NOTE AND WARNING: This column was written for the MRR Queer
Issue. It is addressed to the "gay punk community," although
anyone can understand the criticism. It is somewhat
more graphic than usual.If you're squeamish, or have just
eaten, you might want to think twice about reading it.
YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.
All the ugly things, the things people expend so much energy denying, have more permanence than the sweet sucking-candy lies about equality and justice and everlasting happiness. Ugliness is God. --Jim Goad
First there's the rose. I don't know who put it there. But there it is. Lying like a sash across his chest. I didn't expect that. Agim was not the type to go in for roses. He was a punk rocker-- and now I find out-- a junkie. Punk rock, junk and roses don't mix.
Next to me is an older woman. His mother? An Aunt? I donno. She's dressed in black. Equally black circles surround her eyes. She forces a smile as I introduce myself and tell her how sorry I am.
I am sorry. Agim was the cool kid. A cute punk rocker with a weird name. He came from someplace in East Europe. He had a high squeaky voice. He often came out of the mosh pit bruised and happy. He'd shake his head and say nothing more than WOW!
About 20 years old, he had a smooth face that'd take years to grow even a jazz spot. I'd often had fantasies about burying the bologna between his light brown buns. It ain't gonna happen now.
This is my third open-casket, Catholic funeral. I'm not getting used to them. There's something creepy about looking at a dead person you knew when he was running around doing things. Like having your pet dog stuffed, mounted and set in the livingroom... with a bone in her mouth.
Weirder is the girl now standing by the coffin. I've never seen her before. Somewhat goth, with a long black dress, but it is a funeral after all. Still, she's got black fingernail polish and lipstick... not exactly Catholic. Her long flowing hair is NOT black, though. It's somewhere between brown and redhead- like Lindsay Lohan's.
She's not beautiful in the classic sense. A bit too thick in the rear. Tits petite and free hanging. Because of the way she faces the coffin, I can only see her in profile.
Behind the chairs that face the coffin, is some food. I head for it. Laid out on a small card table, there's Merlot wine and cheese, like at an art opening. There are also a bunch of little strawberry tarts and crackers next to a pile of meat-- maybe chopped liver. A plastic spoon sticks in the meat at an odd angle, like a chimney in a fairytale house. I use it to scoop some of the meat onto a cracker and then shove the combo into my mouth.
“I think that's not such a good idea,” suggests a voice behind me, to my right.
I turn. It's the girl who stood at the coffin. Her face is plain, slightly freckled.
“Why not?” I ask her, taking another meat-on-cracker in my biological urge to DEFY.
“Funeral meat is always bad,” she says. “I think they make it from the remains of other funerals.”
“That's disgusting,” I say, reaching for yet another cracker and meat. I spoon it on thickly, as if I were teaching her a lesson.
During our short conversation, the girl moves forward. She now stands with her hand tangling centimeters from my leg. She bridges the gap, stroking the inside of my thigh.
“My name is Wanda,” she says. Then her voice becomes a whisper. “Let's stay. Whatisname would like it.”
“You mean Agim?” I ask. “You don't know him?”
“I go to funerals,” she says, rubbing my leg less subtly than before, “and I want to know you... Follow me.”
I don't get a chance to introduce myself. I just follow as the strange girl leads me through the hallway to a small storage closet. The only possible way she could know about it is from being here before. I begin to wonder.
Wanda opens the door and gets in, sitting on the floor. She extends her hand. I take it and enter. Wanda reaches up and pulls the door shut.
In the dark closet, she presses her body close to mine. I press my hand on the inside of her thigh. Then, run it downwards. I smell an oceanic mix of bread and tuna. She tightens her thighs around my hand. The warmth radiates through my body. Agim, you're gonna get me laid... but it won't be you!
The faint light under the door goes out with the last footsteps of the funeral guests. We are alone.
“Let's go,” she whispers.
I start to unbutton my shirt. But that's not what she's talking about.
Slowly, Wanda opens the door, looks around and heads out. We're back at the coffin. It's closed now. Wanda pushes up on the lid and it creaks back to open. There's Agim. Looking eerily shiny in the tiny bit of light that comes from the streetlamp outside the window. The rose, slightly crushed, still lays across his chest.
“He looks fake,” says Wanda.
I reach in to touch his face. It has a waxy feel, like an apple on a supermarket shelf. I have the urge to scrape and see if the wax will come off under my fingernail. I do. It does.
Under that wax is a small spot, maybe brown. It's impossible to see color in the dim light. It looks like what I imagine cancer would look like. I quickly pull my hand back.
