Bret Easton Ellis: Unanswered Prayers


By Dale Peck

Duh is what I was thinking too, but I didn't say it. I was thinking that it was hard to believe this doofus was the author I'd come to admire so much, but by now I was in a pre-coke state of jittery anticipation, and it was all I could do to unbuckle my pants and push them down and bend over the counter, then watch as Ellis scooped up two of the lines with his black Amex and spread an eight-inch line down the shaft of his dick. For some reason his penis looked familiar, but what with the Internet and bathhouses and thirty-some odd years of whoring I've seen a lot of cock, and plus I was in that place where you know the drugs are just a few seconds away and nothing else really matters. It was a pretty dick though. The coke on top made it all sparkly.

He moved into position and I pulled my ass cheeks open. He knelt down, spit in the hole, then stood up again and pressed the tip of his penis against me, then stopped.

'So, uh, are you, like, I mean, do you have''

'Oh, shit, I'm being totally rude.' I pulled my pants up enough to reach my pocket, grabbed a hundred from my wallet. 'Is this enough?'

'No, man,' Bret said, waving my money away. 'I meant'' He tapped his cock against my ass again. 'You know.'

'Oh,' I said. 'HIV.'


'No,' I said.

'Yeah, that's what I figured.' He spat into his hand and rubbed it around the head of his dick, then fingered a little bit inside me. 'It's just, you know. Martin and John. You did the whole AIDS thing so well and all.'

'I did, right?' I suddenly remembered that I'd followed him into the bathroom to talk about his work. I couldn't remember what I'd meant to ask him though, so I said,

'It's weird being confused with a character in your book, right?'

'Right? You'd be surprised how many people think I'm just like --'

'Patrick Bateman?'

'No, uh --'

'Victor Ward?'

'No --'

'I mean Victor Johnson. Sorry.'

'No.' I just stared at him until he said. 'Clay.'


'From Less Than --'

'Zero. Right, right, I'm totally with you.'

'I've even thought of writing, you know, some kind of sequel or something, so people would see how different we are. But every time I start it he always ends up turning into me. Or, I don't know, maybe I've turned into him after all these years?'

'Yeah, yeah, cool,' I said, pushing my ass against his dick to remind him of the task at hand. But apparently he wanted to talk.

'You kind of did that too. That whole Dale thing.'

'Um, I'm Dale?'

'I mean in the book. Martin and John. The girl. Shannon. She calls John 'Dale' at one point.'

'Oh, yeah. Susan. Someone called it my Rosebud.'

Ellis looked down at my hole, seemed surprised that his finger was two knuckles into it.

'Someone named your asshole?'

'No, man. Orson Welles? Citizen Kane? The sleigh?' I did my best dying whisper. 'Rose-bud''

'Yeah, man, you're kind of creeping me out right now. Maybe we should just --' He nudged the head of his cock against my hole.

'Cool, cool,' I said, but he was already slipping in. For a second there was that sand-in-the-Vaseline feeling, and then the coke kicked in and everything went numb.

'Nice,' I said.

'Thanks, man,' he said, patting my ass.

I meant the coke, but I didn't bother to correct him.

Tags: Art & Books