excerpt:
I arrived in Portland with an 80-lb duffle bag and a tin electric guitar. I took a taxi to the Joyce Hotel. I had enough cash to stay there for three nights before I needed to find an apartment share for 200-300 a month. The hotel room had a mini fridge that I stocked with a bunch of soggy Whole Foods take out. I was on some raisin and cabbage or no-wheat n' dairy diet as usual, but still fucking up and eating a whole vending machine full of ding dongs on the side. After one night, my bed was filled with roaches. I bought some kind of chemical warfare and sprayed it on myself like cologne. This great black tee shirt showed off my tits and shaved head and I started walking around downtown drinking mochas. They gave me two black eyes.
After a few hours on craigslist, I found a room in a house out on Holgate and hauled my crap out there on the 17 bus. The lady renting the room, Sylvia, seemed nice enough, but soon it became clear that I had met her on the up cycle of one of her meth amphetamine mood swings, which was soon to crash dangerously like a Ferris wheel booth plunging into the crowd. She didn't work, and managed to finagle a bunch of extra money out of me which I forked over, grateful to have roachless quarters. The woman lay in bed threatening to turn to prostitution, then crying over a soap plot, then working on her screenplay about dueling sisters or incestuous spinsters or contemporary serfdom, I can't remember which, but she planned to sell it for a cool 2 million.
Her munchies, her force field of smoke stink, her irritating sub plots -- these began to grate on my nerves. Finally shit hit the fan one morning when I accidentally left a bloody tampon beside the toilet. Sylvia was in a deep state of paranoia coming down off the drugs and the tampax seemed to trigger her into a state of dementia. Under my door came a small tersely written note. It said, "IF YOU EVER LEAVE A DIRTY TAMPON IN MY BATHROOM AGAIN, I WILL KILL YOU". It was very threatening in its brevity. I preserved it carefully in my wallet and went to the police to ask if there was any way to get my rent money back. I was terrified she was going to off me in my sleep for menstruating.
The police officer shone a flashlight in my eyes. He thought I was wound up a little too tight. He thought I should have a tougher skin than all that. He came over to the house to inspect whether her drug habit was affecting her granddaughter who visited from time to time. He decided we should settle our dispute without his intervention. I just packed my shit up and convinced a woman's domestic violence shelter that roommate abuse was grounds for a bed.
Later that evening as I was doing my chore at the group home for beat chicks, scrubbing plastinated mac and cheese off of a few skillets, I thought, “I showed that bitch!”
Nothing of interest happened at the shelter. I watched every single episode of Law and Order SVU, and not by choice. A lot of the women thought it was a reality show and tried to identify their attackers between commercial breaks. My roommate had gone to prison or into a witness protection program, so I had my own room. I sat down on the wafer cookie mattress and stared out the window. It had started to rain and little did I know, it would not stop for the next six months.
I was referred to the Jewish Services Board and as it happened, I was no stranger to Jewish Services. At the local synagogue in New York I had recorded an entire album of acoustic ballads on a tape recorder while gorging myself on matza smeared with canola butter and strawberry jam. A tiny Jewish lady did my intake. Yes, she had heard of the New York chapter and even old man Lenny, the program director. She asked about Rose, age 86, and her fiance Nelson, age 89. They were doing fine, I said. I left out the part about Nelson slipping me a hundred dollar bill one time to procure him some prescription drugs. The woman nodded, thinking about her people in New York. Then she helped me get an apartment in the Southeast. It was a cute little box with checkerboard floors, a claw-foot tub and large windows that amplified the raindrops. She handed me a few utensils, a dishtowel and my own cookie sheet. “I have high hopes for you,” she remarked. I knew right then I would be letting her down within 24 hours or less.
She kept going from room to room opening doors and blinds and turning light switches on and off. She outlined a place on the wall where it would be nice to put a picture of puppies and kittens. I looked like i was raised by wolves with no interior design skills.
After she left, I threw down some clothes in the walk-in closet and made my bed. That was where I slept from then on, in a heap under the mirror. I was saving the rest of the apartment for something special, but I just didn’t know what yet. Maybe a full service nail salon or a personal storage unit for vagrants. I was entrepreneurial and I would figure something out.
In the meantime, I got a job working as a short order cook for grades 3-5 at a private school in Gresham. I took the 15 Belmont and transferred for the 20 Burnside, listening to a lot of gangster rap on my headphones. At work, a little redhead made of sugar and spice would insult my cooking and threaten to call the authorities on me for poisoning her with a dollop of sour cream. I inspected the oven to see if she would fit inside, but the joke didn’t go over very well. I stirred a bowl of soy grits, unhappily, and called it a day.
Eventually I quit and started working as a market survey clerk. I would spend hours on the phone every night completing mind-numbing surveys in my best Thai hooker voice for pocket change. I was highly successful at this, to my great shame. The boss took a liking to me.
My strategy at the time was to appear as completely gay as possible, packing on a lot of raw cookie dough and peanut butter weight, while trying to meet hot guys who would want me for my inner gold. I went out to a lot of lesbian clubs where I was very unsuccessful at meeting any of these types of men. Once or twice a slender young girl with a baseball cap and dime-sized bazongas would try to corner me on the karaoke dance floor. No sparks flew. I went home alone.
One day I woke up and stared at myself in the mirror. I decided on that day that I would fuck anyone and everyone who propositioned me. I would be the statue of sexual liberty.
"You gotta fuck," I said menacingly to myself in the mirror. “Fuck or DRY UP!”
An ultimatum issued from my own face. It was really intimidating. My boss at the survey job started putting his fat, authoritarian ass on the desk in my cubicle. His squinty eyes said he would volunteer for my project. Within a few days I arranged to end up at his shack in Beaverton where he stored unpopular pornography on his computer and nursed an arboretum of Fred Meyer houseplants. The decor was linoleum and terrycloth with accents of amber beer bottles.
I let him pound me fruitlessly for a while before I started thinking of the inevitable consequences. After he came, we went to buy some ramen noodles for a romantic dinner, and while I was busy shopping for condoms, he put the moves on a ten-year-old girl buying Nerds at the cash register.
I limped away from the store, as though someone had kicked me in the groin .A terrible feeling came over me. It was the banana fight incident all over again. Once at the YMCA day camp in the late ‘70’s, I was riding on a bus with a gaggle of other kids on our way to an amusement park in New Jersey. Someone’s lunch banana had gone negative and had rotted into a slushy brown hand grenade. It was now being tossed about the cabin like a hot potato.
“SPPPLAAT!” It landed in my lap with a sad, crumpling sound, the end of a trombone sigh.
Eight years old. I just sat there bewildered. A casualty of a war I did not support. The counselor raised her hand and announced that anyone who had contact with the offending banana would have to forfeit a ride at the park as punishment.
The whole afternoon we watched the other kids hungrily, the innocent angels that had escaped fruit tarnishing. They were sky-high on the rollercoaster screaming for joy. Then they were five apiece in the bumper cars, laughing like turkeys. We waited patiently behind the ropes while they had their fun.
When we finally were ready to leave the amusement park, the banana fight kids received an unexpected reprieve. We were ushered into the haunted house and given five minutes to make some decent memories. During the stampede, I became disoriented. I lost my way and wound up in a strange empty corner of the Horror Castle, staring out a plexiglass window at the camp counselors. They waved wildly, directing me to re-enter the maze and make my way towards the sunshine. The counselors thought I was doing it on purpose. Defecting. They snarled, burnt up. But as hard as I tried to extricate myself, i always wound up at the plexiglass, lost inside the mousetrap.
The sun began to set and the children waiting on the lawn looked drowsy. They fidgeted, and some were crying. I stood behind the plastic, separated, guilty. It took them an hour and a half to find me. Finally I was escorted to the bus and we all went home, dirty looks cast in my direction for as far as the eye could see.
