Whether we like it or not, we are our brother’s keeper. We share the same universal energy, and therefore we have the power to manipulate that force. It’s a very powerful idea, for sure. If we want peace, we can—by our actions, our thoughts, and our words—bring it about. By loving unconditionally those around us, we can create a ripple effect of love around the world. And by taking care of one person in need, we can create a chain reaction of compassion and works that can change the world.
Eight Inches is a collection of erotic stories, and so I hope that they will stir you in ways and in body parts that are meant to be stirred by the reading of…well…fuck stories. I do have a reputation to maintain, after all. But I also hope they help you think about the various people in your life who have helped you become the person you are, and about how you might have influenced—possibly completely changed for the better—the life of others.
Happy reading. And when you see me around, stop and say hi and introduce yourself. We’re brothers, after all, and we’re sharing energies. Change my life, and I hope I will change yours.
I.
Carlos was running for his life. It wasn’t the first time, not even the first time that week. When he was a full block away and felt it was safe, he stopped and bent over at the waist, taking deep breaths, and looked back at his house. The old Victorian was squeezed between two cookie-cutter low-income apartment buildings, which offered Carlos a clear view of the house without making himself equally visible, especially in the dark of night. The front door flew open and his father stumbled into the front yard, looking frantically to both sides. Carlos took a another deep breath, and turned and continued running.
It was Friday night, almost eleven o’clock, and it was very cold. His breath rose before him in a cloud of fine mist as he ran, and his side hurt immensely. He ran about half a mile before he stopped and wrapped his arms around his chest, trying to warm himself. There hadn’t been time to grab his coat before climbing out his bedroom window and fleeing, and now he was feeling the shock of the biting wind.
Carlos had been in the front room watching TV with his younger sister when his parents came home. He heard the squealing tires turn the corner half a block away, and thirty seconds later, the slamming car doors. His parents were fighting in the front yard. His father was drunk, his mother pleading with her husband to listen to reason. The neighbors yelled at his parents to pipe it down, and his father screamed back at them even louder to shut the fuck up and mind their own business.
Carlos and little Rosie looked at each other, a familiar frown dominating their faces. Carlos walked calmly across the room and turned off the TV. He picked Rosie up and hugged her close to his chest as he carried her to their shared room. Pulling the blankets back with one hand as he balanced his baby sister in his other arm, he tucked the young girl into bed and kissed her forehead.
“Good night, princess.”
“Why does it always happen like this, Carlos?” Rosie asked sweetly as she looked up innocently into his eyes.
“I don’t know, Gorda.”
“Is he going to hit you again?”
“No, honey,” Carlos said, still feeling the pain from the last fight his parents had had. “Not tonight. Now go to sleep.”
“Are you leaving again?”
“I don’t know, sissy, I don’t know.”
“Can I have another kiss, Poncho?”
Carlos knew she was trying to keep him with her as long as possible. “Of course you can, Cisco,” he answered, fighting back a tear.
He bent down and kissed his sister on the cheek. The front door was suddenly kicked open, and Carlos jumped.
“Where are you, you little bastard,” came his father’s drunken voice from the living room. His mother was still pleading with him not to hurt the boy; he was only a child, for God’s sake. A loud slapping sound and the thud of his mother falling to the floor got Carlos up and moving.
He ran to the bedroom window and raised it. Halfway out, he turned to his younger sister to blow her a kiss, and saw she was crying. He started to go over and wipe the tear away, but just then the bedroom door was kicked violently open, and Carlos jumped out the window.
Several minutes later he was standing outside a corner liquor store. Looking into the window, he saw in his reflection that his nose and ears were a shade somewhere between pink and red, and his fingers were beginning to turn blue. The old man behind the counter was alone, and he looked very warm. He was eating a pepperoni and double onion pizza recently delivered by Supremo’s Pizza, according to the box on the counter, and drinking a Coke. On the shelf behind him, next to the Smirnoff vodka, a small motorized fan blew cool air onto him. He was wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt stained with dark perspiration that covered two-thirds of the sides of the dirty shirt.
Carlos contemplated only a moment before opening the door and walking inside. The old man looked up, frowned, and swallowed the large bite of pizza in his mouth before speaking.
“You can’t come in here, kid,” he growled. “I know you’re not eighteen, so don’t even bother pulling out a fake ID.”
“I don’t want to buy anything,” Carlos said, “I just wanted to warm up a little.”
“Tough shit. I’m not the goddamned Salvation Army here. Now get lost.”
“Please. Just for a minute. It’s freezing out there.”
“I’m calling the cops now,” the old man growled again, even as he took another large bite of the pizza, and picked up the phone.
“Never mind, I’m gone,” Carlos said, and walked back into the cold, windy night.
He walked a few blocks north and turned onto Geary Street. The Tenderloin district was well known as the dirtiest, most dangerous, and highest crime-ridden area of San Francisco. Strung-out drug addicts and prostitutes of both sexes lined either side of the large boulevard. The city had long ago given up on “cleaning up” the underbelly of the most romantic city in the country, and the Tenderloin itself seemed to relish its reputation. Every once in a while a squad car would drive by, but the residents of the boulevard knew all the officers by first name, and more often than not the driver had himself indulged in the merchandise on a semi-regular basis, so the hustlers were not terribly worried about being arrested.
Carlos could sometimes be considered a little naïve, but he was not totally ignorant of the goings-on of Geary Street. He didn’t know much in detail, but he knew the people who walked along the street at night were not selling Girl Scout cookies. The people there made him a little nervous, with their pierced bodies, dark makeup, and spiked mohawks. But the street was well lit and most of the kids did not look too cold, and that kept Carlos walking.
In the course of two short blocks Carlos was approached twice to see if he was interested in buying a “dime bag.” A few of the more effeminate male hustlers along the street gave him dirty looks. He overheard whispered conversations with the accusatory phrase “fresh meat,” and somehow Carlos knew they were talking about him. Just as he was passing in front of the Supremo’s Pizza store he was suddenly pulled into the entryway. He was startled, and doubled his fists, prepared to defend himself against an ugly, bearded troll, or even a monster.
“Don’t hit me, please.” It was a young boy, about Carlos’ own age. He was wearing tight blue jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and a single, long, dangling silver earring in his right ear. His eyes were grossly outlined with eyeliner.
“What do you want?” Carlos asked cautiously.
“Well, you look cold and lonely. And there’s a cop following you, so I thought I’d pull you in here before he pulled you into his car.”
Carlos looked behind him, and noticed the cop car cruising slowly behind