Denito is a gay god from Amsterdam. A perfect, hairless body serves him well as an online sex performer. His website is the modern equivalent of an old-fashioned peep show; a red light district run from his computer.
Horny men chat with Denito by typing in the text window next to his video feed:
Take off ur shirt.
U R gorgeous.
Show us ur ass.
Flex ur muscles.
I want to fuck u all night long.
His blond hair and beautiful face help him entice a legion of fans from around the world. Chat is free, but if you wanted Denito to do anything sexual -a request- you have to create an account and buy his time for a private web cam show.
I’ll do whatever u want just for u ...in private.
Tip me some more, baby I’m all urs.
Private me baby
Tip me more $ baby.
I only do that in private.
More baby more.
He’s his own international brand and there’s plenty of him to go around. The young Adonis makes a fortune spoon-feeding his sex appeal. His career is simply being desirable.
U R perfect Denito, marry me.
I’m on the other side of Denito’s web feed. I can see him but he can’t see me. Starved for affection, all my time and money are spent on him. Once I buy his privacy, he slowly strips for me. The skimpy shirt comes off ...slowly, then his pants ...slowly.
If I plug in a sweet tip, he looks into the camera with his clear blue eyes and blows a passionate kiss to me. He talks right to me, but there is no sound: we can only type. It’s not just that I want to fuck him. When I see him, I forget that I’m old and fat and unlovable. The master-lover helps me escape my shitty life.
I reload my account and chat. Wake up my soul, Denito Teach me to love myself, U God. Stimulate my heart, Baby. I luv u.
Denito puts his face right up to his cam and mouths, “I love you, too, Baby.” It seems impossible that he can’t really see me or touch me. I believe him like a drug. His perfect face spins my heart around and around, yet my man’s too slick to even break a sweat. He brings me to a warm climax every time and I’m alive. And alone.
Once my computer’s put to sleep, I’m pissed off that the whole, anonymous world isn’t worshipping me. I’m smart and better than he is. He’s just a hunk of meat. I hate u. I hate that I need u. I know that Denito doesn’t really love me. He’s giving me the same show as last time. I see the cracks. He’ll get what he deserves someday.
...and another show of nothing personal. He’s lost. Something’s spoiling him.
... and he’s pensive. Denito seems distracted. He sweats. I’m watching him fall apart right before my eyes. I bet he smells.
...and today my lover looks worse than yesterday. His face is puffy and I see bruises. Those six-pack abs are getting soft. A remarkable deterioration is caught on camera. My mind races without a climax.
...and now the sex worker is downright sexless. But Denito continues to peddle himself at his web cam in Amsterdam. Ghetto. For Real.
...and barely conscious, and Denito’s new fans are not happy.
R U asleep? wake up.
Do something.
What happened to U, dude?
Are U on drugs?
U R gross
Fat Fuck. Go back to the gym.
Get sum help.
It’s an internet lynching. The idol is smashed. He’s broke. His eyes twitch so he can’t type anything on his keyboard. Picking at the tiny sores on his face and chest, the hateful messages bombard him.
UR useless Denito.
Take a shower or something.
U R disgusting.
I tune into Denito’s website more than ever. I need to watch him fall apart. I get far more gratification watching him at his worst than feeding into that ego. Dirty, dirty man.
...and Denito’s downfall is still going on and on. He skipped the gym but got his first tattoo: a tiny syringe under his right eye. The tattoo doesn’t heal. It blends in with the other sores on his face. It’s a freak show. Old fans take pity on him.
Here is some $$ 4 u to get something to eat.
Do U have a doctor?
...and Denito slumps over, his wild, straw-like hair sticks up all over the place. He stares right into the screen, his eyes are bloodshot and vacant. Even I’m disturbed by his performance but I can’t stop watching. It’s hard to tell if he’s online looking for a lifeline, or still looking for indulgence. What are we doing?
...and today’s different. Denito’s naked and his skin is gray. His eyes are rolled back into his head. He’s dull. We’re still watching, but there are no comments in his chat window. For the first time, I feel guilty. I’m worried about my boy from Amsterdam. My sick fascination with Denito speaks volumes. I’m really looking at myself.
...and I peek in on Denito, again. He’s frozen. Still. The sight gives me a knot in my belly.
...and the curiosity grips me. I checked back on Denito once more. He’s in the exact same position. I watch. Nothing. Something’s wrong with me. I need him.
...and I check-in again. He’s a lump. I don’t know what to do. My computer’s parked at his site while I do chores around the house. Denito is a pot that never boils. The fire’s out. There’s movement. Two men enter the scene and urgently attend to Denito. One checks his pulse. The men attempt to pick him up. His body’s frozen in the sitting position. He’s turned to wood. The two men pause and looked at each other. One reaches up toward the webcam. My screen goes blank.
Dennis Milam Bensie’s first book, Shorn: Toys to Men was nominated for the Stonewall Book Award, sponsored by the American Library Association. It was also a pick in the International gay magazine The Advocate as “One of the Best Overlooked Books of 2011″. His short stories have been published by Bay Laurel and Everyday Fiction and he has been a feature contributor for The Good Men Project. His second book, One Gay American, was published by Coffeetown Press in 2013 was chosen as a finalist in the Next Generation Indie Book Awards and the Indie Excellence Book Awards.
Street art by Kosby.
Photo by Adam Lawrence.
Chicago's Smith Westerns are back and releasing a new album, Soft Will, via Mom+Pop on June 24th.
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