Mister Seagull Gives No Fucks

Following in the spirit of Coming Undone, more short, straightforward, pointless porn. Everything you need to know about this story is summed up in the very first line. Accompanying illustrations are by Erli.

First published in issue 32 of Shousetsu Bang*Bang.

Warnings: porn—also pretty unremittingly doofy

This is the best shaggy-dog story that I know:

Way back when I was a freshman in high school, I had this math teacher named Mr. Siegal. Mr. Siegal was a hardass. You hear stories about hardass teachers sometimes, the ones that push their students hard and take no shit and never let up and turn out to be the best, most inspiring teachers a guy could ever have—well, that wasn't the kind of hardass that Mr. Siegal was. Mr. Siegal was a hardass because he wanted everybody else to be just as miserable as he was. Later on I found out that he'd burned out on his PhD program and had to grab the first job that came along that he was qualified for, but all I knew back then was that he hated everything, including his job and us. We didn't like him much, either.

Let me tell you a story about him, about the kind of guy that he was. We were freshmen in high school, remember, dumbassed fourteen-year-olds, and if there was one thing that we wanted to be, it was grown up. We were desperate to look cool, to shed the last few lingering shreds of our innocence, to be worldly and jaded and unshockable, the kind of guys who could see the entire cheerleading squad having naked lesbian sex right out in the halls and would just pick their way through the writhing mound of flesh, rolling their eyes and saying "Not again, God, now I'm going to be late to Pre-Algebra." (As if.) We wanted to be that guy, but most of us couldn't say a dirty word without dropping our voices to harsh whispers and glancing around uncomfortably for eavesdropping teachers with detention slips.

So, anyway, on our first day of class, Mr. Siegal gets up in front of the class, puts his scowly face on, and says, "My name is Mr. Siegal, and I'm going to tell you right now, whatever your problems are, I do not even give a fuck."

We all freeze. None of us can even think the word 'fuck' without wincing, and teachers do not say it, ever, and yet, there it was, like a slap to the face, you know? He looks at this class full of gaping kids and goes on: "I do not accept late work, incomplete work, excuses, or sass. I am not inclined to 'let things slide'. If you are tardy, then you get extra homework on top of your detention. If you talk or chew gum in class, extra homework. If you mouth off, extra homework. I don't care about your problems. You are here to learn and do your work. That's all." And he turns around and picks up the chalk and starts talking about math, just like that.

From what I heard, he gave every class the same speech, every year. "I do not give a fuck," Mister Seagull told each and every squirming new freshman. I don't know how he never got in trouble for it. I guess no one cared as long as he taught us math and didn't kill anyone. It became kind of a byword at our high school: Mister Seagull gives no fucks. To this day when I meet people who went to my high school ten years after I did, eventually one of us always says "You ever have Mister Seagull?" and the other one says, "Yeah, he gave no fucks."

He meant it, too. He piled us high with homework and hit us with pop quizzes and gave out zeroes like they were going out of style, and he threw chalk and yelled and told kids to shut up all the goddamned time. He made a lot of girls cry, and a couple of guys, too. I guess if that was all he'd been hardassed about, it might have been okay, but deep down he was a mean little fucker and there were no two ways about it. He wasn't the first guy to call me 'Fatty-Fatty-Two-By-Four', and he wasn't the last, either, but nobody ever said it to me with as much venom as he did. I have to admit, though, it shut me up, and back then I kind of needed shutting up from time to time.

Speaking of not shutting up, I think I was the one who hung him with 'Mister Seagull'—back then a fat kid had two choices, try to be invisible or play the class clown, and I'd always had a mouth on me—because, as I pointed out to my friends, Mister Seagull was always screeching and shitting on our heads and there was nothing we could do about it. It helped, being able to call him 'Mister Seagull' to his face. Not much, but it helped.

Anyway. I hated him, and I hated how helpless he made me feel, but I survived him. I buckled down and did all that homework and got out of his class with a C, and I was happy to have it. Then I was a sophomore and I had geometry with Ms. Hicks, and then I was a junior and I had algebra with Mrs. Watson, and then I was a senior and I had pre-calc with Mr. Blundett, and then I graduated from high school and went off to college absolutely determined never to take another minute of math class if I could help it.

