Jazz Moon by Joe Okonkwo

Know-nothin’?”
    â€œWet.”
    â€œCome here.”
    Willful undressed him, wrapped him in a blanket, held him as they stood in front of the fire. Then he took him by the hand and led him to the bed. Ben’s heart trounced as Willful unwrapped the blanket and laid him on his back on the thin, linen-less mattress. It gave off an odor, stale and musty.
    Willful touched him all over, finessed him to a sense of safety. He spread Ben’s legs apart with his knees, released a stream of saliva onto his penis, then penetrated him.
    It was like being split open from the inside. Ben cried out as his body resisted the intrusion.
    â€œKnow-nothin’, relax.”
    Ben hadn’t known it would hurt this bad. Willful jabbed in and out with excruciating speed. Ben wanted to stop, but also wanted to be strong for Willful. It hadn’t hurt Trina Ledger—she couldn’t seem to get enough. He shut his eyes to block the tears and grinded his teeth together so hard, he thought they’d break. Finally he screamed, “Stop! Willful! Will! Stop!”
    But Willful pummeled him. He didn’t let up. Drops of his sweat pelted Ben’s face and chest. Ben opened his mouth to scream again just as Willful growled—a feral, uncurbed sound—and fell on top of him, sweaty and spent. It was minutes before he regained his strength and withdrew. He used the blanket to wipe himself off.
    Ben’s tears ballooned. His body shook.
    â€œShh. Shh,” Willful said, rocking him.
    Ben got up, started to dress. Willful sat on the edge of the bed, watching. He opened his mouth, then shut it. He opened it again and said, “It ain’t gone hurt that bad next time. I promise.”
    Ben slipped into his clothes. They were heavy from all the rain they had absorbed. Cold, too. His shoes were soaked and muddy. It would probably take days for them to dry out. They would never be clean again.
    â€œKnow-nothin’?” Willful said. “Ben? You hearin’ me? Next time’ll be all right.”
    â€œNext time.”
    â€œSee you soon?”
    Ben left the house, left Willful sitting there on the bed, naked.
    The storm was mostly over; only a few vagrant drops sloshed onto the ground now. The air smelled damp and muddy. Dazed, he inhaled deeply to clear his head so he could get home, sneak back in the house undetected.
    He was sore, back there.
    A man shalt not lie with a man, as with a woman. It is an abomination.
    The verse stabbed at him again the following morning when he realized he had bled back there. Had Trina bled?
    The next Sunday in church, when Willful looked over, Ben aimed his sight straight ahead, refusing him a crumb of hope. In his periphery were Trina Ledger and her fiancé, set to be married within weeks. Her eyes were fixed on Willful.
    Life returned to its mundane, pre-Willful regularity. Ben worked himself to death, to purge the sins of the past year. The soreness from that night was gone. Shame blossomed in its place.
    The next three Sundays, Mrs. Hutchison and the daughters attended church without Willful. Ben hoped he had gone to the brothel in Robertville and would stay there. On that third Sunday, Julius and Paula Sue Thurman’s twin boys tugged at their ma and pa and pointed at something on the other side of the church. The Thurmans followed the line of their sons’ pointing fingers. It led to Ben.
    The twins say they seen Willful and this boy touchin’ each other. Intimate-like .
    The gossip spread like an epidemic. On a trip to town with his pa two days later, men poked each other, cocking their heads in his direction. When his ma dispatched him on errands, neighbors received him cordially as they stashed their children indoors. The rumors reached his folks. One night at supper, they confronted him.
    â€œThere’s a ugly story goin’ around ’bout you and that Hutchison boy,” his ma said. “You heard