I look back at his face. His closed eyes. What's under those lids? Are the pupils staring straight out like a vampire? Or, are the eyes rolled back in the head, showing only white... like a zombie.
I again reach into the coffin, putting my hand on his left eye, thumb on the bottom lid, forefinger on the top. I tug on the lids but there's a kind of stiffness, as if Agim is trying to force his eyes shut against my effort.
I'm distracted by a fzzzz sound. I turn. Wanda is at Agim's crotch. She's opened his belt and now unzips his pants. Reaching into the open fly, she pulls out his penis. It's the first time I've ever seen the penis of a dead guy. Maybe it was proud in the day, but now it's shriveled and worn, with what look like bloody stripes up the side. The head looks like a mushroom-sized scab. I can't see it for long, though, because Wanda takes it into her mouth. She suck up on it, pulling the skin taught, stretching it. I think I'm going to be sick. I begin to choke. To heave.
“Here! Here!” whispers Wanda, pulling up her skirt and taking down her panties. “Do it here!”
She grabs my head and forces my face between her legs. That powerful Neptunian smell adds to the nausea.
That chopped liver. Those strawberry tarts. That glass of Merlot. Like a movie run frame by frame, I feel the slow motion rise of the vile mixture, from my stomach... to my throat... to my mouth... forced into my nose... and out. Out from my mouth. Out from my nose. Out into the hairy crater in front of me. The smell of vomit added to the smell of yeast and the smell of sea bass make me even sicker, I puke again and again, until I'm stuck in dry heaves.
“Now fuck me,” says Wanda. “Fuck me hard!”
She tears at my proper funeral pants, pulling open the belt, pulling down the pants and boxer- briefs in one fell swoop. I step out of them. But, I'm not quite ready yet. Ninety degrees. I'm looking for forty-five.
Wanda reaches between her legs and scoops up my fresh vomit. She rubs it back and forth on my ninety degrees. The smell cuts to my throat and sickens me. But it doesn't sicken my little friend who pops up like popsicle fresh from the deli case. Wanda sucks on the popsicle. Rubbing the vomit around my testes, Wanda sucks, then reaches around to press me deeper into her face. A puke-lubricated finger slips into my little brown hole in back.
I tighten the sphincter around her digits. That's the trigger.
“That meat.” I say.
Wanda makes some MMMMMMMMing sound around my penis. Then my bowels contract.
“Not THAT meat,” I say. “The meat that we ate. It's hitting now. I'm getting sick. I think I've got the shits. You were right!”
She removes her mouth from my medium-on.
“Shit!” she says. “Shit on me! Shit on Agim. It's the least you can do... and it's the most punk rock.”
She's right, of course.
I climb onto the coffin. Resting one knee on each side, I fear I'll lose my balance and the whole kit and caboodle will come tumbling down. Tough. I can't hold it anymore. I'm going to explode. I position my asshole directly over Agim's face. Wanda squeezes his cheeks. His mouth opens. I let go. A torrent. Not water, but not turds either. More like a thick paste. Brown toothpaste, with globs of this and that. Direct hit. Right over that mouth. Filling it. Spilling over. Up his nose. Onto his eyes. A great thick brown mass. The joy of emptying my stomach raises my staff. Pain released calls for joy.
“Suck me!” I breathe. “Suck me now!”
Wanda scrapes her hand against the corpse face, bringing up my fresh fecal paste. She rubs it up and down my hardness.
“Suck me!” I say, “I can't stand it.”
“Wait,” says she.
Suddenly, she is at the garbage can where we scraped the plastic cups and dishes from the funeral food. She reaches inside. I can't make out what's in her hand until she returns to the coffin. I climb down to take a look. It's a plastic spoon, probably the same one I used to eat the tainted meat.
“Share!” she commands, scooping some brown paste off Agim's face. Open wide.
I open my mouth and she pushes the spoon in. It's a foul taste... like... well, like shit. I gag, but swallow it down. She scoops some more, and puts it into her own mouth.
Gagging to hold down my own excrement, I choke out a, “More!”
Wanda answers by shoving another spoonful of shit into my mouth. And then returning to the shit-covered face of Agim's corpse.
Taking the plastic spoon, she presses the end against the dead kid's eye-socket. It slips, spraying shit onto the coffin lid. She tries again. This time the spoon sinks in, behind the eye, underneath. She pries upward. The handle bends. Then, with a little PTTT sound, the eye falls loose and hangs by a nerve along the side of his face. A few grains of shit fall into the empty hole.
Wada grabs the eyeball and gives it a tug. With a snap, it pulls loose.
“Yes!” I hear her whisper.