Turns out I could. Turns out college was good for me in a lot of other ways, too. My parents got divorced when I was real little, you know, and my mom had to get a job, and she ended up feeding me a lot of fast food and cheap sugary crap because of all the guilt and the lack of time to do anything better, but once I got off to college I got landed with this awesome roommate, Tim, who turned me on to eating healthy and working out—I lost like fifty pounds and picked up a tan from all the swimming and running and shit, and then since I needed new clothes anyway Tim talked me into bleaching my hair and getting an earring too, and once he'd finished fixing me up Tim turned me on to some other things, so I came out to my friends and then to my parents and then, of course, he got bored with me and started fucking other guys and eventually let me catch him at it. The usual college bullshit. You know.

Anyway, that was my freshman year in college, basically, although somewhere in there I went to class and stuff, too. I went to live with my dad that summer, on the other side of town. His condo association needed a guy to mow the grass and keep the pool clean for a couple of bucks an hour over minimum wage, and it sounded okay to me. I guess you could say I gave no fucks.

It was a pretty good summer. I worked hard and kept the weight off and got my tan damn near perfect. My dad and I barely saw each other, but when we did, it was okay. He was weirdly okay with me being gay, unlike my mom, who basically had a meltdown, all blaming herself for it, like she made me gay by giving me Snickers bars instead of some kind of 'quality time'. Dad just treated me like he'd always known, like it was no big deal. I guess I got lucky, with my dad.

Still, even if he'd always known, he wouldn't have liked me actually getting laid at his place, so I used to tell him that I was going to go meet up with some friends and hang out, and then I'd take his car and go down to the Strip and go to this one particular bar I knew about from some of my friends, called Stryker's. I was only nineteen and I wasn't supposed to be in there, but let me tell you, Stryker's also gave no fucks, so long as no one made trouble. I'd lean against the bar and let these older guys buy me drinks and rip my clothes off with their eyes, and then we'd end up in the bathroom or out back in the alley or in the other guy's car and every one of them felt like me telling Tim to go shove it up his ass. Real healthy behavior, I know, but I was nineteen and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

So, yeah, as you've probably guessed by now, one July night I'm at Stryker's, nursing a Coke with lime and waiting for Mr. Right Now, and I glance over at the door as it opens and in comes Mister Seagull.

I freaked out. I mean, I didn't start screaming or anything, but I choked on my drink and started coughing and looking around for exits. Mister Seagull's eyes slid right over me and then they slid back and I knew I'd been busted—for just a second I was that little lard-assed pasty-faced fourteen-year-old boy all over again, just waiting to cringe and fidget impotently as Mister Seagull threw my detention slip at me. That lasted until I figured out that what I was seeing in his face wasn't disgust but something else I thought I recognized, after most of a summer of letting older guys get me off. It was weird, I don't mind telling you.

It was pretty clear that Mister Seagull didn't drive halfway across town to go to Stryker's because he liked the banana daiquiris. He looked at me and I looked at him, my skin squirming with that same old impotent rage, and by the time he started drifting in my direction I'd somehow made up my mind to take this thing wherever he'd let it go. I guess that sounds weird. It sounds weird to me, and I'm the one telling this story. But I'd never liked him or respected him, so I didn't have that stopping me, and part of me figured that if he didn't recognize me, well, anything that happened was totally his own fault—basically I hated him so bad that I knew I had to stick my dick in him somehow, make him eat a little of what he'd made me eat for a whole year. Like I said, real healthy behavior.

Long as I'm being honest I might as well say that he wasn't a bad-looking guy, if you like the aging preppy-jock-salesman kind of look. He had real good hair, thick and spiky and kind of a browny-gray, and this weatherbeaten face with deep frowny lines bracketing his scowl. He wasn't that old, either. Back when I was fourteen I'd thought he was ancient because all teachers were ancient, but looking back he couldn't have been more than twenty-seven, twenty-eight, which made him all of about thirty-two now. Young enough to still look pretty good in a blazer and jeans. Gross but not disgusting, if you know what I mean.

Anyway. He took his time, but not too much of it. Places like Stryker's, you can't play it coy. You're good-looking and you walk in the front door, you'll have some guy's hand on your ass within five minutes, less if you start it with the right smile. He wasn't the only guy circling me that night, but I kind of turned my shoulder this way and my head that way and I cut all the others out, just long enough for Mister Seagull to insinuate himself into the crowd at my elbow. "You're new," he said, and I swear to God that so-familiar voice made me shudder right down to my balls with hate and recognition and the sick little thrill of what I was about to do.

