Tag Archives: Joshua Ryan

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The WORC Program – Part 14

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By Joshua Ryan

I thought maybe the workies in Grounds would resent me for going up the ladder like that, but all they said was stuff like “Wish I could go with you — not!” and “Enjoy all the fags up at the House, mofo!” The only resentment I saw was when I passed Benson coming out of the house servants’ barracks and heading for Grounds. We were both carrying our boxes of gear, but I was happy and he was mad. At me.

So now I guessed I’d be seeing Mike and Jerry every day — which was completely gross, right? I mean, it even made me sick to my stomach that I was looking forward to a thing like that. But how could I get back to real life if they didn’t help me? And why would they want to help me if they didn’t remember me? And how would they remember me if they never even saw me? And maybe they’d satisfied their sadism and wanted to get this shit over with, finally.

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The WORC Program – Part 13

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By Joshua Ryan

Here’s the way the place was organized. Jerry had a big “staff.” At the top was this Meyers guy, Steven Meyers — MISTER Meyers, the “personal assistant.” He wasn’t a workie. Maybe he should have been, but he wasn’t. I saw him from a distance, and I knew he was a faggot. The kind of faggot I’d been. Only I guess he needed a job. He slept in the House.

Everybody else was a workie. There were three types of workie.

First: House Staff. They were the head servant, Cicero, and the cook, Sacky. Cicero lived in the House, up in the attic. Sacky lived in the barracks, but he kept whatever hours were needed to satisfy the owner. He was the way we got all those great leftovers, and things that weren’t leftovers.

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The WORC Program – Part 12

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By Joshua Ryan

Boss Web put a leash on my collar and led me to the office. Mr. Williams was waiting outside, and so was a truck with a cage on it.

Boss said, “This is the workie they want at the House, right? Name is Butch.”

“Right. Butch,” Mr. Williams said. “Ethan will take him up.”

Boss walked away. I stowed my gear in the back of the truck and scrambled into the cage, still wearing the leash. Ethan locked me inside. Fifteen minutes after all this started, I was saying goodbye to the world of coffles.

I guess it was about a mile to the House on the dirt farm road. I was craning my neck, trying to see ahead, especially when the truck went around a curve. I wished I’d taken some of Jerry’s invitations to see the House, back when I was free. But I never wanted to spend any time with Jerry. Maybe if I’d been a little nicer to him … Before we got to the House we had to get through a concrete wall with a steel fence on top, and rolls of razor wire on top of that. OK, that’s the way it was, all around the Farms. Everything was secured. But then we were through the gate, and there it was, rising above a grove of trees — an elegant colonial house with red brick walls and white columns and white window frames and four huge chimneys. Yes! That’s it! That’s the House!

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The WORC Program – Part 11

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By Joshua Ryan

What kind of lover did he make? What kind of lover did I make? What do I know? I’m just a stupid workie. We were a thousand times better than Mike and me — how’s that for an evaluation? Because Ace was totally solid. Whatever we were doing, he was totally there. He never talked; he just did it. If I shied away from him, he did something else. Then he came back. He also had a way of waiting for me to do something, then going all in on it himself. If we were doing something, we had to do it together. He had to do it, and I had to do it. That was his idea. So we did.

I always knew what was going on in the barracks. I knew there was sex. Everybody knew. There had to be. But I didn’t hear any talk — any except jokes about what’s always “gonna” happen, where everybody accuses everybody of everything. But when I got up to take a piss at night, I always noticed there was a bunk that wasn’t filled, and another bunk that looked heavier than normal. I didn’t go looking for evidence, but Boss Web’s rack was always way heavy, and everybody knew it was Chico, the little Mex dude. I would’ve liked to fuck him myself.

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The WORC Program – Part 10

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By Joshua Ryan

So that’s the way it was, as — what do they say? — the days stretched into weeks and the weeks stretched into months. If this was a movie, there would be a calendar with the pages flipping past. No reason to stop at any of them. Every day was the same, except for Sundays.

