claimed had occurred on more than a few occasions in the days before Jakey’s dad was born. Bonk left quickly. Grandpa Tom made a show of waving away smoke clouds while sitting down next to Jakey on the bed.
“Sup, bro? Chillin’?” Grandpa Tom still talked like he was in the twentieth century. He looked lovingly at Jakey. “Becoming a Man today — think about that shit for a minute. Being a Man’s a test. One after another. Starting with the one tonight. You feel me?” He punched Jakey in the shoulder to stress his point. Jakey didn’t need a fresh bruise to remind him of what was coming. “When it’s time for me to give my little speech later on, I’m gonna be serious as prostate cancer, may Daddy rest in peace. But being a Man’s also about your natural-born right to get your rocks off. So here’s a little something to get you started, yo.”
He handed Jakey an envelope, then paused to take in the gold tracksuit on his way out. The envelope contained fifty bucks and two hits of speed. Jakey put the money in his wallet, swallowed the speed dry, and stripped down to his swimmer’s briefs. Then he waited for his dad to arrive.
The knock came ten long minutes later. His dad had tipped his dreads blond for the occasion and draped his neck with every chain in his considerable collection. Jakey barely noticed. His eyes were on the blood spattered on his dad’s tee shirt, the bloody, balled-up kitchen towel he held with both hands and the big grin towering overhead it.
“Got you an eight-ounce piece, Jakey. Jake,” correcting himself. “Didn’t know how many inches you’d need.”
Why a liver? Nobody knew for sure. The dudes who could get away with claiming they did, swore that nothing short of a sex toy felt more like a cooch.
His dad held out the towel ceremonially. Jakey knew the drill; he had heard it countless times in the last year. This was supposed to be his first time jacking off. To his inexpressible shame, it was. Although most kids had already gotten the hang of it by the time their Days arrived, Jakey had only experienced nocturnal emissions after rolling back and forth on his bed. They were the answer to the equation he desperately wanted to solve, but genius as he was at math, he didn’t know how to compute “beat your meat” or “choke the chicken” into actual jizzing. Googling a demonstration had seemed like the obvious solution until the clips inevitably zoomed in for a close-up. Angry and orange, they all reminded him of the Alien chestburster. He had zero desire to see one of those things blow. Confessing his ignorance to his buddies would only have led to weeks of humiliation, and his embarrassment always trumped desire. It wouldn’t have mattered if his dad had taken him to a hooker with a heart of gold, the way he had learned other cultures did. But liver it was.
Jakey looked at the floor as he pulled down his underwear, then stood up. The new gold chain around his neck — much too heavy for his frame, a present from Uncle Clint in Idaho, who liked calling him “my nigga” — threatened to buckle his knees. He carefully unwrapped the towel. The liver was still bleeding; that, he had been told, couldn’t be helped.
“Wrap it around your dick… like a tortilla,” his dad instructed.
Jakey wrapped it as best he could and held it in place with both hands. His dad gently removed his left hand, then placed his own bear paw over the right one. After a squeeze to set the desired pressure, he began to move the piece of liver over Jakey’s dick; barely at first, then a bit more, increasing speed and length at a rate Jakey found painfully incremental, although he had to admit it felt pretty good. After a minute or so, his dick firmed up a little. His dad slowly increased the stroke until it resembled nothing more than the universal gesture for jacking-off, as Jakey belatedly realized to his ever-increasing shame.
“That’s it. You’re getting the hang of it now.”
His dad mercifully removed his hand, leaving Jakey to massage himself with the liver. After wiping his hands with the towel, his dad pulled up a porn site on his phone, chose a clip, and handed it to Jakey. It showed a Mexican woman saying encouraging things while jacking off a guy with a tortilla. Jakey grinned tightly, letting his dad know he was into it, but the video wasn’t helping at all. It wasn’t the woman’s fault; how was he supposed to focus on the tortilla when his dad kept loitering in his field of vision? In the back of his mind, making him even more anxious about performing, were the slumber-party whispers. The cautionary tales. Everyone had heard about kids who couldn’t get it up with a piece of liver being sent off to conversion therapy wilderness camps. Supposedly, some of them never came back. Starting to despair about ever getting a bonafide boner, never mind jizzing, Jakey tossed the phone onto his bed, closed his eyes, and pictured his sister. He had spied on her fucking her skeevy boyfriend Dink on her bedroom rug every time his parents went out together. She was who Jakey dreamed about, ginger cornrows flying as she rocked frenetically atop Dink, when he had his nocturnal emissions. His dick hardened instantly, letting him know that she hadn’t lost her potency.