So I flick my hair out of my eyes and give him a long look. "Not that new," I say, touching my jaw like I'm checking. "I've got to be at least twenty years old."

"New here, then," says Mister Seagull, with a trace of that old impatience of his, although his eyes are just eating my face straight up. "And if you're twenty then I'm Miss America."

"Suppose I'll take your word for it, since you're not wearing your little rhinestone tiara," I say. "So, Miss America, you got a name, or just a title?"

Mister Seagull wets his lips with his tongue, just a little. "Ricky," he says.

Ricky.

I ask you.

"Ricky," I repeat. "Well, Ricky, I'm Ken—" which I am not, obviously, but if he was going to give me a fake name, I was going to do the same "—and I really don't give a shit how old you think I am."

He likes that. I can tell. Back in school he'd bring the world down around your ears if you mouthed off to him—and I did it all the time, because I couldn't control my fucking mouth back then and I can barely do it now—but here he kind of likes it, as much as he can like anything, anyway. "Buy you another," he says, in this queer little breathy voice, putting his elbow on the bar.

"Yeah, you will," I say. I hold up my glass until it catches the bartender's eye, then point at Mister Seagull. "What else are you going to do for me, Ricky?"

"Well, what do you want?" says Mister Seagull, half suspicion and half interest.

I make him wait until my second Coke's on the bar, then I pick it up and take a sip. "Let me think," I say, and he watches me take another little sip and lick my lip-prints back off the glass. "I think I don't want any of that getting-to-know-you bullshit. Neither of us are here for that, right?"

He makes this little grunting noise that I recognize as a 'yes'.

"So... what I want is to have a little of this drink that you so kindly bought me," I say, "and then I want to get the hell out of here. Go someplace private."

"Private," Mister Seagull repeats, as the bartender puts a drink down in front of him without even being told. He picks it up and drains off half of it, just like that. So Mister Seagull's a regular—makes me wonder how many nights he was in here when I was already out back, letting some guy stick it up my ass.

I can't help but grin a little. "Well, you could suck my dick right here in front of God and everybody, but even Stryker's would throw you out for that."

Yeah, he's liking it—licks his lips when I say that, thinking about it—but all the same I've got his hackles up a little, because Mister Seagull disapproves of sass. "Yeah?" he says, sneering at me just like he always did. "What makes you think I'm going to blow you? Maybe I think you ought to blow me, instead, pay me back for that drink."

Same old Mister Seagull. Well, on second thought, maybe not so much. Anyway, I laugh and let my fingers walk along his arm some. "Because if you do, I'll be very good to you afterwards."

"How good?" he demands to know.

I lean in like I'm going to whisper it in his ear, and he gives this little shudder and tilts his head towards me, just waiting. "So good," I breathe, and I run the tip of my tongue around the curve of his ear, because we both knew I was going to do it and I didn't want to disappoint.

Mister Seagull hooks a possessive arm around my waist, just like that, with his hand tucked in the back pocket of my cutoffs, and with his other hand he puts his drink to his face. And I've got to admit that it was weird as hell, having his hand on my ass, but I wasn't about to back down now. Never did get the hang of keeping myself out of trouble, not with the mouth I've got on me, and here I was about to get another mouth on me and that was the kind of trouble that I liked.

All around us guys are doing the same thing we are, taking advantage of the noise and the smoke and the darkness to get things underway a little early, and no one gives us two looks, not even the guys who were cruising me earlier. Easy enough to slide my hand between Mister Seagull and the bar and draw two fingers down the thing pushing out the front of his pants, listen to him splutter into his drink. Somewhere inside me there's a fourteen-year-old straight kid gagging and threatening suicide, but I'm not listening to him, not now. "Meet me out back in five minutes?" I ask, breath all hot on his ear.

"Five minutes," Mister Seagull says, all choked up, already looking for the bartender to settle his tab.

