2. Long story short, we were diving around Texas in what we called “The Fag Clown Car.” Two bands. One an all-fag rap group. My band was more new wave. We stopped at a Dairy Queen in Texas. The three girls in the van get out. No problem. The four other tattooed white fags get out. Hmmmm, a little challenging but par for the course. Then I get out. In all my Wesley Snipes–ean glory, wearing a peppermint-print tank top and jogging shorts that fall just below my nuts. Oh shit. Definitely can’t ignore that. Those rednecks in the parking lot got predictably pissed. They may or may not have had guns (the story changes depending on who is telling it). We hightail it out of there and at the truck station at the very next stop, a horny trucker who seemed to love the way I dressed got me into a stall and came in my mouth when I asked him not to. Fuck Texas. Long live Texas.
SCIENCE FICTION/COMPETITION FICTION
It was a Tuesday night and it was raining again. I was stuck at the diner. I had to miss writing class because I got called in to work. I was rather pissy about it and, to make myself feel better, ignored these two old broads who had shuffled in and been rude to me. They had been waiting twenty minutes and would continue to wait because I was over them. I had suspected for some time that my boss was a coke head . . . or something. He came in faketanned and wearing only tropical colors carrying a big-ass box that read “Popular Science Magazine”; the other side read “August ’89–Sept ’93.” “Here,” he said, “I found these in my garage and thought you might like them,” and then leaves in a hurry. Naturally, I’m like What the fuck? A roach climbed out of the box and I was certain this box should have never been in a restaurant. Health code much? So little made sense in this place that I felt, for consistency’s sake, I’d better not question anything. The icing on the cake was this would be an excellent way to ignore those rude old bitches more. I flip through the back ads of the December ’91 issue and find a science fiction writing contest. This of course seemed like a dare, and I put pen to dinner napkin (’cause I didn’t have notebook paper) with incredible results . . .
1. Womanhood: I met Armani on the last train car. Archetypal big, black, Mandingo-looking motherfucker. These genes had skipped me. He had what later measured out to be (I know this because he actually measured it in front of me, for some reason) nine inches of dick. Ow! My insides! “Do you want me to take these nine inches of dick and turn you into a woman?” he said. I mean I hadn’t planned on it, but since I was already here, well, why the fuck not? I followed him to his government-subsidized apartment and let him fuck me spread-eagle on his kitchen cutting board. He was hitting it from the back when all of a sudden I spontaneously grew a ponytail, titties, and nine-inch acrylic nails. Holy shit! Armani came and was like, “Do not use this new gift for evil,” and then his cryptic ass disappeared in a cloud of smoke. When he told me he was going to take his nine inches of dick and turn me into a woman he, like, meant it. Being a woman ruled. In my everyday fag life I had dressed like a really dapper lesbian, but now that I was a woman I really turned it out and dressed like a drag queen. I’m talking weave down to my ass, ass and lashes for days, and pussy pinker than a honky. Can we talk about my pussy? Defiantly unshaven, it twinkled every time I spread my legs. But of course, the stress of the Modern Woman had not changed since the beginning of time. Like, what if I got pregnant? And worse still, what if I get pregnant by a poor person? Ew! Just like my mom! Whatever. I dodged the pregnancy bullet by only doing anal. That was, until I realized that vaginal sex was a fucking goldmine. My crowning achievement as a woman was mastering the abortion scam (that’s where I pretended to get pregnant, demanded money for an abortion, and then blew it all on shoes). This one snarky fucker demanded a blow job after I picked up my fake abortion money. I laughed in his face. Stupid motherfucker. Didn’t he know that I didn’t have to suck dick, ’cause I have a pussy?
2. Jordy and the Scientologists: Jordy had moved to California and had fallen in with a particular group of Scientologists. Ew. He always complained about being poor. “I want to be rich,” Jordy would say sometimes. Their reply was always “Don’t say I want to be rich, say I will be rich . . .” They said it so much that Jordy started believing that shit. Jordy decided to go to the horse races. He cleaned out his modest savings to put himself in the rich mindset: a fur coat, expensive perfume, and enough money for booze so he would have the courage to cry or break something if he lost. He got to the horse races and read the horses’ names from left to right on the racing program—WE WILL PREVAIL—and a lightbulb exploded in his head. He won a shit ton of money and had it all delivered to him in one dollar bills so he could roll around naked in it. He called his mother back home in the Midwest. “The crowd I run with sure are some creepy fucks, Mama . . . but I think they’re on to something . . .”