One particular morning, not long after I had quit the survey job, i went to the store and discovered i was too broke to buy maxi pads. I crept home, bleeding into my slacks and trying to cover it with a few pieces of the weekly. A girl’s voice floated into my head on a magic carpet on cash. It was April, a chick I had met in group therapy in San Francisco.
“I was in Hawaii, making $1000 a day as an erotic masseuse. I sold my body, and with it my soul,” she told the therapist.
She said all the right things, the Christian things, but nothing she said could convince me that a soul was worth more than say, $999. I converted on the spot to a life of petty misdemeanors. A crystal clear relief flooded into my body, like an IV of absinthe. Free money. As much as i wanted. degradation didn’t concern me. i knew the old men were the victims. No matter how much they paid, they would never be able to purchase my love. That alone assured me i would always be the one in charge. I prepared to shine up my soul for the storefront sale.
There had been a few previous attempts at financial freedom. In San Fran, right after I met April, I decided to peddle a few golden showers at $100 bucks a pop. I got a gig for a costume designer and traveled to a womb-like loft where rows of expressionless mannequins tracked my every move with waxy, fiberglass eyes. He had a plastic drop cloth laid out on the floor and candles had been lit as though for a seance. It was to be a very spiritual piss, I saw. He lay down on his back in his silk suit, his small hands gathering up mounds of plastic in anticipation. He opened his mouth, and I wiggled out of my underpants, straddling him. It was awkward because his mouth was very tiny.
Splash. I let out a test tinkle. It landed in his right eye.
“keep going. it doesn’t matter where it goes. that’s why i have the drop cloth,” he breathed heavily.
Squirt. I let out another small stream of urine, shifting slightly down to target the little lips that pursed like a fish. Then by accident, i let the entire contents of my bladder go. The tidal wave of wet yellow suds drenched his face, his suit, his hair. For a second he was choking, flailing about on the plastic like a carp on a hook.
“that’s enough,” he stated flatly.
He got up, went to the kitchen and came back with a champagne glass. “Just fill this up and then you’re done.”
Pee cocktail. I looked into his eyes.. Where were his friends, i wondered. Where were mine? A tight knot came into my throat. An excruciating, gut-wrenching boredom that I would come to know on a much deeper level in a few short years. I held the glass to my legs and did my best to fill the order. He got out a crumpled franklin and handed it to me as a trade for the goblet. Celebration. I had a dirty green bill, and he had some human waste for a rainy day. We were equals now. There was no non-disclosure agreement. We both knew we’d do everything possible to pretend the girl piss in his fridge came from trees.
Back in the present in Portland, I was doing quality control. I created a character called Jena Strokes. She was part pin-up, part flapper, part burlesque stripper, and part cold, calculated street whore. Her wardrobe consisted of a powder blue wig with a French bob, a scarlet silk corset from Goodwill, a lilac lace mini skirt from Spartucus, and black, leather, knee-high boots with machete-sharp heels. Each day I'd awaken, log onto Craigslist and post my advertisement in the erotic services section. I snapped some sideways pictures of my T&A. Was this how the other girls did it? Was it that easy? What a fool I had been to ever accept less than $150 an hour. I thought about my old barista job. All the old men that hung around, hungry eyes devouring us as we steamed their foam and buttered their stupid bagels. I thought about the heavy loads of cake flour I carried up from the basement, deforming my back. I remembered the hot water from the dishwater scorching my hands. Was that all not just another form of low-paying S/M work? I’d been taking it up the ass for well below market rate.
Each day I would pass my neighbor and politely say hello in my colored wig and dominatrix boots. He'd give me the disdainful grimace of a man condemned to go to work that day because he was too uptight to shake his ass onstage at the gay bar. Or so i believed. I started to see everyone as too stupid, afraid or prudish to do the real work of life: wanking off businessmen. I felt powerful and beautiful paying my way after so much financial dependency on family and state. I moved into a bigger apartment and the men kept calling and the men kept cumming. Semen flowed like honey or wine and everything in my world became a number of hand jobs. My dog was about 7 hand jobs, my tv three and my bed cost about 5 hand jobs. My haircut was half a hand job. It was easy as handjobpie.
...
Feb 20, 2012
sweet transvestite
People ask me, "What was it like growing up in the cult?" But they always say, "Is it okay to ask?"
Yes, it is okay. Now that I’m older.
I know people wanted to ask back then,
“Are you a sweet transvestite?”
“Are you a five-year old Frank-N-Furter?”
But I went to a private school, and no one was allowed to mock the crossdressed kid. I wished they would hatecrime me to death and end my humiliation, but they never said a word about it. Eli once remarked, “Is that a perm?” and that was as far as it went. The parents of this kid in their spidery trenchcoats were paying a lot of money for this kind of indifference.
Like a grim reaper taking a scythe to young and beautiful Vidal Sasoon wheat, the haircuts swept across every head in the cult. They’d cloak me in a windbreaker with a klan-like hood and I’d be whisked away in the cult leader’s sedan to an unmarked UES beauty salon to meet with “Kris”, a kind of scissor gestapo. He had a lackluster mustache that concealed his mouth. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t speak English; in fact he spoke never, not one word. He worked in a black turtleneck like an executioner, wearing latex gloves like a surgeon. He worked fast and tight.
My legs weren’t long enough to reach the salon floor. Kris would cover me in a black shroud that smelled like rubbing alcohol and Glade. I’d fidget underneath it, trying to locate the ziplock baggies that I’d smuggled in to catch the run off when he started carving me up. Every time he amputated another row of curls, I’d try to catch them before they hit the floor. Salvage them in the baggie to glue on later with Elmer’s or, if absolutely necessary, tape on with Scotch.
Some days I’d just weep in his swivel chair. But he never stopped. He looked annoyed. He looked at his wristwatch. I stared at my blotchy, castrated boy face in the mirror, left my body and floated up to the hypnotic globes of light on the checkered ceiling. Part of me never came down. A slab of me stayed on that ceiling until they burnt the place down and made a Gray’s Papaya. Now a slab of me is eating some quality hot dogs and mango drinks in slab heaven.
Johnny Flavantino was my favorite cult member. He was a gentle Italian man, an artist from the Bronx who loved to draw me, or draw little fantastical animals, unicorns, satyrs, cat-women. He had a fantastic mustache too, a fu Manchu, a true prizewinner. The man had a lot of trouble reading out loud, and was generally slow-witted, for which the cult leader would berate him regularly. Jonny had been raised by the bad Catholics, the nuns who beat his knuckles and his ass, and you could tell his slowness was from taking a few too many blows to the brain. The cult leader would say, “Get out there and paint those fucking flower pots, you ARTIST!” and he’d go do it, whistling, coloring the pots a beautiful indigo blue with a little watercolor brush. It took him weeks, but it was an ingenious way of getting time alone and away from the other chores.
Once I told Johnny I was going to get braces. I was maybe 11 or 12 and very depressed about it. I was already quite unattractive with my bad haircuts and men’s clothes and getting braces on top of everything, it broke my heart. So he took me into the little bathroom on the ground floor and tried to teach me to manually straighten my teeth so I wouldn’t need braces. For his help I gave him my portion of the jelly beans that were passed around in the car during a mandatory trip to Dutch Wonderland. The bag kept circling and he would say, “How many times is this going around?” just so he would know how many jelly beans to take and not take to many or too few.
In new york, the cult would meet once a week at a rented midtown office to read Guru literature and eat sticky coffee cakes from the uptown Bruno’s. Once on Halloween, a friend from school and I had dressed as a horse. We made the head on a broomstick and took turns being the horse's ass, although unfortunately it was mostly my turn. The sides of the horse had little eye holes and the person in back, the asshole, had to hold up the bottom end of the broom so it didn't overpower the horsehead.
The cult leader had relaxed her policy on dressing up in costumes, mostly because whenever outsiders were present to observe, the rules became more lenient, just like when the Olympics would go to a communist country and all of a sudden, you could come and go and fart like a regular person. Since that year Halloween was on a Wednesday, the same night as the cult meeting, the horse trotted down to midtown and sat around eating strudel through the eye holes till the meeting ended in some salutes to the Avatar and a jumble of holy roller prayers and ritual clapping. Then off we trotted to trick or treat.
