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B U G   C H A S E R
An erotic horror story by Alex Severin & Mike Philbin.
 

He looked everywhere for it.

It was the sort of thing he might find down a dark alley. The darker the better - one running with rivers of drunken piss and spat ejaculate, strewn with discarded gossamer; you can find a world of pain and suffering in those dirty places. He collects these unwanted gifts with gratitude and saves them for later.He tries so hard to find it - seeker, hunter, pursuer - chaser. His desire to own it, feast on it - as it will feast on him, dine on his flesh and bone - runs deeper than the blood in his thirsty veins.

Orally.

Intravenously.

Anally.

And you don’t always find that sort of grim testimony down any stinking back alley. He considered himself a professional Bug Chaser and he conducted his business all over town. He hardly ever washed but, like the prostitutes of Napoleon’s France, he could mask his body rot with perfumes and deodorants and lakes of stinging aftershave. For after all, as grim as his crusade was, one still had to keep up appearances.

It was at a feverish gallery opening that he met the sluttiest bloke ever to have danced gayly through a throbbing crowd of homosexuals, heterosexuals and/or transexuals. This guy had like pony thighs and his dainty hooves clip-clopped along the marble highway that was the delineated planar facade of the gallery space. It was an installation - Man & Boy, it was called. At one end of the gallery there was a big pink 0 and at the other end of the gallery there was a big grey carcass that looked like it might have been a bull in some other incarnation. That Dancing Queen just had to have it - and our man was on him in a second.

“Come on, introduce yourself,” chirped the gadfly.“My name?” our sick and twisted hero stammered. “I don’t do names, if you don’t mind.” He salvaged a champagne from a passing silver salver and offered it to his catch of the day. 

Gadfly swept the champagne out of his hand and gulped back the whole lot. Our man was nodding to himself, “Yes, that is the attitude of a proper infected mess of filth...” He didn’t realise he was speaking out loud and the comment got him a fierce look and instant abandonment. He could feel the entire crowd shifting away from him like he had some Plague. But he didn’t - and that’s all he wanted. 

He would even dream about it, blood-dreams of Leukolytes and Neutrophils and Macrophages, dreams of plummeting white blood cells, his body rapidly losing the ability to fight infection and the diseases that would ravage him. His rabid cock would stiffen and one-eye’d dribble at the thought of the moment the virus fucked him. 

He never lost hope, never. He knew that if he did not find it then one day it would surely find him. One so careless and care-free and wanton with his lust and his seed was certain to come a right fucking cropper sooner or later.

He roamed the internet in the beginning, sitting in his dimly lit bed-sit bathed in the sulphurous glow of his monitor, pictures of men Barebacking, little animated .gifs reflected in his irises making it look as though his eyes were being fucked.

And then he found them...thousands of them all over the world that were just like him, thousands of men, (and even some women,) who wanted it just as much as he did, craved it, needed it, would throw themselves onto their swords in a pledge of allegiance to it. And there was a name for them. They were the Bug Chasers. 
He entered the chat room once he'd signed up for an ID and uploaded his avatar - half a Red Admiral butterfly. He chose the nick Lepidopterist.
 
 

They were an eclectic bunch with a mortuary humour all their own. They became his ‘family’ in many ways - they squabbled and nagged and bitched. He learned about The Gift Givers in the group and he picked up some terms like Fuck of Death - this he actually say to himself. "Fuck of Death," he would whisper as he fucked himself in the asshole with a steaming hot Jumbo sausage he had bought from the chip shop. He would milk the bastard in thick shiny gravy then stick it up his puckered arse, looking over his shoulder in the full-length mirror that he called his Catcher’s Net. He loved the dry sound of the mechanically recovered meat thin-fist-rushing in and out his asshole. Its gasping dryness of sound was more a turn on than the act itself. If only the Russian Roulette Party - that's the term some of them used - were to be this tantalizing. 

Finally they announced a Conversion Party right around the corner from his. Just one easy tube ride away. There would be hundreds of Gift Givers and Receivers at this one - a special country mansion location had been set aside by one of the wealthier Bug Chasers and all were welcum, the host had written.

He popped his favourites list window and clicked on the 'BBP' bookmark. It sent him to http://www.barebackpack.com. He headed straight for the guestbook, desperate for details of the party in the country.
 

This was the sort of thing he liked, made him feel ever so special. It was one of those elite- things, boys-club-things, private-things, select-few-things. And he was going to be there. He might even be lucky enough to be infected by the CELEBRITY bang that was going to be in attendance. That would really be the icing on the cake - a Celebrity Fuck of Death - that would really be something to boast about in the hospice. He wondered who the celebrity could be. Was it somebody like really famous? Or was it a B-list celeb? His cock throbbed with excitement at the prospect of it being one of a select few celebrities he would love to shag. 

The night of the party, no fucking celebrities turned up - not that he saw. He did get a lot of fucking, sucking, taking it in the ass and rubbing copious amounts of manfat across his substantially hairy chest. He also got to paste a lot of faces onto names he had only ever seen painted with crude avatars. Admittedly, some of the avatars had more facial charm but it’s not that that’s important when you are searching for The Big One, the Holy Grail of Anal Celebrity. He wanked off that night, after the party. He knew the Gift Giving wasn’t a guaranteed nor instantaneous bonus but he had, as they say, high hopes.

He went to many of these anal insemination deals. He was Giver, Taker, Pillow Biter ... at one of these events he even decided to pierce himself in the chest with a syringe he found blood stained and lying around on the spunk-stained sofa. His life became truly wretched. He became a reckless manslattern and got himself quite a reputation. He stank to high heaven almost every day; it was as if he couldn’t wipe the stink of men off his skin. He was doused in it regularly and ate it regularly and even gargled it, yes, he remembered, in a pitiful drunk fugue, gargling about five or six men's-worth of slightly tepid cum in his mouth, he even made a cum bubble lift into the air and pop on the freckled nose of some eager young death fetishist who proceeded to dip his mouth into his and drain it of the off-white mouthwash.