TOUR DIARIES: SEATTLE
I was in this band I used to be in and the tour stopped in Seattle. Wild times. Sorta. Last time we came to Seattle, I ended up going home with these two gay rugby players and we had the mildest time ever. So weak. I wanted to even up the score this time. This cute young boy came up to me after the show. “I like your band. You’re my favorite,” he says and we proceed to make out. So far, so good. I reach in his pants and find out that this boy is a bit peculiar. Or whatever. “I have a pussy” he says. “Is that going to be a problem?” “No,” I say. I had admittedly never had tranny-slut sex but refused to back down because, like, what the fuck? I was already here. Why the fuck not? Not necessarily my cup of tea but by god I’ll take a sip. I like the T-Boys and who could resist? All sitting around all day shooting up testosterone, getting all horny and violent like teenagers. So cute! I took him back to his jeep and started eating his ass and fucking him and he was all like, “CUMINMYASSCUMINMYASSCUMINMYASSCUM . . .” (etc.). Damn teenagers. They sit around watching bareback porn all day thinking that cocks just shoot cum at the ready. Didn’t he know I was a burnout and my shit takes longer? Either way, that annoying thing happened where we both forgot to turn off our cell phones and my bandmates kept calling and his girlfriend kept calling and it was kind of a bummer. I related this story to my bandmates when we went to Dick’s Burger later that night and kept the story PG-13. I could’ve taken that extra step and talked about which hole I stuck it in, but honestly, I was too drunk to remember.
TRUE LOVE
1. I wanted an affair with another writer. Mr. Diaz had struck again. There was excitement in my pen and in my dick and I wasn’t going to contain either. He had broken down my defenses one night outside a bar in San Francisco. I was young and wanted him to fuck me. He said, “I’ve read your underground magazine. You have a spark.” He had a boyfriend inside the club and I (at the time) had no idea that he too spilled his guts on paper. In my (unfortunate) youthful sassiness I thought Whatever, dude with a boyfriend, and wondered if he had a big dick. A couple of years later in New York, Mr. Diaz, one of his girlfriends, and I walked hella far to a train, down a street, and into a cramped apartment where we all shared a bed. We didn’t fuck in front of his girlfriend. Instead, when she went to the bathroom, he kissed me behind a door in the dark apartment and I could tell he was smiling. We both went away to write. I spent more time in the underground and Mr. Diaz joined the professionals. The next time I saw Mr. Diaz he was a right grown man, with a right grown business. I wrote a fiction piece about having an affair with Mr. Diaz, ass-up and him fucking me on his desk in his office of the school he just got a fellowship to. I didn’t want to be his wife. I wanted to be his beatnik mistress. I asked him earnestly, “When are we going to have a torrid affair that’s worth writing about?” (I meant it.) “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?!” (He said that only to shut me up.) At one point, I was writing what was supposed to be the Great American Fag Experimental Best Seller. It was a twenty-six-page novella dripping with truth (and a couple of complete lies).
I nervously ask him to edit it and am secretly turned on by the thought of him telling me what to do. “Like this . . .” he says, but of course he’d ne
ver say that, he’d probably just tell me to keep going. I think Mr. Diaz is a nerd. He walks around in dweeb glasses and little “fuck me” cardigans. One day he made me nibble on his unwashed foreskin and then he gently laid me on my stomach, but of course this didn’t happen. This was fiction. I didn’t even know if he had foreskin, and if he did he was certainly the type to keep it clean. My foreskin stays dirty from fucking all the time, and on my third day of not showering that shit smells like three-day-old boiled shrimp water. This is a difference between me and Mr. Diaz. Upon realizing my error, I cleaned up the passage in the story to read: “One day he made me nibble on the foreskin he may or may not have. It tasted like Irish Spring.” It’s easy to paint Mr. Diaz in stories ’cause he’s a mystery. I think of him often. In fiction, my desire motivates his goals, assertions, and actions, and I suspect if this dynamic somehow magically left the page and entered my real life, it might actually tear me apart, but I like the idea. I wanna get fucked-up. I wrote about Mr. Diaz so much I wondered if his ears were ringing. I wondered if Mr. Diaz still often thought about me. I wondered if he ever wrote about me.
2. I was a fucking nerd and I was fucking another nerd, comic book geek. We had a fetish for vintage eighties X-Men comics (back when Storm had a mohawk). I asked earnestly if he’d dress up like my favorite X-Men team leader and fuck me. I don’t remember him saying yes, but sometime later, after a Tuesday night of binge drinking and pill popping, I showed up at his door at 5:00 a.m. and he answered it dressed like Cyclops from the X-Men. Then we boned. I wanted to make him my boyfriend, but figured I should for once in my life leave well enough alone.