....
Yes, it is okay. Now that I’m older.
I know people wanted to ask back then,
“Are you a sweet transvestite?”
“Are you a five-year old Frank-N-Furter?”
But I went to a private school, and no one was allowed to mock the crossdressed kid. I wished they would hatecrime me to death and end my humiliation, but they never said a word about it. Eli once remarked, “Is that a perm?” and that was as far as it went. The parents of this kid in their spidery trenchcoats were paying a lot of money for this kind of indifference.
Like a grim reaper taking a scythe to young and beautiful Vidal Sasoon wheat, the haircuts swept across every head in the cult. They’d cloak me in a windbreaker with a klan-like hood and I’d be whisked away in the cult leader’s sedan to an unmarked UES beauty salon to meet with “Kris”, a kind of scissor gestapo. He had a lackluster mustache that concealed his mouth. But it didn’t matter because he didn’t speak English; in fact he spoke never, not one word. He worked in a black turtleneck like an executioner, wearing latex gloves like a surgeon. He worked fast and tight.
My legs weren’t long enough to reach the salon floor. Kris would cover me in a black shroud that smelled like rubbing alcohol and Glade. I’d fidget underneath it, trying to locate the ziplock baggies that I’d smuggled in to catch the run off when he started carving me up. Every time he amputated another row of curls, I’d try to catch them before they hit the floor. Salvage them in the baggie to glue on later with Elmer’s or, if absolutely necessary, tape on with Scotch.
Some days I’d just weep in his swivel chair. But he never stopped. He looked annoyed. He looked at his wristwatch. I stared at my blotchy, castrated boy face in the mirror, left my body and floated up to the hypnotic globes of light on the checkered ceiling. Part of me never came down. A slab of me stayed on that ceiling until they burnt the place down and made a Gray’s Papaya. Now a slab of me is eating some quality hot dogs and mango drinks in slab heaven.
Johnny Flavantino was my favorite cult member. He was a gentle Italian man, an artist from the Bronx who loved to draw me, or draw little fantastical animals, unicorns, satyrs, cat-women. He had a fantastic mustache too, a fu Manchu, a true prizewinner. The man had a lot of trouble reading out loud, and was generally slow-witted, for which the cult leader would berate him regularly. Jonny had been raised by the bad Catholics, the nuns who beat his knuckles and his ass, and you could tell his slowness was from taking a few too many blows to the brain. The cult leader would say, “Get out there and paint those fucking flower pots, you ARTIST!” and he’d go do it, whistling, coloring the pots a beautiful indigo blue with a little watercolor brush. It took him weeks, but it was an ingenious way of getting time alone and away from the other chores.
Once I told Johnny I was going to get braces. I was maybe 11 or 12 and very depressed about it. I was already quite unattractive with my bad haircuts and men’s clothes and getting braces on top of everything, it broke my heart. So he took me into the little bathroom on the ground floor and tried to teach me to manually straighten my teeth so I wouldn’t need braces. For his help I gave him my portion of the jelly beans that were passed around in the car during a mandatory trip to Dutch Wonderland. The bag kept circling and he would say, “How many times is this going around?” just so he would know how many jelly beans to take and not take to many or too few.
In new york, the cult would meet once a week at a rented midtown office to read Guru literature and eat sticky coffee cakes from the uptown Bruno’s. Once on Halloween, a friend from school and I had dressed as a horse. We made the head on a broomstick and took turns being the horse's ass, although unfortunately it was mostly my turn. The sides of the horse had little eye holes and the person in back, the asshole, had to hold up the bottom end of the broom so it didn't overpower the horsehead.
The cult leader had relaxed her policy on dressing up in costumes, mostly because whenever outsiders were present to observe, the rules became more lenient, just like when the Olympics would go to a communist country and all of a sudden, you could come and go and fart like a regular person. Since that year Halloween was on a Wednesday, the same night as the cult meeting, the horse trotted down to midtown and sat around eating strudel through the eye holes till the meeting ended in some salutes to the Avatar and a jumble of holy roller prayers and ritual clapping. Then off we trotted to trick or treat.
....
Feb 18, 2012
boys of winter
all through the brisk new jersey winter, we wrote to each other by hand. his letters came from connecticut where it was even colder. the landlady would slide them under the door of the attic and i would pick them up and lie on my bed for a long time before opening one. you know, just smiling at it.
i was reading the complete works of dostoevsky, living in the attic, practicing the cello for five or six hours a day. once or twice a semester i would give a concert in the university auditorium. i never dared to look at the audience because i was always shaking and pale from vomiting. i would just stare at the floor. but no matter how nervous i got, that pregnant, squirming to-the-death need to deliver would win and i'd go begrudgingly onstage to have another sonata baby in public.
for the sound of my russian soul weeping through burled cherry wood, the people put their hearts into their hands and applauded with muscle. the sound of clapping would burrow deep into my gut and maybe then i'd look up and see a smile or two. maybe i'd think, i wasn't delivering deformed monsters after all.
the blond chamber director took me aside and stared into my eyes. i had her love, she wanted me to know. and i would fall asleep in my mittens and hat in the freezing attic, feeling the sweet and sour sting of being noticed.
i was 19 at the time and i weighed 98 pounds. i remember, because my mother had come to visit and she commented on how attractive i was in my black velvet pants, hardly anything left of me but bones.
the boy's letter went on for twenty pages. inside the letter was always a little gift, like a sparkly band-aid or a cartoon kitten. he was a painter and so one day to be closer to him, i wanted to make a sculpture. i went out into the snow and gathered the damp limbs of trees. then i took a pocket knife and spent the afternoon whittling the wood into these slender, fluted shafts tied together with twine. I don't know if it was art, but to me it was magical to make something beautiful out of a pile of twigs.
Later that evening i walked in the dark along the railroad tracks to the deli to call the boy from a payphone. He said hello and that he would take the commuter train from new haven all the way to new jersey so we could spend halloween together.
when i got back, the landlady had thrown the sculpture in the trash. it lay in a glad bag landfill of eggshells and orange rinds, looking very much like garbage after all.
a few weeks later, the day came and the bus deposited the boy on the corner in a flannel coat. his stringy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. he came in and sat on the bed, trying to warm up.
to make it onto the bed, sitting and warming up, it had taken the boy four years of letters and phone calls. it's still hard to understand why anyone would take that kind of time just to travel to new jersey.
we decided to go trick or treating even though he was 22. there was nothing to do in town, but the real reason was something i told him in the letters. he wanted to help me do this hard thing called have fun. this maneuvor of labor, laughing. i hope you will never understand what i mean by that.
i went downstairs and got the tin foil from the cupboard and i covered him from head to toe. he covered me in cellophane and garbage ties. we went around knocking on all the doors with pumkins in front of them, two too-old mummies in love.
it was around 11p and it was time for him to go home. we sat down on the curb to wait for his bus. earlier at the diner, i saw pieces of his face almost next to mine, parts of his nose and teeth very close to me. i think his woolly hat was on my head. and he fed me something where my mouth was on his finger. every hair that brushed my face was linked to words on a page of a letter, and in his head was every single thing i'd ever said in the dark. other people, like my mom, they only saw a young girl's ass looking tight in velvet pants. but even that, the boy knew about. he knew about it all.
somewhere down the frost crusted street the two yellow eyes of the bus blinked. it was still far away and there was still time. the boy took a deep breath and put his arm around my shoulder. it kind of hung there like a bagette. but after a few seconds of feeling like a breadstick, the arm got heavier and firmer and started to feel like a human embrace. and the arm stayed there for the rest of my life, just resting on my shoulder, loving me and all the words in my head and all the music fighting for its life
i was reading the complete works of dostoevsky, living in the attic, practicing the cello for five or six hours a day. once or twice a semester i would give a concert in the university auditorium. i never dared to look at the audience because i was always shaking and pale from vomiting. i would just stare at the floor. but no matter how nervous i got, that pregnant, squirming to-the-death need to deliver would win and i'd go begrudgingly onstage to have another sonata baby in public.