I disentangle myself from his arm and slide away, heading for the hallway that leads to the bathrooms and ultimately to that nasty old alleyway. I don't know what I'm planning, but I'm thinking that maybe I'll come in his mouth or maybe even on his face—even the fourteen-year-old thinks that sounds mighty fine, like a grown-up version of covering his car in shaving cream—and then halfway there I get this idea. And I like this idea. So what I do is I slip into the bathroom and claim myself a stall (it's early enough that they're not all full of guys fucking yet) and I pull my dick out of my cutoffs and I jerk off into a wad of toilet paper, as hard and fast as I can, which was plenty hard and fast back then. I flush that and tuck myself away, nice and neat, and then I spend a minute in front of the mirror, getting myself put back to rights.

He's already in the alley when I let myself out, his face wobbling between impatience and lust. This early in the evening we're almost the only ones there. "Thought maybe you'd decided not to come," he gravels out, looking me up and down.

"Oh, I'll come," I say, kind of light-headed already. "Maybe. Guess that depends on you, really."

I put my back to the bricks, still all warm from the stored-up July sun, and I start to unbutton my fly and all of a sudden Mister Seagull has eyes for nothing else. "Shit," he gravels out, and he grabs my arm and hauls me down the alley to a spot I know pretty well, pushing me back in between the big recycle bin and some employee's parked car, and I just laugh and finish what I started and he grabs for me and helps—his big old hand is callused, hard like cardboard, and I have no idea how a math teacher earns calluses like that, but I don't care.

That hand shoves down the front of my shorts and finds me still soft, just now starting to recover from jerking off. The sidelong look he gives me makes me want to crack up, but instead I run two fingers down the side of his face. "Show me what you got," I say.

Mister Seagull snorts and goes right to his knees on the dirty asphalt and God but I love that, looking down at him like this, and then he pushes my shorts down a little and sucks my soft cock into his mouth and I love that, too. He's grumpy that I'm not hard already, that I didn't want him bad enough to pay him that compliment, but all the same he knows how to fix that—just the right combination of rough and gentle to get me going again, swelling in his mouth until he can't hold me there any more. He's impatient, but it's pretty good anyway. He's tugging at my balls with one hand and giving me a sneaky little rub back behind them, too, and I slide my feet apart so that he can put a finger in my ass if he wants, but he doesn't, not right away. Instead he just messes with me, playing around a little, while his mouth does all the real work, pulling now, sucking the blood out of my brain and into my cock. Maybe I just came, but he's getting me pretty hard again, pretty quick.

I bare my teeth and give the top of his head an ecstatic hate-grin. "Yeah, suck it," I say, thrusting forward into his mouth and groaning as he takes the thrust against the meat of his tongue. "Dirty bastard, want to stick your finger up my ass, don't you—" Just like that he spears me good, one of those big square fingers rubbing up between my ass-cheeks and forcing its way on in. I let him hear me hiss. "Yeah," I say again, breathless. "You like it like that—" and he makes this little rumbling sound and takes me deep, not all the way, but deep enough that I can feel his throat go tight about me as he swallows.

I give no fucks about etiquette, here. I grab his hair in both hands and start slamming into his mouth, not hard enough to gag him, not hard enough to make him stop, but hard enough to get my point across, that his mouth is there for my dick to own. And the hate just spirals up my spine and bursts in my brain, how this is Mister Seagull down on his knees in the filthy alley behind a gay bar, getting his face fucked by little ol' me—and liking it. I can tell by the little noises that he's making, and by his free hand clutching at my thigh, and by the finger up my ass, pumping away. "Yeah, you take that," I growl, high on my revenge. "You take it all, you suck that dick..." and so on, just like that. You spend a summer getting guys off out back at Stryker's, you learn how they like you to talk dirty, that's for sure.

But I'd already come once and not that long ago, so I'm not feeling that need. See, that was all part of my plan. And once the newness wears off that hateful joy I use my grip on his hair to pull him off my dick—he comes away all surprised and wet-lipped, with his mouth gaping in a startled 'o', and I love that, too. So I grin down at him. "You better stop there if you want me to be good to you, too," I say, all hoarse.

"You got something in mind?" he demands to know, still working that finger in my ass, these raw little rubs that don't travel very far but go to all the right places, making my knees go all watery.

"Yeah," I say, my voice hitching a little, and I wriggle around on his finger just to make sure I've still got his attention. "But you're gonna have to pull that out if you wanna find out what it is." As if he didn't know.

