Spell the Third
So As to Escape Liberation
1. There is real disagreement over whether the toilet at the Blue Chairs Resort is private or en masse, i.e. sometimes guys yelp when the doors are opened and other times there are 8 guys in there at once -- 1 at the pisser, 1 in the john, 1 pissing in the sink or washing his hands, one changing into or out of his swim trunks, and 4 others either blowing or getting blown. It seems silly to call the toilet private when 2/3rds of the time it’s only locked because guys are having a three-way or not wanting to share their drugs. Heck, it even seems misleading to call it a toilet -- why not say event space?
2. Surely it’s not a good sign, the way that nowadays I can fall over without reason or occasion or even liquor. One side, you see, is not as long as the other. I was always warned that this would give me trouble. And here is trouble now, stepping out of its long dark car, and I am not even old yet or, rather -- I am only old at gay bars.
3. The white space, the space in-between -- which may legitimately and accurately be seen as the most attractive part of the proceedings -- is intended as invitation, as courtesy, so that it’s not like you’re being talked at all the time, trapped in a TV show, or instructional video, or classic RV makeover. Go right ahead: have a snack and your own thoughts. (It’s true this will work far better if you’re not checking your phone.) I understand that most persons are not as hung up as I am on noise and overwhelm but, just in case those folks are in the audience, I promise to take the very best care of you that I can. (For example, wouldn’t now be an excellent time for a tall glass of room-temperature water?)
4. The muscled hustler in his orange shorts lounges in the the video room, takes out now his flaccid cock, now his glass pipe. Want to enjoy together? He purrs to me from out his crooked smile. I flee. He catches me again when I’m bare-assed on the rooftop, toweling off, says, You want a massage American? I lean down to hear but, when my hand gets too near him, he kicks it away with his knee. Yep, that’s meth: blinking fun and nightmare on and off, always with eyes jagged, festive, bright. Welcome! It’s Evil Christmas!
5. No, the nonsense is not optional. The nonsense is required. Or, for the academics: it’s a prerequisite. You will not be admitted without it. How otherwise could it be a spell? How might a spell be cast? Anyway it’s not any nonsense, it’s the correct nonsense, and another word for the right nonsense is mantra. These filthy playground rhymes are sacred syllables in flasher trenchcoats. At this moment, your chakras are being powerwashed and reset for maximum perversity. Why should I be the only one whimpering in awe at luxuriant armpits?
6. Beside the breakfast buffet, two small brothers were playing, I spy with my little eye. Their father was with them and he, too, was an adorable boy. “Something that starts with the letter P,” said one little boy and his brother, with immense joy, bellowed, “PENIS!” (I did turn and look, I admit. Sadly, no such luck.) The adorable father was embarrassed, stern, “This is your final warning. Do you want to spend all day in your room?”
7. People make stuff like they can think all the time. Like it’s all one unbroken line. This seems to me wildly misleading. As if there were somewhere something that could be relied upon. As if a dream, in a single sheet, could be hung from a line like laundry.
8. “I wish I could write anecdotes or vignettes,” she said. “Slices of life.” But you could tell, from the way she said, that she was destined for real literature, the kind that actually mattered.
9. Everywhere I go, I hear people say, It’s supposed to be spectacular. And even before I know what they’re talking about, even as I brace myself for disappointment, I cannot help but hope along with them.
10. My new rule, in regard to gay places and events: if I don’t get to see anyone’s cock I’m not interested. As far as being gay, it’s the sex with men part that I like: the fucking, sucking, loving part. As for white sofa, perfect haircut, Sunday brunch, tina, high-class status, bulldog, Cosmo, Truvada, trimmed armpits -- all that you may keep, along with marriage and the Army. What most people call liberation is just a shoddy shopping trip. I am not fooled.
11. To himself. The irritable one has necessary truths and information. As does the one who is ravenous. Allow them to present their news. Do not all the time insist on being like a limpid pool.
12. Among my favorite things, here in Mexico, are the green signs with white arrows pointing at a white orb and words Punto de Reunion. To me these are like Aldous Huxley’s parrots, all the time announcing, here and now, here and now. All by myself, I reunite, as per instructions.
13. Also available: a full line of horsehung Samaritan stories, in which I accidentally rescue some bedraggled urchin on the roadside who turns out to be some mysterio-magical fey creature prone to carnality and granting wishes. Not just official wishes (world peace, climate stability, a full remission for Aunt Brenda) but also what you actually, seriously, god-help-you want. As I sponge his bruised body in the clawfoot tub the rescued victim is miraculously restored -- in fact, the urchin, rinsed, turns out to be quite a hunk. As an ordinary mortal I really oughtn’t have swallowed such a quantity of his semen but, having done so, every drop, I am now condemned to be entirely spectacular for the benefit of all sentient beings. Mine is the supra-magnetic charisma and then some. Departing in the morning he slips me a wallet which can never be emptied or lost and instructs me to rely on my intuition. To tell the truth, when I woke up the next morning to find my cock 7 sizes larger I was at first concerned. Luckily I had the magic wallet and was able to set off at once to shop for more commodious shorts, which led to a rendezvous with an over-awed changing room attendant, the district manager, the sub manager, two security guards, and a custodian wearing one of those union suits that zips right on down. Inevitably then we were out in the woods, a company of huntsmen, fishermen and lumberjacks, the very greatest in the world, certainly the best equipped, by whom no fish or deer are ever harmed, and, even after an all-night orgy beside a raging campfire, in the morning it is found that not a single fern has been trampled. Even if, now and then, a broad old tree must be cut down (to throw somebody over it) the tree is always put right back up again, when we’re done with it, without so much as torn leaf.