for the sound of my russian soul weeping through burled cherry wood, the people put their hearts into their hands and applauded with muscle. the sound of clapping would burrow deep into my gut and maybe then i'd look up and see a smile or two. maybe i'd think, i wasn't delivering deformed monsters after all.
the blond chamber director took me aside and stared into my eyes. i had her love, she wanted me to know. and i would fall asleep in my mittens and hat in the freezing attic, feeling the sweet and sour sting of being noticed.
i was 19 at the time and i weighed 98 pounds. i remember, because my mother had come to visit and she commented on how attractive i was in my black velvet pants, hardly anything left of me but bones.
the boy's letter went on for twenty pages. inside the letter was always a little gift, like a sparkly band-aid or a cartoon kitten. he was a painter and so one day to be closer to him, i wanted to make a sculpture. i went out into the snow and gathered the damp limbs of trees. then i took a pocket knife and spent the afternoon whittling the wood into these slender, fluted shafts tied together with twine. I don't know if it was art, but to me it was magical to make something beautiful out of a pile of twigs.
Later that evening i walked in the dark along the railroad tracks to the deli to call the boy from a payphone. He said hello and that he would take the commuter train from new haven all the way to new jersey so we could spend halloween together.
when i got back, the landlady had thrown the sculpture in the trash. it lay in a glad bag landfill of eggshells and orange rinds, looking very much like garbage after all.
a few weeks later, the day came and the bus deposited the boy on the corner in a flannel coat. his stringy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. he came in and sat on the bed, trying to warm up.
to make it onto the bed, sitting and warming up, it had taken the boy four years of letters and phone calls. it's still hard to understand why anyone would take that kind of time just to travel to new jersey.
we decided to go trick or treating even though he was 22. there was nothing to do in town, but the real reason was something i told him in the letters. he wanted to help me do this hard thing called have fun. this maneuvor of labor, laughing. i hope you will never understand what i mean by that.
i went downstairs and got the tin foil from the cupboard and i covered him from head to toe. he covered me in cellophane and garbage ties. we went around knocking on all the doors with pumkins in front of them, two too-old mummies in love.
it was around 11p and it was time for him to go home. we sat down on the curb to wait for his bus. earlier at the diner, i saw pieces of his face almost next to mine, parts of his nose and teeth very close to me. i think his woolly hat was on my head. and he fed me something where my mouth was on his finger. every hair that brushed my face was linked to words on a page of a letter, and in his head was every single thing i'd ever said in the dark. other people, like my mom, they only saw a young girl's ass looking tight in velvet pants. but even that, the boy knew about. he knew about it all.
somewhere down the frost crusted street the two yellow eyes of the bus blinked. it was still far away and there was still time. the boy took a deep breath and put his arm around my shoulder. it kind of hung there like a bagette. but after a few seconds of feeling like a breadstick, the arm got heavier and firmer and started to feel like a human embrace. and the arm stayed there for the rest of my life, just resting on my shoulder, loving me and all the words in my head and all the music fighting for its life
banshee
2nite's scream went into the earth's core and rattled a bunch of body parts and produced some images from an as yet unmade film about the dual nature of a woman's genitals. Part vulnerable, part venus fly trap. Part virgin, part hag. Part succubus, part mermaid. Part her, part me. Half and half. 2% sincere, a quarter full of eels. Dangerous because it looks like it has no teeth. The great source of treachery stretch marks. The queen of hearts being fucked in the ass by the queen of spades. The disease in the whore with the heart of gold. In short, two jello wrestling femmes clawing it out to the death in a pit of loch ness pubic hair.
In tonight's episode, the mother is masturbating the girl's best friend from childhood in the shower, and it's discovered (with chills) that they're "lovers". The shower curtain is getting peeled back on its own, although no hands are manipulaing it. It's mainly a piece of eyelid being opened with that pesky toothpick.
Then that element of the female that is not the trap-mouth but merely the escaped fly on the shower curtain, it starts trying to individuate through confrontation with the sick scene in the tub. And let me tell you, in dreams you are much stronger than in real life. In dreams you're saying shit you'd choke on. And when you wake up in a cold sweat, you're choking anyway.
That's where screaming comes in. It's the underground rail between the choke and the fighting words. The mouth is like this tunnel going from the asshole to the brain and around the heart and the screaming is like this blood route from silent death to the essential, absolute neccessity of ripping her out of me and everything she accomplishes through my puppet arms. namely, the destruction and anhililation of all beauty, love, innocence, trust and joy.....
.
screaming is psychic surgery. you can use a knife, a blunt ax, a club or water erosion. it's also cosmetic. one time in nyc it reassembled my cheekbones. tonite, it wiped her ugly sneer off my secondary face like a chocolate milk mustache. Being careful not to incinerate my own face, I managed to scream-remove her tight snarled nostril and insincere look of pity, all in about an hour of hard core chord banging.
then i took the time to scream for you. and all years of being quiet and polite. and all the years to come of being numb. and all the shit-taking. and all the venus fly trapping. and all the sticky moist diseased pussy sucking the life out of you. all the sheer justifiable hate you have to recycle into a tame, predictible migraine. and the feeling of being a gold thread in a shit-stained haystack...
and then i screamed for him, and how he wound up a pervert in a corner barring the door. and all the tightness, the stinginess, the smallness, the waiting around and the bad teeth in that small southern town.
and then i screamed for myself, and half of that was for joy. Cause i love dirty movies. I know they're gonna play them when i go to sleep tonight. And i'm gonna be waiting inside of the dream, wide awake, armed to the teeth with my battle ax of a throat. They're going to show me. And when they do, i'm gonna be a snake swallowing large things. Penises and batons and utensils and cinemas and moutain ranges and dying people. And then slithering out of some disgusting archaic stepford skin, having digested it all, every last injury on top of insult, every last sadistic ice romance, every last piss that missed the bowl, every slavery i've ever known.....slipping noiselessly away, returning to a green slick narrow shape recovering that inate and magnificent treacherousness. Being true to treacherousness and the dual vagina nature. the sweet, dangerous selfish pursuit of living life without a disguise....being that animal that will defend, kill, eat, mate and thrive.....with all its fleshy green need. And all its sticky lush heat.
the next time you say you want to scream, DO IT HARD. and then never ever stop except to do all the great living things the screams set free
Feb 17, 2012
seedy stories.