She takes the eyeball and inserts it in her cunt. Squeezing shut, she closes her eyes and moves those internal muscles that only girls can move. Her face is the picture of bliss.
“Now you,” she says, taking the eyeball from insider her vulva.
I know what she's asking for. I rest my hands against my knees and feel a light pressure against my anus. It opens and the eyeball is inside.
The new pressure against my prostate propels the little soldier between my legs to full attention. Wanda pushes me to the floor and straddles me. I push her off and climb back onto the coffin. Pressing hard to keep that organic dildo inside me. I again squat with my feet on either side of Agim's head. I lean forward, lower myself, and insert the head of my penis into the empty eye socket.
This is the queer issue of MRR. What you just read is queer. You? You're as queer as a one-dollar bill. You had your chance. Your homosexuality could have been a ticket to queerdom. Being a homo used to be special, different, weird... Queer.
I remember people pointing and whispering He fucks boys. And now, Home Depot shows a couple of guys cooking breakfast together, plain as the cum on your lips... and it's your fault.
You've sacrificed your queerdom on the altar of “gay marriage,” and “gays in the military.” You prefer equality to queerdom. You can't have both. You've made your choice.
Your decision disgusts me more than a loose eyeball up my ass. You are more repulsive than vaginal vomit. How could you do it? Several years ago, I wrote You cannot be a man until you've been fucked in the ass. That was controversial... Queer.
These days, everybody and his mother's been fucked in the ass. Stockbrokers discuss anal lubes on their coffee breaks. It is not queer.
Queer doesn't say, accept me, I'm just like you. It says, watch out, buckaroo, because I'm NOTHING like you.
Yeah, I admire people like Matt B who are trying to make homotude queer again, but it's a lost cause. Like making Obama radical. We may wish it. But it ain't gonna happen.
We need a NEW queerdom. We have it. The necrophiles, the bestials, the coprophiliacs, the S&Ms, the pedophiles (who are so queer they can't even post their fantasies without being arrested!). The new queers should be in the face of every homosexual saying,
“We're here. We're REALLY queer. Get used to it... because you're not anymore.”
ENDNOTES: [email subscribers (email@example.com) or website viewers (www.mykelboard.com) will get live links and a chance to email comment on the column. Subscribers will no longer get the columns before anyone else.]
→ The honeymoon is over department: Speaking of marriage. Slack-cutting time is over. Obama is proving himself to be just another Democrat, maybe the next LBJ... or worse. He takes over General Motors, allows the company to shift jobs overseas. Says the government wants a “hands-off policy.” Huh? That's my money you're using, I sure as fuck want a hand ON!
Worse is Afghanistan. That war is getting bigger, and I wouldn't be surprised if we saw a Pakistan invasion soon. It's time for that big Washington anti-war rally!
Hey hey Oh-baman. How many kids did you drop a bomb on!
-->Homos yes, Nazis no dept: While homo activists push for more gays in the military, other liberal groups push for exclusions... of "white supremacists.
The liberal Southern Poverty Law Center is complaining about allowing "white supremacists and Neo-Nazis" in the military. Seems like these points of view are "bad" and shouldn't be tolerated. They are HATE.
On the other hand, homotude is LOVE. So it SHOULD be allowed in the army. Makes a lot of sense in an organization whose main purpose is to kill people, huh?
-->Elsewhere on the homo front dept: A federal appeals court has upheld an Ohio law that limits picketing at funerals, preventing an anti-gay church from protesting at military funerals.
The Rev. Fred Phelps believes God is punishing America for accepting homosexuality by killing soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. He argues it is people's free speech right to carry signs with messages such as "Thank God for dead soldiers."
The court said the anti-picketing law "serves an important governmental interest... at a funeral the mere presence of a protestor is sufficient to inflict harm."
Sounds like the same rationalization they used for the round-up of demonstrators at the Republican National Convention in New York. Actually, it sounds like the same rationalization for the round-up of ANY demonstrators anywhere.
-->Elsewhere on the free speech front: The “Combating Defamation of Religion” resolution was passed by the UN Human Rights Council with 23 votes in favor and 11 votes against with 13 abstentions.
The resolution was passed in spite of huge opposition from rights groups. The measure calls on the UN to "effectively combat defamation of all religions and incitement to religious hatred, against Islam and Muslims in particular."
The Bush administration strongly opposed this resolution. It's unclear what the position of Obama is... but that's par for the course.
-->Partial memory department: The religious right wants Americans to remember that for some years Congress printed copies of "The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth" for its new members. But what's not mentioned is that this was Thomas Jefferson's version of the bible with all reference to Jesus' divinity and claims of miracles cut out.