He pretends to think about it, still working me hard and slow. He's nearly got my dick in his eye, so he can see it every time it jumps, reacting to the finger he's got jammed up my ass, and it's good, but not good enough to make me come again, not that quick. So finally he scowls just a little and twists his finger free, just like that, and it feels so nice going out that I nearly ask to have it back. I shiver and groan a little, because he likes that.

Mister Seagull sits back, hand buried in a tissue I didn't even see him pull out, and waits all impatiently. And me—I bring my legs back together and push my cutoffs down until they fall into a puddle around my ankles, and I kick one foot free. I'm not wearing any underwear (because what would be the goddamned point of that, I ask you) so all of a sudden it's just the tail of my tank top between me and the steamy July air. And I look at him all heavy and turn around, taking my own sweet time about it, and I put my cheek against the still-warm bricks and I push my ass back at him, really present myself, spreading my thighs wide so that he can see clearly what he's getting. I'm still all raw and throbbing back there from his little finger trick, and I know what he's seeing is probably all pink and swollen and in need of some rough tending. "Hope you brought protection," I say, all singsong and mocking, and—

And he makes this sound and next thing I know he's got his face buried in my ass and his tongue stuck in me as deep as it'll go, with both hands clamped hard on my hips, which was good, because otherwise I might have just fallen the fuck down out of sheer shock. There's nothing fake about the sound I make at that, let me tell you. I never liked getting rimmed before this—I guess everybody's got their limits and I always thought that was mine—but turns out all I really needed was to hate the guy that's got his tongue up my ass, really hate him, really get off on the idea of that asshole Mister Seagull just aching to kneel down behind me and service my ass with his tongue...

As revenge goes, I tell you, it doesn't get much better than that.

Oh, God, and it's nice, too. He grabs my ass in both hands and spreads my cheeks as wide as they'll go and just goes to town, all slick and intrusive, really tending to me, putting out the burn that his fingers made—"Yeah," I choke out, shutting my eyes, all clawing at the bricks until the tips of my fingers go sore. "God, eat my ass, you nasty bastard..." and Mister Seagull hums out this choked noise and stabs his tongue into me again and it goes in so easy and wet and squirmy and makes me shake from my chest to my knees and I get this shudder in the pit of my stomach that's just the best thing. The best thing. I want him to do it forever, and I groan out a real sound when he stops and lurches to his feet behind me, something crackling in one hand.

"Yeah," he says, his voice all cracked and raw, and an empty condom wrapper drops to the ground by my discarded cutoffs. "Yeah, you liked that, didn't you?"

I swallow. "Yeah," I say.

"Figured you would," he says, and one of his fingers twists into me again, a little wet from handling the condom. "Little slut," he adds, but there's a hitch in his voice that's almost embarrassed, like he's not used to talking dirty. Guess I set the tone for the evening, though, because he says it again—"Little slut, you liked that"—and presses that finger down towards my balls and torques me open to the evening air.

"Yeah, I liked it," I say. "You gonna talk all day or you gonna fuck me?"

He snorts and pulls that finger free and smacks me on the ass just hard enough to sting. "Fucking look at you," he gravels out, and he's already sounding less embarrassed. "Out in the alley with your shorts down around one ankle, spreading your ass for anyone to see—" something slick and a little rubbery scrubs hard down the crack of my ass and comes to rest pressed against me right where I'm sore and aching and ready for it "—all for the price of a drink, guess that makes you a whore, too—"

Any other time, with anyone else, I might have gotten a little bit worried right about then. But it was Mister Seagull, and I'd stood in front of his desk and squirmed a thousand times while he poured hate and bile all over me, and this was just Mister Seagull's usual ranting with an XXX rating, nothing to be scared of. So I laugh and push up onto my toes and the head of his cock nudges me open the tiniest bit. "So fuck the little slut, then," I say, and just like that, he does.

His cock goes in hard and I have to bite my forearm to keep from yelping. Guess he figured that the meager scrap of lube on the condom and the spit in my ass would be enough, and it turns out that it was, mostly. There was some burn to it, sure, but not enough to put me off, not then, not after that little trick he did with his tongue—I was so horny that I'd have fucked a hole in the wall right about then. He's got one big old hand spread out on the wall in front of my face and the other clamped tight around my hip to brace me against his thrusts, so I let him see me reach down and grab my cock in one hand. He likes it. He makes a growly sound that's probably another "Yeah" and jams himself into me real good, and I bear down and let it happen and bite my arm again.