Who:
An ex-erotic entertainer, Brunhilda und Kriemhilda, Chuck Norris, Dmitri Shostakovich, Hagar the Horrible, Jehova, Kamikaze Cocktail Waitress, Kojak, Lando Calrissian, Little Bunny Fufu, Luther Vandross, Mr. Peanut, Pizzaface, R Kelly Cult Members, REO Speedwagon, Teenage Suicide Bomber, Tesla, The 69th Dalai Lama, The Death Cheater, The Fugitive Kind, The Last Albino Contortionist, The Marlboro Man, The poet laureate of New Jersey
what:
Adult Onset Chicken Pox, bad juju, Cinnamon Toast, competetive karaoke , dismemberment, dry humping, erotomania, face blindness, horticulture, hot yoga, lady fingers, manwich greed, peanut butter methadone, Pony Rides $.25, pooper scooper, reverse vasectomy, snake eyes, Snoopy phobia, stomach stapling, tax fraud, tiramisu, Toltec revival, Yakuza bachelor party
when:
11th inning, 1973 Iditarod, after a friendly fire funeral, apocalypse, between a rock and a hard place, Bingo Night, black thursday, boiling point, checkmate, day of the locust, half past a freckle, Howard Johnson Happy Hour, La Quinceanera, Marti Gras, menopause, Miller time, Nixon administration, prom, sasquatch, the Golden Years, the resurrection, Valentine's Day, visiting hours
where:
African Missionary Pot Luck, cerebral cortex, coral reef, Dairy Queen Drive Thru, gorgonzola trade show, Lover's Lane, Meat Freezer, Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, Peanut Gallery, Plaid Pantry Purgatory, Porn Museum, Silver Falls, Sing Sing Correctional Facility, spacetime continuum, spanish harlem, the gazebo, The Slums of Puget Sound, Times Square Peep Show, Union Jack's, Vegas RV park, Verrazano Bridge, WKRP in Cincinnati
why:
carpal tunnel of the mind, casino crimes, coffee enema, community service sentence, compromised diary entry, corn candy klepto, ethnic cleansing, food stamp forgery, hemroids, needlepoint injury, neoteny, out of order tampax machine, pedophile family reunion, penis pump, postpartum depression, premature baldness, Psychic Friends Network Crash, scabies, stolen rolex start up, T-mobile takeover, virgin sacrifice, whiteout, Yaba Task Force
how
advanced alien surveillance technology, by the skin of my balls, baby, by tying two dirty sheets together with licorice, cold turkey, cool whip, don't ask don't tell, embroidered, hot air balloons for dummies, in a pinch, mescaline, piecemeal, propelled by the wheel of karma, resisting arrest, suffocation with a Bambi pillow, The Monty Hall Paradox, tic tac toe, to Neil Diamond's greatest hits, unlubricated, with a coat hanger, with a turkey baster, with mommy's permission, with two sticks of Land O' Lakes, you put the cigarettte to the silk
An ex-erotic entertainer, Brunhilda und Kriemhilda, Chuck Norris, Dmitri Shostakovich, Hagar the Horrible, Jehova, Kamikaze Cocktail Waitress, Kojak, Lando Calrissian, Little Bunny Fufu, Luther Vandross, Mr. Peanut, Pizzaface, R Kelly Cult Members, REO Speedwagon, Teenage Suicide Bomber, Tesla, The 69th Dalai Lama, The Death Cheater, The Fugitive Kind, The Last Albino Contortionist, The Marlboro Man, The poet laureate of New Jersey
what:
Adult Onset Chicken Pox, bad juju, Cinnamon Toast, competetive karaoke , dismemberment, dry humping, erotomania, face blindness, horticulture, hot yoga, lady fingers, manwich greed, peanut butter methadone, Pony Rides $.25, pooper scooper, reverse vasectomy, snake eyes, Snoopy phobia, stomach stapling, tax fraud, tiramisu, Toltec revival, Yakuza bachelor party
when:
11th inning, 1973 Iditarod, after a friendly fire funeral, apocalypse, between a rock and a hard place, Bingo Night, black thursday, boiling point, checkmate, day of the locust, half past a freckle, Howard Johnson Happy Hour, La Quinceanera, Marti Gras, menopause, Miller time, Nixon administration, prom, sasquatch, the Golden Years, the resurrection, Valentine's Day, visiting hours
where:
African Missionary Pot Luck, cerebral cortex, coral reef, Dairy Queen Drive Thru, gorgonzola trade show, Lover's Lane, Meat Freezer, Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, Peanut Gallery, Plaid Pantry Purgatory, Porn Museum, Silver Falls, Sing Sing Correctional Facility, spacetime continuum, spanish harlem, the gazebo, The Slums of Puget Sound, Times Square Peep Show, Union Jack's, Vegas RV park, Verrazano Bridge, WKRP in Cincinnati
why:
carpal tunnel of the mind, casino crimes, coffee enema, community service sentence, compromised diary entry, corn candy klepto, ethnic cleansing, food stamp forgery, hemroids, needlepoint injury, neoteny, out of order tampax machine, pedophile family reunion, penis pump, postpartum depression, premature baldness, Psychic Friends Network Crash, scabies, stolen rolex start up, T-mobile takeover, virgin sacrifice, whiteout, Yaba Task Force
how
advanced alien surveillance technology, by the skin of my balls, baby, by tying two dirty sheets together with licorice, cold turkey, cool whip, don't ask don't tell, embroidered, hot air balloons for dummies, in a pinch, mescaline, piecemeal, propelled by the wheel of karma, resisting arrest, suffocation with a Bambi pillow, The Monty Hall Paradox, tic tac toe, to Neil Diamond's greatest hits, unlubricated, with a coat hanger, with a turkey baster, with mommy's permission, with two sticks of Land O' Lakes, you put the cigarettte to the silk
adult swim.
So, in a very recent conversation, it was suggested to me that I try again this summer to learn to swim.
the problem is basically that i don't have a good grasp of physics or water mechanics.
so i don't believe in floating.
so that makes me really dense and heavy, all that doubt.
it all started at the Lancaster, PA YMCA, directly across from our Cult Compound where i spent every weekend staring out the window at the disneyland of community sports.
After many afternoons of being left at a laundry mat or polishing brass objects around the house, I decided to ask the cult leader if i could take swimming lessons.
u have to understand what a big deal it was to ask for something worldly like this.
I had watched in horror as previous requests for secular activities were met with brutal violence and scorn, like the time she smashed Tony's Ovation guitar into the wall and stepped on it afterwards. Or the time Larry tried to go on a date and ended up enduring the longest public humiliation session known to anyone in PA, amish or not amish.
OR the time she found out Robert wanted to smoke cigarettes and shoved a burning butt into his mouth and he ran away screaming in pain.
somehow, probably as some kind of spiteful joke, the lessons were arranged. However, i was placed in an advanced swimming class unbeknownst to me and the instructor. The first morning i showed up in my little turquoise suit with tassels, all ready to become a normal swimming citizen of our great country. The teacher blew his whistle for attention. Everyone poised themselves at the edge of the pool, eyes sharply focused on the opposite wall. He blew the whistle again and all the taut little bodies whizzed past me, doing strange complex contortions, propelling themselves agilely across the sea. The teacher asked if i was lame or just stubborn and I never returned.
The next event of interest was when my cousin became a lifeguard and then some kind of olympic challenger in swimming. He became the most lauded member of our family, the strong, successful, swimming male icon of our clan, while I buried my face in a Little Debbies and masturbated to trashy K-mart novels.
So the years passed and i never met anyone i trusted enough to teach me.
Now i'm old and still can't survive if the ferry sinks.
However, last year I learned to drive and got my first license.
so, being a late bloomer, im gonna try again this summer at the west seattle community pool....
im so excited!!!!
if this works, i will believe anything is possible.
also, if i can learn to swim, i could probably learn a lot of other sports im interested in and maybe some languages and maybe some new sexual positions. I just put that in there to see if you were paying attention. But seriously, what is possible? i don't know. but i want to find out.
the problem is basically that i don't have a good grasp of physics or water mechanics.
so i don't believe in floating.
so that makes me really dense and heavy, all that doubt.
it all started at the Lancaster, PA YMCA, directly across from our Cult Compound where i spent every weekend staring out the window at the disneyland of community sports.
After many afternoons of being left at a laundry mat or polishing brass objects around the house, I decided to ask the cult leader if i could take swimming lessons.
u have to understand what a big deal it was to ask for something worldly like this.
I had watched in horror as previous requests for secular activities were met with brutal violence and scorn, like the time she smashed Tony's Ovation guitar into the wall and stepped on it afterwards. Or the time Larry tried to go on a date and ended up enduring the longest public humiliation session known to anyone in PA, amish or not amish.
OR the time she found out Robert wanted to smoke cigarettes and shoved a burning butt into his mouth and he ran away screaming in pain.
somehow, probably as some kind of spiteful joke, the lessons were arranged. However, i was placed in an advanced swimming class unbeknownst to me and the instructor. The first morning i showed up in my little turquoise suit with tassels, all ready to become a normal swimming citizen of our great country. The teacher blew his whistle for attention. Everyone poised themselves at the edge of the pool, eyes sharply focused on the opposite wall. He blew the whistle again and all the taut little bodies whizzed past me, doing strange complex contortions, propelling themselves agilely across the sea. The teacher asked if i was lame or just stubborn and I never returned.
