Wednesday, July 4, 2007

The Emotive Pornography of Gay Fiction

He called me a submissive gay man trapped in a woman’s body, and told me that the most fucked up thing he ever did was do a transsexual in the ass. She was dressed in bright red nail polish and a three-hour old grease stain, and had whispered “Jimmy” in his ear so sweetly it gave him thrills.

He told me this with his eyes closed, face down in his pillow, allowing it to soak the saliva from his mouth and heal its own wounds. We listened to a Gavin Friday song five times in a row, while he used the word “epic” so many times I lost hold of its meaning.

He said it was cardiac arrest inducing beyond anything he had ever known. He said she had flashed the bulge in her crotch under an Amsterdam streetlight, and he knew that second she was just what he needed. She had kissed him and held his entire upper body tightly as he coughed and exploded into a thousand hypnic jerks. He came in the hotel sink.

I told him I was a transsexual too, and that my friend thought he was going to take a shit the first time he did it. I confessed his mere presence made me feel that way, and told him I had read somewhere that crying and vomiting are healing processes that are often mistaken for the symptom of a problem.

After a while I stopped saying kind things. Instead I started lying over and over again to the point where it ached inside me and my mom urged me to stop. He said I was smarter than him, and I called him a trannyfucker to his face. He left me like an emotional spastic gagging at his reins while I begged for more of his generous pain. Then I fingered his ass for 40 bucks and a piece of his disaster that hit me so hard it left a soft pink rash under my left eye.

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