Unscrupulously, Fucking in Neck High Water

 

 

Let’s start from the beginning, the beginning of life.

Between 3700 and 2500 million years ago, you wouldn’t recognize the planet earth, the continents, the oceans, or the atmosphere. 

During this time the atmosphere was bombarded by electric storms and ultraviolet rays of the Sun. 

The thunder collaborates with the sun's ultraviolet rays, giving birth to elements via chemical reactions, and turning them into macromolecules able to feed themselves and reproduce. 

Life is born.

I was born forty-four years ago thanks to the miracle known as reproduction.

Reproduction is the biological process by which new individual organisms are produced from their parents. It’s the fundamental feature of all known life.

Each individual organism exists as the result of reproduction. 

In the heat of the moment, most homo sapiens are so captivated with fornication that they forget it's for reproduction. 

My Cuban wife Lucia and I have spent thousands of dollars on contraceptives of every shape, size, and kind.

We don’t want a kid. Lucia’s afraid, and nervous, to give birth. She's apprehensive about— stretchy vagina, stretch marks, and getting fat. She’s vain. 

We have two Chihuahuas, they’re our kids, they're tuition and diaper-free, and non-stick-like Teflon.

For a mega-second time travels to a different dimension, you’re two inches tall, inside the TV set and on-screen at the Hooterville General Store— where Sue Drucker is behind the counter, nattering with Ralph, Shiela Burns, Mr. Haney, and Alf Monroe.

Lucia's having an erotic flashback in the shower— she’s fucking Dirk the Lifeguard in the sea during high tide, it’s pleasing, the fine granules of sand grade on her body as he rubs against her. 

It’s a flashback, what you desire but isn't— she knows Dirk’s a slut, everyone in town knows.

This town is boring you to tears

Nothing in the world ever happens here

It’s all right hey lawdy mama, it’s all right

Don’t you know you gotta help

Nothing ever happens by itself

Hey lawdy mama

                          Steppenwolf, Live Steppenwolf 

Maxine— How about a rum coco? 

Shannon— No, no, I want some cold water. If I start drinking rum cocos now I won't stop drinking rum cocos. (The bus horn is heard blowing from below)

Maxine— Why doesn’t your busload of women come on up here instead of blowing that bus horn down there? 

Shannon— Let em blow it, blow it (Bus horn blows again, he sways a little) HANK! HANK! GET THEM OUT OF THE BUS AND BRING EM UP HERE, TELL EM THE RATES ARE OK.

Are they getting out of the bus or staying in it, the stingy daughters of bitches, school teachers at a Baptist female college in Blowing  Rock, Texas.

Maxine— here they come, a football squad of old maids.

Shannon—Yeah, and I’m the football.

                 a segment from Act I         

                 of The night of the Iguana            

                 Tennessee Williams

I was going to write a mini-bio on Tennessee but didn't. If you’re interested, read The Tennessee William's Sugar Bowl, here, on this blog.

Last night, in a dream, I met a girl, a grad student in Seattle on the banks of Lake Washington.

The two of us were queuing at an ATM machine—wrapped in a black cape she crouches and a sagging tit tumbles into my hand, then we're groping.  

In no time we’re transported, riding on a mist of air to the entrance of her room on the bank of Elliot Bay, an odd structure, open in the front and covered with strips of thick plastic.

Things feel witchy, I walk a patch of grass to hang my overcoat on a tree branch, and three deadheads show. I disappear into the mist I rode in on, feeling horny.

In bed at my Key West house, half-awake, half-asleep, I roll over and fuck Lucia— one of those fucks you love, a superlunary fuck, neither here nor there. 

The same morning over Jack and coffee in the kitchen she asks, 

did you fuck me this morning Querido?

Yes, I fucked you thinking it was a girl in Seattle.

Was she a good fuck? 

Yes, of course, dream fucks are the best.

Better than me Henry? 

Baby, no one is better than you, you’re my Latino sex-machine.

I’m a machine Querido? With no heart and soul? 

I adore you, darling, don’t think too much, where are we going today? 

Dog Beach, 

OK let’s clean up. 

We shower and change, choosing beachwear, Lucia picks out a lime-colored thong and wears a T on top. I wear cutoffs with a tank top that reads, 

LAZY IS A QUEER WORD 

I PREFER TO CALL IT

SELECTIVE PARTICIPATION

Come on, let’s take the Vespa, I’m too loaded to drive.