The next event of interest was when my cousin became a lifeguard and then some kind of olympic challenger in swimming. He became the most lauded member of our family, the strong, successful, swimming male icon of our clan, while I buried my face in a Little Debbies and masturbated to trashy K-mart novels.
So the years passed and i never met anyone i trusted enough to teach me.
Now i'm old and still can't survive if the ferry sinks.
However, last year I learned to drive and got my first license.
so, being a late bloomer, im gonna try again this summer at the west seattle community pool....
im so excited!!!!
if this works, i will believe anything is possible.
also, if i can learn to swim, i could probably learn a lot of other sports im interested in and maybe some languages and maybe some new sexual positions. I just put that in there to see if you were paying attention. But seriously, what is possible? i don't know. but i want to find out.
our lady of delay
it's alright to hesitate
we're not getting older
we're like stars that started late
and we know,
we know that we're late
but we're still coming over
there's got to be a way
to make sense of what they've done
their hands are bathed in blood
from the daily castration
of those fucking haircuts
when you kissed me in the film
i thought all the miracles
were found in the lost mail
with Our Lady of Delay
on a strange medallion
we're not getting older
we're like stars that started late
and we know,
we know that we're late
but we're still coming over
there's got to be a way
to make sense of what they've done
their hands are bathed in blood
from the daily castration
of those fucking haircuts
when you kissed me in the film
i thought all the miracles
were found in the lost mail
with Our Lady of Delay
on a strange medallion
dreamcatcher
1.
for what i have contributed
geographics, lies,
all the solitary times
im sorry.
this large pool of
broken severed ties, fractured
dislodged connections...uprooted
and can't get the good soil
or enough regular sun
type life
u know what it's like to be numb all the time.... then these strange
uncontrollable free agents
with their great n'greasy casual love
in an otherwise barren wasteland
carelessly feeding
tossing an essential fatty rib
to what you tried to starve or kill
whoever put u in a corner, fuck.
please believe,
they had no right.
2.
in those days
this breaks my heart
the crisp cold air
central park numbness wearing off
both sweet and noxious smells
wafting through the dreamcatcher of a lonely kid
no windbreaker against despair
refusing to wear my jacket or my shoes or hat
in the snow again, with no shoes or jacket or hat
sick as a dog again getting the backhanded slap
of the wind and the sleet
a fever would buy some time alone
this care-proof scam
ufo's over the picasso statue
the creaking radiator and the drapes snoring
shadows on the black and white tv
hanger antenna
hiding in the closet
mothballs and roach spray
in the no-one ness of the night
a ritual to steady myself
go to the mirror
into my own eyes
Big blue earths descending
blue neptunes with triton blinks
to a twin soul a double self
an auxiliary person stashed
in the safety of the glass
retrievable, intact, unaware
for what i have contributed
geographics, lies,
all the solitary times
im sorry.
this large pool of
broken severed ties, fractured
dislodged connections...uprooted
and can't get the good soil
or enough regular sun
type life
u know what it's like to be numb all the time.... then these strange
uncontrollable free agents
with their great n'greasy casual love
in an otherwise barren wasteland
carelessly feeding
tossing an essential fatty rib
to what you tried to starve or kill
whoever put u in a corner, fuck.
please believe,
they had no right.
2.
in those days
this breaks my heart
the crisp cold air
central park numbness wearing off
both sweet and noxious smells
wafting through the dreamcatcher of a lonely kid
no windbreaker against despair
refusing to wear my jacket or my shoes or hat
in the snow again, with no shoes or jacket or hat
sick as a dog again getting the backhanded slap
of the wind and the sleet
a fever would buy some time alone
this care-proof scam
ufo's over the picasso statue
the creaking radiator and the drapes snoring
shadows on the black and white tv
hanger antenna
hiding in the closet
mothballs and roach spray
in the no-one ness of the night
a ritual to steady myself
go to the mirror
into my own eyes
Big blue earths descending
blue neptunes with triton blinks
to a twin soul a double self
an auxiliary person stashed
in the safety of the glass
retrievable, intact, unaware
blog archiver 2008 sept
VACATIONs
My parents liked to rent and car and drive from nyc to
M.I.S.S.I-pee-pee-I
to visit our southern baptist
jew-hating freak family. My grandmother would say stuff like "WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR NOSE?" Then she'd serve the jello with a side bowl of sugar in case you wanted to add more sugar. To anything. You might eat.
We spent a lot of time visiting this aunt named Francis who had survived a coma or a stroke or jewish fever.....She had hair whiter than table sugar, or AS WHITE. She had some kind of fetish....i forget, like for roses or angels or caramels or sewing virgin mary pillow cases. Anyways, her home was a Old South museum and the table was always set with gentile china and redundant silverware for each guest. But we had to use paper plates in case christ came......
All i remember from these trips is being horny and trying to pick up men at the gas station or in the college swimming pool, which was hard when you're ten years old and look like a cancer patient and you can't swim.
One year i brought baked tofu on ice all the way from manhattan and put it on the table at the family reunion where about 300 people pointed at it and snickered.
That year, my favorite distant cousin Tom, who i THOUGHT was gonna finger fuck me, came back from jesus camp as a young republican. That was also the year I found out i was related to Miss Mississippi 70-something, and that the most popular TV evangelist in Georgia was my second-uncle
Some other vacations we went on, let's see. BEAUTIFUL INDIA.
But we didn't win a trip there. We payed for the tickets! Peeing in holes in the ground, getting parasites, touring the tombs of dead holy nobodies and almost falling into fresh graves, getting manhandled by spiritual sweaty old men with dal gas.....
Later I took some cheap vacations to Coney Island from a stop further down on the F train. I picked up some runaway drifter from Florida under the coney island docks. He put his arm around me on the broken ferris wheel. we ate puke-meat hot dogs and neon slushies. I left his cold fish hands on the F train, feeling like the sand in my asscrack had made the trip not so worthwhile.
Then a few years back i went to san diego. It was cold. Like Toronto. All I brought was bathing suits. So i had to wear the youth hostel blankey around like a beer-stained poncho. I took some photos of this aging ex-chip and dales dancer on rollerskates and got invited back to his apartment. Then I met a beautiful diamond thief whose name i filed in some rolodex i don't have access to. We started role playing michael jackson sex games, taking turns being the pedophile and deflowering each other and seducing each other with cheap bodega candy and balloon animals. He let me wear the stolen merch. It felt like dry ice. But he couldn't sell it so I had to go home alone on the greyhound. He's probably still in san diego walking around with hot diamonds and not enough money to make a pay phone call or buy new shoes.
Get Lost Duty:
I'm on get lost duty. I wander around the house opening closets hoping they're exits. But all I find is mothballs, second hand afgans, drab unfashionable winter coats. I can hear the cult members all the way downstairs in the kitchen, clanking coffee cups and arguing. The cult leader is chewing out the autistic man again, swatting him in the face with a copy of USA Today.
I'm alone on the top floor. I supposed to be making the beds. Cleaning the bathrooms. Restocking the utility closet with toilet paper and dinner napkins. I have too many chores, so I take a break to masturbate on one of the guest cots. I rub myself back and forth into the haughty Indian textiles staring ahead at the giant mural face of the Guru, his eyes the size of my whole skull.
"I'm sorry, but I have to do this. I need this." I tell him, staring into the mammoth hairs on his chin. I'm close to cumming and the guilt sets in. Someone could walk in on me any minute, so I push myself toward the moment of truth, sweating, trying to keep the bed from squeaking while I grind my pussy into the bedsprings over and over. I can't make it. I have to bunch up one of the linen guest napkins I just ironed, the ones with the embroidered geraniums in the corner. I use it as a decorative dildo. I pound my clit faster, breathing hard like a prowler, my crotch on fire. I'm trespassing on the sacred virginity of the dry goods, contaminating cult property with my solitary hump lust.