His dad must have noticed the sudden progress. “Careful to keep the end tight. You don’t want to spill it all over the rug, champ.”
Jakey squinted out of one eye to make sure his tip wasn’t sticking out. It wasn’t. He returned to eyes-shut mode and worked the liver for all it was worth, never having had any idea that a cooch would feel this good. A moment later his dick started to buck: once, twice, three times. When he was done, he looked up at his dad, stunned.
His dad quickly held out the towel for him to drop the liver. “Right side up. That’s it. Holy shit. What a fucking load!”
Jakey matched his dad’s grin with a dazed one of his own.
His dad came down first. “Now go take a shower before any salmonella crawls inside you. Don’t tell your mother, but no way am I paying a fucking markup just to make it kosher. Not after what those kicks cost.”
Jakey took a long, hot shower, relieved that tradition was behind him. Even better, now he knew how to jack off. He tried it with just his hand in the shower just to make sure; it worked like a charm, although not much came out. Wondering how many times in a row he could do it, he considered going for it again. Instead he took his time carefully gelling his hair, which naturally stuck out every which way like the spine of a stegosaurus. Then he shaved his peach fuzz everywhere except his upper lip, slipped on the gold tracksuit, and laced the white kicks tight. At a distance, he thought he could pass for a man.
A few years ago his dad had paved over the back yard, so you could play half-court hoops on it or have it double as a readymade dance floor. Grandma Jheri, who could still moonwalk and loved to let the world know it, had approved the resurfacing. She had inherited the house from her mother, and now all three surviving generations lived under one roof. They lived on gig work and benefits like everybody else, but every other household on their block rented. Owning their digs left them with some spare cash to party at the end of each month.
There must have been fifty people milling about in holiday-grade streetwear by the time Jakey stepped out: family, his parents’ friends and their older kids, plus those of his buddies who had already gone through their Day. The dudes mainly sported skinheads, with some dreads and a few spins on the Mohawk; the women had cornrows like his sister, semi-hawks like his mom, and a smattering of pigtails-with-kohl eyeshadow. A combination of hoots and cheers went up, then everybody went back to drinking. His dad’s hip-hop channel blared from the outdoor speakers, which cracked only occasionally with the lowest bass notes. The drunker parents kidded him about having “come of age.” Jakey joined his crew as quickly as he could, blushing and telling them to fuck off as they gave him the jerk-off motion. They all had beers, but he wouldn’t be allowed to have one until after the Tall Boy chug-and-stomp. It didn’t matter. He was plenty buzzed from the speed and weed.
Everyone froze momentarily at the sharp report of a gun. Grandpa Tom had fired a shell from his short-barreled shotgun into the little strip of dirt between the house and the cement. As the party settled down and formed a U around Grandpa Tom, Jakey’s buddies shoved him into the center of the U.
“Yo, Jake. I warned you I was going to get serious. And if I didn’t, I’m sure your old man did.”
Jakey’s dad mugged for the crowd, nodding and rolling his eyes.
“You’re gonna put the wood to one of these fine young ladies soon enough. And some time after that, you’ll make an honest woman out of her. You’ll find a job with a future for you and all the nippers you’ll have. Pretty sweet, huh?”
Jakey side-eyed the attendees. He couldn’t identify one self-supporting, legally married couple. But he grasped the gist of his grandpa’s point. You should look forward to the good things, even if they don’t exist any more. It’s a tradition.
“Damn straight — and they’re your rights!” Grandpa Tom’s bloodshot gaze bore into Jakey. “Natural-born ones, like the right to liberty. Property. Resisting oppression. You were born free. Born equal. You don’t let some motherfucker on the street tell you what to do, same as you don’t let the government hold you down while some deadbeat skips ahead of you in line. That’s not equality. And that’s not your government.”
Grandpa Tom picked up the ancient, nicked-up garden shears from the folding table next to him. To Jakey, the rust on the blades looked more like dried blood. No one ever talked about what the shears represented. Adults only said that Grandpa Tom’s daddy had been a gardener. Then they gave you a stare that said drop it.
“Being a Man’s a privilege. Your ancestors earned it for you with their blood. You don’t let anyone — no matter what sex, color, race or creed — take your Manhood from you.”