3. I had a little roommate who was the punk girl time had forgotten. Too punk to exist. Had a deep bro accent like Spicoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I heard a queer knock on my door and her little bro voice, “Um, so, like, hey, man, um, Ilostmysnake, and um, if you see her, will you like grab her, andalso, I lost my scorpion too, will you grab that little guy too? Later bro! See ya in the pit!!!!” Are you fucking kidding me? Scorpion?!?!?!? I thought about the absurdness of dying in a dusty-ass warehouse in Oakland of a scorpion bite, but then really examined it. My other options were dying of old age, complications of HIV, or boredom. The scorpion bite would make me a legend. WORK BITCH. I immediately loved my roommate from there on out.
4. I only love boys who are drug dealers and he followed in the tradition. He grew hella pot and we fucked in his pristinely white grow room. He busted a fat load in my ass and all around us his babies were just maturing, turning into delicious dank nugs of, well, pot. I walked out of his place (with a free eighth of pot no less) into the afternoon California sun, vain as fuck, screaming, “ALL HAIL ME.”
ENTREPRENEURSHIP OR THE RECIPE FOR LEMONADE
Turns out I had level one syphilis—again. So annoying, like who the fuck gets syphilis? I felt like a late 1800s London prostitute or perhaps a Roman Emperor. Either way, I got the shot with this shit injected in me that feels like it’s the consistency of cream cheese. And yes, I had chlamydia and gonorrhea too. I hate those gonorrhea pills and the subsequent shitting out of the brains that follows after taking them. They asked me if I wanted a “partner pack” to take some pills for my surely infected “partner,” and I said yes because I didn’t want to seem like I didn’t have anybody. That’s when I got the idea to start saying yes to the partner pack all the time and sell the extra gonorrhea pills for five dollars a pop to all the irresponsible barebackers at the bathhouse. (I knew them all—wink wink.) By the end of the month I had made twenty dollars, and that, sir, is how you turn lemons into lemonade.
WRITING EXERCISES*
(*It was a take home writing exercise . . . “Write a poem about sex. GO!” Hmmmm, OKAY!)
SONGS FOR BOYS LIKE ME
All the boys are in love with me
’Cause what I give is free free free
No complications
Expectations
I’ll let you prey on my good looks
In the back of train stations
and other dark and private places
“Oh, yeah?” he says. Well, fuck yeah . . .
’Cause son, I feel sorry for you.
You’re cursed with fake boyfriends who demean you
He let those other guys cum right through his door
(The space behind his heart)
Where every other guy in town has already left a mess
Shitting
Eating
Not quite full enough
Crowding his plate with more
I stepped out of the enchantment
Of the buffet line
And the spell was broken
And I looked at my own plate
Piled stupid fucking high with food
And thought,
Wait, I’m not really this hungry
and also
Thank god I have a buffet now. I remember when I really was hungry.
The writer in the park
Read right through me
You should try being the pretty girl on a date
I try and muster the energy
To give a fuck
Fail
And think,
100 lovers stand behind me
And behind them 100 more for each
We’re all taking blue pills now
Simply because
We all give way
To someone
(Some
To anyone)
For cheap.
I have dealt in Black Magic and character assassination
To men who thought they loved me
And lived up to only half the reputation
The confused trick spoke:
“I’m good at redeeming whores. Do you need some salvation?”
Ew. No.
DEEP WITCHCRAFT: HOUSE OF PROMETHEUS
I was a member of the House of Prometheus and I can explain what that means. I had been taking normal college classes. Theater major. I had fallen in with a peculiar crowd. Something like a fraternity organization but very secretive. They called themselves the House of Dionysus, after the Greek god of drama. They were a part of a system of Houses on the campus that dedicated themselves to affiliation with the ancient Olympic Pantheon. Four times a year all the houses would meet. It was kinda predictable. House of Hades was all Dungeons and Dragons post–Trench Coat Mafia types, of course. There was House of Athena and Diana (i.e., dykes) and House of Zeus (assholes with bright futures). We were House of Dionysus. We met, did rituals, shot the shit, and had drunken orgies. Those orgies got uncomfortable. (Someone got pregnant!) About that time, me and another member decided to move on because pregnancy bummed us out. We could start doing steroids and pledge House of Adonis, but that seemed like a commitment. We thought of a different house. One we could create. We read in our Greek Lit class Prometheus Bound, and the legend of the fallen Titan Prometheus and how he became a friend to man: stealing fire from Zeus, giving it to the experimental race known as man, bringing on the birth of knowledge. We swore contempt against the House of Zeus (this mostly played out as Animal House–style pranks on those smug motherfuckers). The Head Council refused to recognize us as a house. The nature of our fallen father made it blasphemous to have open worship of him which we felt furthered our cause even more. We had to go on, meeting only in secret. We were all artists dealing in many mediums at once, but with a unifying goal and style—our work usually being referred to as “raw,” “unpolished,” “unrelenting,” and “unfuckwithable.” Our color was red (i.e., fire) and at the group altar sat a rock and a set of broken shackles.
Johnny Would You Love Me if My Dick Were Bigger Page 4