Finally, I cum. I'm panting next to the 20-foot replica of the Guru and I'm exploding in his face. I know he can see me and I'm gonna fry in some sort of endless reincarnation damnation ring, but nothing else takes the edge off all that cleaning, cooking, ironing and brass-polishing .
Anyways, I had been running a fever for a few days and the cult leader thought it would be a good idea for me to sleep in the guest room on the sofabed. So every day I had to make it up with clean sheets to keep from recontaminating myself with whatever virus I had caught from my slutty mastabatory ways. This couch folded out about six feet and putting it back together took skill and muscle. I could usually get it half way done, but then I would need someone to help me push the bed all the way back into the metal gate. It was dangerous to try alone.
That day I wasn't thinking too clearly. I had just cum all over my navy slacks and I was floating on a cloud, totally ignoring the dirty looks and daggers the giant guru eyes were trying to cast at me from every wall and surface. I just started folding the bed up like regular, not thinking too much about anything except what kind of donut to eat for breakfast and whether I could steal one to eat before bed.
All of a sudden I realized my arms were stuck inside the second fold of the bed. Pinned inside, like stems in a leafpress. I was face down on the cotton, my legs sticking straight out behind me. My penny loafers fell off and thumped down on the floor. My skirt rode up and cut into my thighs, but I couldn't fix it. I just wiggled and tried not to panic.
"Shit. Motherfuck". I thought, hoping the guru was busy listening to someone else's thoughts for a change.
Brian:
then he said when's the last time you were in love like he was a medical doctor fitting me with his xray glove so i changed the subject to taking a picture of his blackhole-black eyes and he goes and fucking hides
Then when i go to answer that timely raw knotted thousand dollar question, nothing comes out, it's just the one thing from way back and it whips me like a belt slicing up a cat
everything that comes out of this core box is diseased someone has to see everytime I try to clean it theres more diamonds made of feces where did you think it all comes from the clean life with nice smooth skin, it's built on the backs of people that gave in
i feel like i envy housecats cause they drink milk out of some old man's hand and i'm outside in my sawed off shaved off cut off cast off drill, wishing i could wear a rhinestone collar, dreaming of this while sharpening my teeth on human bone, and the worst possible thing happens, i get my wish, i get to lick something white and thick out of a man's heirloom dish
the prize is mock hollow cash drugged bliss while still on the wall in a failed busted halfborn chrysalis and no visitors and no frogkiss
anyways, lust for life, thirst for destruction, good intentions, bad foundations, pruned polite cautious desire v neccessary utilitatarian routine corruption, and everyone doing what they can not to open fire
viewmaster
fashion plates
gummy colas
vinyl ET
U68
dutch wonderland
impala
bottomfeeders
astral travel
retainer box
the golden nut
"that's cold"
keystone capers
now and laters
push up pop
fuzzy felts
electric company
LA Gear
bagel buffet
limka
mosquito net
white shadow
john wesley harding was a friend to the poor
oooooh montana give that boy a home
each day when she passes the sea,
she looks straight ahead not at he
can you imagine us years from today
sharing a park bench
im blue but i won't be blue always
cause the sun's gonna shine
in my back door someday
My parents liked to rent and car and drive from nyc to
M.I.S.S.I-pee-pee-I
to visit our southern baptist
jew-hating freak family. My grandmother would say stuff like "WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR NOSE?" Then she'd serve the jello with a side bowl of sugar in case you wanted to add more sugar. To anything. You might eat.
We spent a lot of time visiting this aunt named Francis who had survived a coma or a stroke or jewish fever.....She had hair whiter than table sugar, or AS WHITE. She had some kind of fetish....i forget, like for roses or angels or caramels or sewing virgin mary pillow cases. Anyways, her home was a Old South museum and the table was always set with gentile china and redundant silverware for each guest. But we had to use paper plates in case christ came......
All i remember from these trips is being horny and trying to pick up men at the gas station or in the college swimming pool, which was hard when you're ten years old and look like a cancer patient and you can't swim.
One year i brought baked tofu on ice all the way from manhattan and put it on the table at the family reunion where about 300 people pointed at it and snickered.
That year, my favorite distant cousin Tom, who i THOUGHT was gonna finger fuck me, came back from jesus camp as a young republican. That was also the year I found out i was related to Miss Mississippi 70-something, and that the most popular TV evangelist in Georgia was my second-uncle
Some other vacations we went on, let's see. BEAUTIFUL INDIA.
But we didn't win a trip there. We payed for the tickets! Peeing in holes in the ground, getting parasites, touring the tombs of dead holy nobodies and almost falling into fresh graves, getting manhandled by spiritual sweaty old men with dal gas.....
Later I took some cheap vacations to Coney Island from a stop further down on the F train. I picked up some runaway drifter from Florida under the coney island docks. He put his arm around me on the broken ferris wheel. we ate puke-meat hot dogs and neon slushies. I left his cold fish hands on the F train, feeling like the sand in my asscrack had made the trip not so worthwhile.
Then a few years back i went to san diego. It was cold. Like Toronto. All I brought was bathing suits. So i had to wear the youth hostel blankey around like a beer-stained poncho. I took some photos of this aging ex-chip and dales dancer on rollerskates and got invited back to his apartment. Then I met a beautiful diamond thief whose name i filed in some rolodex i don't have access to. We started role playing michael jackson sex games, taking turns being the pedophile and deflowering each other and seducing each other with cheap bodega candy and balloon animals. He let me wear the stolen merch. It felt like dry ice. But he couldn't sell it so I had to go home alone on the greyhound. He's probably still in san diego walking around with hot diamonds and not enough money to make a pay phone call or buy new shoes.
Get Lost Duty:
I'm on get lost duty. I wander around the house opening closets hoping they're exits. But all I find is mothballs, second hand afgans, drab unfashionable winter coats. I can hear the cult members all the way downstairs in the kitchen, clanking coffee cups and arguing. The cult leader is chewing out the autistic man again, swatting him in the face with a copy of USA Today.
I'm alone on the top floor. I supposed to be making the beds. Cleaning the bathrooms. Restocking the utility closet with toilet paper and dinner napkins. I have too many chores, so I take a break to masturbate on one of the guest cots. I rub myself back and forth into the haughty Indian textiles staring ahead at the giant mural face of the Guru, his eyes the size of my whole skull.
"I'm sorry, but I have to do this. I need this." I tell him, staring into the mammoth hairs on his chin. I'm close to cumming and the guilt sets in. Someone could walk in on me any minute, so I push myself toward the moment of truth, sweating, trying to keep the bed from squeaking while I grind my pussy into the bedsprings over and over. I can't make it. I have to bunch up one of the linen guest napkins I just ironed, the ones with the embroidered geraniums in the corner. I use it as a decorative dildo. I pound my clit faster, breathing hard like a prowler, my crotch on fire. I'm trespassing on the sacred virginity of the dry goods, contaminating cult property with my solitary hump lust.
Finally, I cum. I'm panting next to the 20-foot replica of the Guru and I'm exploding in his face. I know he can see me and I'm gonna fry in some sort of endless reincarnation damnation ring, but nothing else takes the edge off all that cleaning, cooking, ironing and brass-polishing .
Anyways, I had been running a fever for a few days and the cult leader thought it would be a good idea for me to sleep in the guest room on the sofabed. So every day I had to make it up with clean sheets to keep from recontaminating myself with whatever virus I had caught from my slutty mastabatory ways. This couch folded out about six feet and putting it back together took skill and muscle. I could usually get it half way done, but then I would need someone to help me push the bed all the way back into the metal gate. It was dangerous to try alone.
That day I wasn't thinking too clearly. I had just cum all over my navy slacks and I was floating on a cloud, totally ignoring the dirty looks and daggers the giant guru eyes were trying to cast at me from every wall and surface. I just started folding the bed up like regular, not thinking too much about anything except what kind of donut to eat for breakfast and whether I could steal one to eat before bed.