“Word.” The men in attendance were in full agreement. Grandpa Tom pointed the shears straight at Jakey. He nodded, letting him know he understood the gravity of the occasion, of the times. But where could he go from there? He needed a starting point where he could first center himself. School didn’t help — not when he could find something online that countered every fact he learned. Grandpa Tom was telling him it lay in being a Man. That made natural sense. The problem was, he didn’t feel like one yet. Those shears scared the shit out of him.
Someone set off a string of firecrackers. Beers were hoisted. And out from the kitchen came his mom, rocking clear plastic pants and an iridescent green halter, a platter in her hands. Waves of awe, lust and respect washed across the cement, lapped over her blindingly white patent-leather Stan Smiths, and receded with low moans and mutterings. All of Jakey’s friends considered her a straight-up MILF. Pride rippled discreetly beneath the surface of his embarrassment as it hit him that every male at the party felt the same way.
His mom strutted up to Jakey’s sister and offered her first choice of a dozen slightly seared pieces of liver, each with a dollop of mayonnaise. His sister had downed her share of liver over the years. She leaned over in her nylon short shorts so that the boobs Jakey had recently jizzed to spilled forward in a bra mostly visible beneath a skintight silver jacket zipped down to her navel. Common sense dictated that, given the donor, the piece of liver she’d choose had been subtly marked. One long, dismissive look at her kid brother and she slid a piece down her throat without bothering to swallow. Her boyfriend Dink and everyone else howled and whistled. Jakey had to admit that, much as she liked to torture him, his sister was something else.
From there his mom served the liver to each of the single women in attendance. Most of them put a little more effort than his sister in looking at him longingly, naturally enough. Every one of them gagged a bit as they wrestled down their bite. This, Jakey suspected, was the real reason why so many dads now initiated their son’s Days with apple pie, despite the assumption that the custom had been inspired by some movie a million years ago: apple pie with a glob of whipped cream simply went down a lot easier with the ladies. Jakey’s family weren’t slaves to tradition; they hadn’t bought him steel-toed shitkicker work boots like back in Grandpa Tom’s Day. But they drew the line at no liver.
Once the single women were done, all the men started betting on who had swallowed Jakey’s load. His mom let the suspense build before approaching Dawn. Everyone knew it wouldn’t be the first one to be singled out, but hooted anyway. From there his mom veered to Brandi, swung toward Tawny… and pointed decisively back at Brandi. The crowd exploded. Brandi almost turned green, then threw her bangled arms up in triumph, like the good sport Jakey hoped she was, given that she was the second-hottest of his sister’s friends and now owed him a semi-twerk before the night was over.
Then Grandpa Tom fired his shotgun again. “Let’s hear it for Brandi, boys. For all tomorrow’s mothers.”
Jakey joined the male chorus: “Respect.” It didn’t matter that every last one of them used birth control, because nobody could afford more than a kid or two. Days were about values.
The show of appreciation died down. His dad held up a huge kitchen knife by the main serving table. “Hey, Jake! Time to eat!”
Again Jakey’s friends shoved him forward. His dad stood by a cake with a welcoming Amazonian etched in black-and-cream frosting across the top. Jakey’s mom cut out a generous piece that included the Amazonian’s crotch; his dad shoved it in Jakey’s open mouth and over as much of his face as the frosting allowed. Jakey swallowed fast, ignoring the cake pieces stuck to his face, already fretting over what was coming next.
The Tall Boy: twenty-four ounces of Lone Star beer, to be chugged straight from the can. Jakey had never finished a single beer, but he was freaking out about what would come after the chug: crushing the can flat with one stomp of his sneakers. Forget that the can was a Tall Boy and he, a bit on the short side. He’d only get one crack, and if the can went skittering across the concrete or, worse, he ended up flat on his ass after catching it just wrong, he’d never live it down. Everyone else in his life, from his buddies to his sister plus whomever they told, would never let him.
His dad pulled the Lone Star out of the ice tub and brought it to him, balanced on the palm of one huge palm like a Paleolithic serving tray. Everyone began chanting “Chug! Chug! Chug!” Jakey blushed, popped open the top, and started guzzling. Half of it spilled down his chin and onto the tracksuit. He had no sense of swallowing — only that he gasped once done, placed the can on the cement, jumped high in the air, and came down hard with both feet. He had no idea why both feet. It lowered the odds of pancaking the can to near-hopeless levels.