Lucia straddles the scooter, I hop on the back, at Dog Beach she parks on Vernon Ave. 

We're greeted by our friend Lazy Carlos. He slips us a joint and we grab a couple of beach chairs and a large umbrella, dragging the goods to an area between two tall coconut trees, parking ourselves there.

Lucia takes off her T, laying on her back— most of her large chest is exposed, she covers her nipples with loose bits of dried coconut husk. 

I light the joint, take a long hit and pass it to her. 

After a few hits we're tripping— the sky turns yellow, raining minnows on the shore. The little-bitty fish sprout tiny legs and crawl back into the sea. I ask Lucia,

did you see that? She answers, 

see what? 

The minnows with little legs crawling into the sea. 

No bebe, your tripping, I’ve been playing with my nipples— my pussy’s dripping wet.

I grab her hand, she pulls her top up— her nipples push thru the material as though they're sprouting.

We swim out into the surf until the seawater is at neck level. I drop my cutoffs and bone her from behind, grabbing both tits with my hands, pushing and rubbing. 

In a few minutes, seemingly longer, I blow a blistering wad inside her. As she screams as Dirk the Lifeguard blows his whistle, signaling us to come ashore. 

Dirk's jealous, he would rather be fucking my wife than playing lifeguard.

Sneezing Thru it.

 

I’ve been breezing through an issue of Gaucho Magazine, a special issue lorded over by a lady editor and poetess featuring the work of convict poets. The big-time gal comments rather harshly saying,

these men failed to rise, seemingly, above their circumstances. All they write about is wanting to get out of jail, and why they shouldn’t be there.

Her highness should try— sitting in the can for years and not getting out, not looking at the stars at night, being powerless to sneak away to a corner bar for a shot of whiskey. 

Does she know what it means to walk back and forth in the same cell no matter what you say or yell out to your keeper? Or, what's it's like to live in a cell, knowing the only way out is death or insanity?

Unless you've been to jail, you can't know what it's like.

I'm at home in bed, not in jail. Millions of men and women in the world are doing time as this story's being told.

God bless the blind poets and poetesses doing time because they can’t look up at the moon for inspiration.

God bless your computer and typewriter— they are faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

I’ve been reading William S. Burrough's book Naked Lunch, and I gotta fix on how Bill writes, the process of it.

 

Old Ray Lee gets up from the sofa and walks to the rotting wood-framed window of his apartment on West 11th and 63 Street, closing the flower print curtains, then going to his desk and sitting down, relaxing, then fixing easy with a surgeon's steady hand.

William corkscrews into the land of nod, riding a magic carpet through the misty air only junkies breathe. In Naked Lunch, he writes about boys, he admires them.

A boy came in and sat at the counter in broken lines of long, sick junk-wait. The Sailor shivered. His face fuzzed out of focus in a shuddering brown mist. His hands moved on the table, reading the boy’s Braille. His eyes traced little dips and circles, following whorls of brown hair on the boy’s neck in a slow, searching movement.

Ray Lee writes selfishly in Naked Lunch, showing off, writing about opium dreams.  

Junky reads even better than Lunch, it’s Burroughs talking about the street and scoring in more concrete terms.

I've had writer's block for the past week, things are blurry. When you can't write you you feel washed up. 

TODAY'S  different, I'm typing at the speed of sound.

Last night was burning hot.

Have you met your soulmate in a dream? The Book of Dreams says soulmate dreams signal newfound love.

When soulmates have wet dreams, in a dream, and cum together. That's LOVE.

There is nothing as immaculate as a wet dream. 

Nevertheless, the American Medical Association macerates wet dreams labeling night emissions industrial diseases, reporting the following—

Some people believe that wet dreams reduce the size of the person’s penis, or can cause clitoral shrinkage. However, there is no scientific evidence for this.

There are no illnesses, conditions, or natural occurrences that will cause the male reproductive organ to shrink. 

While masturbation may reduce the number of wet dreams a person experiences, it does not guarantee a person will never experience them.

Evidence linking masturbation and wet dreams is lacking, but a person can experiment to see if it helps in their situation.

Try masturbating before bed for a week or more, followed by the same length of time without masturbating, to see if there is a difference in the frequency of wet dreams. 

Por el amor de Cristo, the American Medical Association is a gaggle of fist-fuckers.

Jack Kerouac penned Vanity of Dulouz while he worked as a cub reporter in Lowell, Massachusetts before going to Columbia University on a football scholarship.