They don’t make you work on Sunday. Somebody said “it’s because Old Man Williams needs a day off,” which made everybody laugh because nobody could figure out what he did on the other days of the week. Him and the jeans dudes. Who turned out to have names. “Ethan is the one that locks us up at night,” I was told, “and Chad is the one that lets us out in the morning.” There were a lot of jokes about whether Chad and Ethan were always packing guns because they never had anything else to shoot with. But everybody knew that they wouldn’t think twice about shooting one of us.

That first Sunday I just laid on my bunk, listening to my body trying to recover from every kind of pain, in every member except one, which I hadn’t used in so long that I couldn’t remember it. But the overwhelming pain was knowing that I was a workie. On the other Sundays I was given more education about what that meant.

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The WORC Program – Part 09

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By Joshua Ryan

The Haute Cuisine de Paris Select Tour … Mike had finally agreed to book it … I was lingering on a foggy street on the Ile Saint-Louis … Then from somewhere — some seventeenth century house? Some charming local church? — a bell was clanging. “Cmon,” Mack said. “Ain’t got all day.” He was already on his way to the shit holes, where a line had formed — a line of identical packages of rocklike muscles dressed in identical boxers and tees. A dream, and a nightmare.

I was one of the last to get to the holes, so I was glad I’d shat my guts out the night before, and all I needed to do was piss. I didn’t bother to line up for the sink. I went back to my bunk and started turning myself into the image of Mack, who had already dressed.

I can’t say they didn’t give us enough time. It was all hurry up and wait for our turn at the Chow Hall. While waiting, the workies shot the shit with each other, paying no attention to me. They weren’t interested anymore. I wasn’t new. I just stood by my bunk until Boss Web yelled, “Awright, make your line!” and we all marched off to the chow palace. Bill of fare: egg and cheese on bun, grits on the side. Hearty food! What you’d get in a fast food place, if the place was about to be closed by the health inspectors. Also a cup of coffee. No cream, no sugar, but the first coffee I’d had since I signed those papers. By the time I got through with it, I was so high that Ace came up beside me and said, “Coffee. It happened to me too. My first day. Watch your step. I don’t want you havin any accidents.”

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The WORC Program – Part 08

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By Joshua Ryan

While I was thinking about all the things that could mean for my future (!!!), the dudes in jeans were putting me on the truck. I’m saying “on the truck” instead of “in the truck” because my place was in a cage attached to the bed. I would ride to the farm like an animal. No, not “like.”

The two five-gallon tubs of Slick It Off were nestling beside the cage. One of the dudes told me to stow my box behind them, and he unclipped the leash from my collar and handed it to the cop. I could see a lot of leashes hanging in the truck’s rear window; I guess they didn’t need any more. And was that a rifle sticking up between the seats? That or a shotgun! They’d be ready for me, in case I caused any trouble during my transport.

They opened the little gate to the cage, and I clambered in. You could tell that the cage wasn’t just a temporary part of the truck; it was bolted to the bed. There wasn’t enough room to stand up in, but there were little shelves on each side of it where somebody could sit. Just enough for four workies to be crammed inside. But today only one workie was out for delivery — me. I had the whole cage to myself.

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The WORC Program – Part 07

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By Joshua Ryan

I don’t know how long it took for Grig to unlock the door and take me out of the room, but by that time all the other workies were back in their boxes. End of another perfect day.

“How’d it go?” Grig said. “Buyer like what he saw?”

“I don’t think so,” I said. My job right then was not to break down in hysterical faggot tears.

“Too bad. Sergeant told me the guy’s got money.”

“Yeah. He does.”

“But I guess he’s lookin for somethin special.” We’d reached the door of my box. “In you go,” he said. And he locked me in for the night.

I hoped that morning would never come again, but it did. After that, every day was the same. The only difference was what I got to scrub or shine or wax–one or many times. Officers had a way of finding you on your knees, just finishing up your part of the hallway, and accidentally spilling your bucket all over it. “Too bad. Guess you’ll need to do it again, workie.”

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