Silence. Jakey looked down. He could no longer see the can, because it was somewhere under his kicks, flat as the desert in one of those black-and-white videos a second before dust clouds build and a mushroom cloud ascends with a subwoofer roar. He had done it. Up went his hands, high in the air. Crazy cheering and hooting. A huge burp, making everyone meld into the moment even more. It was one of the greatest moments of his life.
Dusk started to settle not long after. The blue floodlights his dad had installed now gave the party a sexy undead music-video vibe. “Come Over” by VanJess slinked its way out of the speakers. At first Jakey couldn’t even hear it. Everyone switched from hoots to whistles as his mom sashayed slowly over to him. It was time for their dance, after which she would entrust him to the posse. He met her raised right hand, and they started swaying to the R&B. On a day of firsts, it was his first slow dance with anybody. His mom pressed herself against him and ground her hips once or twice for the benefit of their audience, but she mostly just held him close. His eyes drifted to the other women, some of them twittering, some watching with the sort of expressions he hoped Brandi would have after she finished twerking for him. What was she thinking? He had no idea what went on in women’s heads. They had a world of their own that started with a Period Party. Unlike men, they didn’t invite everybody and their cousin to witness exactly what went on there. They deferred to men in public most of the time, but they were always… snickering. Did he measure up to what they really wanted? His sister sure as hell wasn’t spilling any state secrets, and his mom would be too reassuring to take seriously.
Jakey snapped out of his reverie as his mom pulled him in with the hand she had on his hip. “Remember your dad wouldn’t let me buy you kicks with Velcro straps once you turned five? I had to tie the laces for you. First grade, and you still couldn’t get the hang of it. It was our little secret.”
She started to cry. “I’m losing my little boy.”
He knew she meant it, even if part of the emotional overflow came from being buzzed. “I’m not going anywhere for a while, mom.”
But he was. The song ended, the Beastie Boys yelled “Kick it!,” and his mother let go as “You Gotta Fight for Your Right to Party” crashed the joint and all the guys, from his buddies all the way to Grandpa Tom, swarmed the dance floor. The Beastie Boys were a little too old-school for most of the partiers — Days now usually split the difference with Psy’s “Daddy” — but you didn’t cross Grandpa Tom on certain things. At first everyone settled into pervy versions of dances: the pogo for his grandpa’s generation, the horse dance for his dad’s, and the goose-step comboed with a pelvic swivel that his sister’s crew had latched on to after seeing it on a Eurovision contest. Everyone tried to catch someone else on the receiving end of each thrust. Jakey goose-stepped along with the rest of his generation, doing his best to thrust in rhythm, which was about as hard as it looked.
As darkness fell, suggestive rubbing turned into friendly shoving. Somebody bumped Jakey into somebody else; before he could apologize, the guy he bumped into bashed into the nearest body. It clicked for him — they were slam dancing! Jakey quickly got into it, throwing himself around with the buzz of the day, the speed, the weed and the Lone Star, his two ejaculations resonating only faintly now. Sweating hard in the warm night air, he lined up his sister’s boyfriend Dink and landed a shoulder square between his lats. Dink looked back, saw who it was, and gave him a complicated smile before moving on into someone else. Jakey knew what the smile meant: that’s cool tonight, bro, but you’re going to pay for it tomorrow. It left him queasy.
The fear would linger for the rest of the night, since afterward he’d be going out with the boys. Why was “boys” the plural of “Man,” anyway? It didn’t make him feel any more carefree; they were wearing steel-toed shitkickers for a reason. Being a bunch of boys on the night he became a Man wouldn’t make what they were going to do later any easier to accept. And if Jakey couldn’t go through with it, couldn’t rise to the occasion no matter how hard he gritted his teeth, how much they egged him on, he knew what would happen next. At some point somebody spun Jakey around and chest-bumped him so hard that it left his head spinning. He bent over gagging and puked onto the cement. From knee level, he could see that he hadn’t been the first one. Viewing it as a license to empty himself out, he puked some more. That’s what he had to do before continuing. Before performing. Get all that stuff out of him.
Jorge Saralegui was born in Cuba and majored in Creative Writing at Antioch College. He produced the films The Time Machine, Queen of the Damned, Books of Blood, Midnight Meat Train, and Dread, and had three horror-thriller paperbacks published by Berkley before his time in Hollywood. Five of his stories have appeared in Zyzzyva, the Santa Monica Review, Porcupine, The Other Side of Hope, and Alice Says Go Fuck Yourself, plus a sixth in an anthology called Latinos in Lotusland. He is always working on a novel.
COLD SIGNAL 