I'm gonna tell you right now that it wasn't the best fuck I'd ever had—hell, it wasn't the best fuck I'd had that month—but it was pretty damned good all the same. Mister Seagull's pretty impatient but all the same he's got some focus, and his cock's not too big but it's big enough to hit me in all the right places, and he's strong enough to push me around how I like it. Any little inadequacies in his technique are papered right over by the soaring triumphant hate boiling in my brain, this fourteen-year-old's voice all if you only fucking knew—! as Mister Seagull grunts and does his level best to fuck me forward into the wall and I jerk myself off and let him.

I'm not working my cock too hard, though. I've got a plan. A plan that involves telling Mister Seagull to fuck me good, telling him to give me what I want, telling him to treat my ass rough, and all the while I'm thinking mostly of the burn in my ass, and the beery-vomit smell of the alley, and whether or not I remembered to take out the garbage before I got in the car. Mister Seagull's slamming into my ass so hard that no matter how hard I brace against it I surge forward with every thrust, my cheek nearly grinding against the wall, and it's good stuff but it's standard back-alley fare. It's not too hard to keep myself stroking my cock lightly and thinking distracting thoughts until Mister Seagull's grunts take on this pained edge and his hand squeezes my hip. There's this one super-rough thrust and a pause and a fusillade of shorter strokes and then Mister Seagull goes "Uh, uh, uh" and bites down on my shoulder and works himself through it, four or five shallow, measured thrusts that milk every last drop of come out of him.

And then he lifts his head and realizes that I'm still working on jerking myself off.

"Give a guy a hand," I say, and my voice is all choked because I lasted this long but I'm not going to last much longer, and Mister Seagull makes this pissy little noise and closes his big old hand over mine and together we jerk me off in earnest. I stop thinking about everything but what's in immediate contact with my dick and I push forward into our hands, which makes my ass squeeze all tight around Mister Seagull's cock, which feels so good in those last few moments before he starts to go soft—I let go then and come all over the wall in short, sharp little splatters. Every night the closing crew at Stryker's comes out and hoses down those bricks without letting themselves think about it too much—probably thousands of guys have come on that section of wall right there, and thousands more will come on that wall after I'm done with it. Hell, I've come on it a few times already this summer. But I know that this time will be the one that I remember.

I've barely finished before Mister Seagull sticks a hand between us and pulls himself free, just radiating this pissy mood. If my still being soft when we started was kind of an insult, then my not coming from the butt-fucking I just got was another, and he'll probably worry about that a little in the months to come, but right now he's just dropping the condom onto the pavement and cleaning himself up, one avid eye glued to my ass as I drop my forehead onto my upraised arm and catch my breath. I'm all loosened and sore back there, but it's a good kind of sore, or good enough, at any rate.

Eventually I'm done. I step back into my cutoffs and I pull them up, wriggling to get them settled over my hips just so—the heavy seam of the denim sinks into my ass-crack and rubs up against me where I'm aching and I shudder all over—and I tuck in my tank top and run my fingers through my hair and I give him this look that I practiced in the mirror, all heavy-eyed and smirky. "Thanks for the drink," I say.

Mister Seagull just snorts, but I'd like to think that I can see worry in the back of his eyes. Who knows? Maybe I do. There's sweat shining around his hairline and his face is all flushed, but otherwise he looks pretty much the same as he did when he walked in the door. "Welcome," he finally says.

I waggle my fingers at him and step past, heading back down the alleyway towards the back door of Stryker's. He doesn't quite follow me, not yet, although he turns to watch me go, and so I stop about ten feet away and glance back over my shoulder, and I can't help but grin. "Well," I say, savoring it. "I guess Mister Seagull finally gave a fuck after all, huh?"

Like I said. Best shaggy-dog story I know.

COMMENTS:

Yes, I wrote an entire story just to make a dumb joke. Actually, I wrote the story to take advantage of the title, which popped fully-formed into my head when I was watching a real seagull give no fucks about something. I'm normally pretty bad at thinking up titles, so when my brain and the universe hand me one, I try to run with it.

In my head, our narrator's name is Danny. I guess I could have mentioned it somewhere, but it didn't seem important.

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