Everyone puked on everyone and everyone was filthy to the core, that’s how he saw the rest of his life, looking back on those bad old days. He never thought his growing Celebrity would be his ultimate downfall.

He was notorious on the party circuit now; people would whisper behind hand while looking in his direction. 

"That's him! That's him! The Queen of the Bug Chasers. More cum sucked down that fucking throat hole than piss down a London public lav."

And all of a sudden he was more of a novelty; the dicks dried up and the cum didn't flow so freely any more. They preferred to 
stand and stare at him, gossip about him, speculate about whether or not he had The Gift. But he looked so healthy, apart from being dirty and stinking and his cock being crusty. His gaping arsehole was getting mighty lonely down there, crying out for some company to fill the emptiness. Even the smoked sausage didn't bring much succor now.

They treated him like some fucking Queen and he hated it. He wasn't one of these limp-wristed screamers - he detested that. And the fuckers who called each other 'her' and 'she' he could fucking slap round the face with an anvil. He knew it was all an act. If you're gonna be talked about - he reckoned was their rationale - you might as well do it in flamboyant style, eh?

His friends on the chat scene began to fade away, he no longer heard from Tracer, he no longer got abuse from CrazyGirl, he missed Jeff. Basically, he was immune to the carnage taking place all round him. 

Finally, he found himself in another town. He had drained all Bug potential from his locals and look at his health - clean as a fucking circumcised Arab whistle just recently virgin-licked and sucked and polished clean. He hated his cleanliness. Ironically, cleanliness was not something you could scrub off. At least that would have been some form of masochistic relief, but there’s only blood and scar tissue results from such a epidermal purge. He had to rid himself of cleanliness. He wanted to embrace death. Not any old sort of death, he could have that in a New York minute. Just pick on some punky street gang like the one down the end of his road, pushing their drugs and pimping their bitches. He only had to go up to them and say, “Fuck you, niggas!” really loud. That would probably get him killed.

Yeah, but there is no greater fantasy than Bug Death - an inseminal passion shared between true devotees of the disease, Bug Brothers as they were known. He rolled the phrase round in his mind like a gob of spit as he masturbated that night in the male toilet of some fucking rubbish out-of-town nightclub he had found. He couldn’t help himself, he let out a dirty old grunt as he came all over of the cubicle. He thrust his hips forward in spasming judders and tried not to get strings of manmilk all over his new grey trousers. He wiped himself off and did up his zipper. Flushed the toilet. Over the cubicle was a face. A gaunt face. Beaming down at him. Despite all he had done to get himself The Gift, in his years of searching, the utter degradation, the shameful acts of vice, the parties, the pools, the public fuckhole insanities, the needle sharing, eyelid piercing...all’a that. Despite all that grime and muck and humility. Yes, humility, despite all that in the face of this high-cheek-boned boy with purple rings round his eyes, despite his reputation, his history. 

He blushed.

His nipple tore to a high altitude of stimulation and that never happened to him. For the sake of a Death Fuck, he could feel the hairs on his nipples tingling as they sprouted to life under his mauve silk shirt. He stood there looking up at those bruised eyes. A foot came over the top of the top then, and the battered looking boy was in the cubicle with him, close up. He could smell the death on him. It exuded from his every pouting pore.

And this was it, the Holy Grail, the light inside Pandora's Box, the pot of gold at the end of the fucking rainbow - SALVATION. 

Death was smiling down at him with rot in his gaze and the stench of the grave emanating from his foul mouth. This thing - this beautiful thing - was a close to dead as one could be and still breathing. His skin was almost transparent and purple-black Panda rings circled his eyes. His liver must have been fucked - the whites of his eyes were almost brown. His teeth - what was left of them - looked longer than the norm due to the receding of his gums; the gumline was dotted with little flecks of blood. 

He swallowed hard against the brick of emotion that welled up in his throat, eyes stinging with heat. He was overwhelmed - he knew that this was the one, this was the death he had been waiting for, searching for, chasing for so long. He prayed one last time - if he didn't get a 'positve result' as he punnily called it, he knew that he must indeed be imune to the HIV virus. He must be. Either that or he had 9 million lives...and the rest.

Being outside the cirlce for all these months now had been a shock to his system - like cancer spreading through him, weakening him. The isolation sapped his will to live any longer. He was like a junkie in withdrawl curled up in the fetal position in a corner spewing into a bucket and shitting on the floor. He was like a dirty whore on the lookout for the next cock, a cheap trick to turn and then off to The Man on the council estate for a quick needle-fuck, the narcotic ejaculation calming those shakes, loosening the spasms.

He looked into the darkness of those eyes - Angel-of-Death-gaze, dead souls swimming in the depths and a calm in the face of his own certainty; no more fear, no more dread, no more worrying about getting 'it.' The wait, the longest wait, was over and after some push and pull and grabbing and reaching around and hair-pulling and back biting, it would all be over and he could celebrate his emancipation. He could celebrate the end of his quest, his quest for The Virus.

And as the mostly dead thing shot its charged load deep inside his bowels, the Bug Chaser let out a cry of victory. He had won, he'd scored, he'd cracked it. He'd be allowed into an inner circle once more, a circle of Bug Brothers where he'd be loved and accepted and taken care of again. But this time, he would not be cast out, no, this time he would only leave the comfort of his brothers when the T-cell countdown ended with his last breath.
 
 

© Alex Severin & Mike Philbin 2003