All of a sudden I realized my arms were stuck inside the second fold of the bed. Pinned inside, like stems in a leafpress. I was face down on the cotton, my legs sticking straight out behind me. My penny loafers fell off and thumped down on the floor. My skirt rode up and cut into my thighs, but I couldn't fix it. I just wiggled and tried not to panic.
"Shit. Motherfuck". I thought, hoping the guru was busy listening to someone else's thoughts for a change.
Brian:
then he said when's the last time you were in love like he was a medical doctor fitting me with his xray glove so i changed the subject to taking a picture of his blackhole-black eyes and he goes and fucking hides
Then when i go to answer that timely raw knotted thousand dollar question, nothing comes out, it's just the one thing from way back and it whips me like a belt slicing up a cat
everything that comes out of this core box is diseased someone has to see everytime I try to clean it theres more diamonds made of feces where did you think it all comes from the clean life with nice smooth skin, it's built on the backs of people that gave in
i feel like i envy housecats cause they drink milk out of some old man's hand and i'm outside in my sawed off shaved off cut off cast off drill, wishing i could wear a rhinestone collar, dreaming of this while sharpening my teeth on human bone, and the worst possible thing happens, i get my wish, i get to lick something white and thick out of a man's heirloom dish
the prize is mock hollow cash drugged bliss while still on the wall in a failed busted halfborn chrysalis and no visitors and no frogkiss
anyways, lust for life, thirst for destruction, good intentions, bad foundations, pruned polite cautious desire v neccessary utilitatarian routine corruption, and everyone doing what they can not to open fire
viewmaster
fashion plates
gummy colas
vinyl ET
U68
dutch wonderland
impala
bottomfeeders
astral travel
retainer box
the golden nut
"that's cold"
keystone capers
now and laters
push up pop
fuzzy felts
electric company
LA Gear
bagel buffet
limka
mosquito net
white shadow
john wesley harding was a friend to the poor
oooooh montana give that boy a home
each day when she passes the sea,
she looks straight ahead not at he
can you imagine us years from today
sharing a park bench
im blue but i won't be blue always
cause the sun's gonna shine
in my back door someday
2009 myspace blog archive
1. My New Job
I work for Rich Hansen photography now.
My co-workers are:
"Dad", Rich's father who recently had a stroke:(
He spills a lot of liquids, but it's okay, because he tries not to drink coffee near the photographs or mailing envelopes.
"Mom", Rich's mom. She's 65 and she's a workaholic. She has 45 rocking horses in her living room. She likes to eat chocolate Santas and she's the tallest person in the family. She's kind of like a Christmas tree with a curly white wig on top instead of an angel.
Roberta, Rich's grandmother. She's like 85. She talks to herself out loud. When she calls the customers on the phone, they think it's Mrs. Clause calling from the North Pole. She's very magical. And very old. And she likes to eat chocolate Santas too.....sometimes she forgets who we are and what we're all doing there. But we just show her some red and green jingle bell wreaths and she remembers what time it is.
Eric, Rich's brother. He's really nice, but "he's no photographer" and "not good with numbers" and "not good on the phone"......but he "likes my pigtails" and is worried I am "too cold" and was gonna get me a gallon of water cause "he knows how I like to drink water."
Rich, he's the boss. He's cares a lot if Santa isn't smiling in the photo.
Hot girl co-worker: some girl in a sweater with fat lips and a loud radio voice. I don't understand her and she has a hard time not smiling at me like a denture commercial so we probably won't bond.
Some elves and reindeer: miscellaneous christmasy people dropping in and out delivering photos and crap.....
But we're allowed to bring our own music and wear whatever we want and hang out all day looking at negatives through a little magnifying glasses and writing notes about cut off heads and frowning Santas. Then we shove a lot of stuff in envelopes and calculate a lot of numbers and file shit and rubber band some other shit and check off some crap and close some envelopes and whatnot.
Rich hires culturally diverse Santas, now on display at Nordstrom's. No lesbian Santas or Mexican ones. You can get a gay male Santa, but you can't marry him. There are no disabled Santas. Two or three of the hired Santas are confirmed alcoholics. Only one of the Santas has a real beard. Two thirds of the Santas are sincerely obese, but rarely in the jolly cookie-gobbling way Santa is supposed to be. More in a diabetes way. There was a scandal when one of the Santas used profanity.
2. Anal Nitrate Cashier Diary
I can't work out till after 10pm, because I used my feminine charms to secure a 2-week 24-hr Fitness pass, and now the dude is calling me at home for conversation. I'm such a slut for late-night fitness. But polite enough not to show up when the bloke is actually there on the floor asking me how I like everything. How do you like your block? How do you like your tea? How do you like things compared to things before? How do you like things compared to how things might have been if you had not moved here? How do like my cock? Do you think it's shapely? How do you like my butt? What do you think of the beach? Have you seen my butt on the beach?
I'm watching Mama's Boy rite now with napolean dynamite and trying not to inhale the bleach my roommate scatters around to deflect demons. She's upstairs with her man-boy christian male friend chatting about hellfire again. I think he's my age and he's pretty hot, but my hellfire breath keeps repelling him. I'm so hellfire, dude, I could heat a fleet of hot air balloons. Im so hellfire I could cremate your mama.
Im reading the Awakening btw. It's full of prudish women and this horny guy that goes to mexico instead of fucking his woman. Which i could relate to, mexico is attractive like that....rite now in the book, the woman is really bored with her stupid life of tableclothes and boatings and longs for some good orgies with mexican men. I made that up sorry. I'm reading it naked at 24 hour fitness in the sauna. After 10:30.
I don't understand how nick got into a band and became a happy man. Im hoping anal nitrate will become the world's most popular hungarian folk song band. We have ME who is 1/28 hungarian, so how can we fail!!
Nothing else of note to report.
Hellfire dude is still upstairs licking his mouth like an indoor cat, chatting about hellfire and Shakley vitamins. Fuck, Shackley vitamins is a whole other blog. Every single fucking day when i get home i have to hear about Shackey vitamins. It's like Shackley rape. I come home and there's Shackley literature under my door. I take a shit, and there's shackley pamphets on the toilet. Shackly has wormed him way into my anal cavity where he is a chronic hemaroidal pain. Death to Shackly. Death to the vitamin king!
3. How to Make Love all the Time and Other Sex Secrets:
So, my landlady is this Christian substitute teacher who's renting me out her basement and is in all ways a good roommate...except when she leaves chocolate donut wrappers out where my dog can get them, or leaves the oven on.....or cooks sausages in my face the first day of me going vegan.....or leaves toast in unexpected places like the couch.... and dog hairs in the tub....or leaves hard boiled eggs in the fridge with no cover....
anyways, yesterday i found this little green pamphlet in the stairwell, "How to Make Love All the Time" by Dr. Barbara De Angelis. So I start reading its heavily marked up pages and removing all the little red bookmark tapes...The most marked up section is "Your Secret Sexual Classroom"....in close 2nd place is "How Something So Good Can Turn Out So Bad".....
so i decided to read the whole thing you know for laughs, but when i got to the section on "Writing Love Letters to Yourself", I thought what the hell, I'll do it.
So I wrote a long angry letter about all the things i hated in myself and then i wrote back and then back again and within 15 minutes I felt like the most psychotic freak ever to go to couples counseling with no partner. The exercise gave me multiple personalities. The whole pamphlet she's trying to convince you that her program will work if you're single. I am now in the 4 R's of a troubled relationship with myself, "Resistance, Resentment, Rejection and Repression"....I should add, Really Fucking Sick of New Age Bullshit Mindfuckers and their Advice....
the only problem now is i don't know if she was reading this 20 years ago before menopause, or recently, cause she's trying to get laid? so i have to slip the book back into its original position and then see if it disappears....if she noticed it was gone, now she knows i'm a horny frustrated bitch and a Master of Emotional Disguise....
ok i gotta go check on my brown rice sushi and meditate on the Miracle of Love.
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 6, 2011
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