A few decades later, during an NPR interview, he reminisced about the novel, his first, written when he was in high school.

At noon when everyone left the tacking editorial office, and I was alone, I snuck out the pages of my secret novel and continued writing it. It was the greatest fun I ever had, writing, in my life because I had just discovered James Joyce and I was imitating Ulysses, trying to write stream of consciousness. It was about the day-to-day doings of nothing in particular of Bob, me, Pater my Pa, the sportswriters on the Sun, all my buddies down at the saloons at night, the girls I went out with, and the movies I saw.

South of Lowell in Key West Florida, my Cuban wife Lucia is on a fucking spree, we're in an open relationship.

A lot of the regular women at Dog Beach have hard feelings for Dirk the lifeguard, his body's tan and laced with sinew muscle like a Kentucky Derby thoroughbred. 

It's no surprise that Lucia ran away with Dirk— the quick lovers are doin the horizontal polka at the Fountainbleau as we speak.

I could say I don’t care but I do, when we agreed to have an open marriage, I was drunk and would have agreed to anything and now I’m stuck with the deal. 

Dog Day Afternoon's on TV: Lucia looks radiant as she walks into the living room. I ask her,

how was Dirk the Lifeguard? 

I missed you Henry, doing the bolo with Dirk the Lifeguard wasn't much fun, he has body oder.

Not fun, but fun, right? So how big was his cock? 

It was just an itty bitty cock, you are hung like a burro next to him. Turn off the TV, let’s smoke marihuana in the hot tub, and hump like conejos on the patio lawn. 

While humping Lucia in the backyard I wondered— if Sal and Sonny escaped to paradise on the jet plane? Where they shot by Murphy the FBI agent? Were they sent to Riker’s Island? Did Sonny live happily ever after with his androgynous wife Maria? 

Later, in a few days, I forgot about the film and fucking Lucia.

Sometimes things you think are epoch-making at the time ain't much at all in THE END—

Writing in First-Person Confessional

 

I read somewhere that,

while strolling through the desert one morning, Dorothy came upon an old Navajo man painting pictures in the sand and she asked,

what's the job of the artist? The Navajo answers, 

an artist provides what life does not. 

We of the literary world like to feel we are not here to wrangle and claw but to create.

Writers on Twitter will tell you they write because they have to— they're addicts you know.

Whatever you do, don’t tell me about insanity, I wrote a short story about a man who had a toilet seat fetish and painted a smiley face on the lid. 

Sometimes he’d spend hours in the loo whispering sweet nothings to the thunderbox. One day, his wife called 911  because she was locked out of the WC. Desperate, she shits in a pot, squatting, in the kitchen, before the first responders got there.

Eventually, the poor guy, let’s call him Wet Willy, went to see a hypnotherapist hoping it would help him forget his loo obsession, but, it was no help— as soon as the session was over, Wet Willy ran home to be with his toilet seat.

Then ole Willy stopped going to work because he couldn't handle being separated from his lover, the ta ta seat.

Not surprisingly, his wife Loony, left him, because Wet Willy ignored her and she got tired of running next door to pooh, it was embarrassing.

One day, a meter reader noticed a foul odor coming from Willy boy's house and called the fire department, who knocked down the front door and ran upstairs, finding poor Willy dead with his head in the toilet bowl. 

No one knows for sure why or how Wet Willy drowned in his toilet bowl, but some people think he was partaking in a love ritual with his honey-lover-chamber-pot.

I hope this story is proof if you need proof that I’m bats. Not certifiably— but, bats to share this dumb story with you.

I’m going to lock myself in the garage with a fifth of Jack Daniels and bottle of Tramadol, roll the top of my Cadillac down, blow the speakers, sit in the bitch seat, and type on my Smith Corona like a trucker gone on bennies. Because I have an itch to talk things out, line by line, not for you, but for myself— GARBAGE TALK BABY.

I have always been pretty much outside it all. My writing is transgressive— outside the parameters of orthodox fiction.

Nothing seems real to me— insects, women, cornfields, sun or moon, sex, candy. 

Even death is surreal to me. One time I visited the charity ward of Coney Island Hospital with a midget friend who was a circus clown. The ward was horrifying, a place for the soon-to-be-dead to crawl around in. A purgatory on earth where the dying lay in the stink of their sheets for days waiting for a nurse to appear.

Even my friend the midget clown, going through routine after routine— with sweat beading through his pancake makeup, didn’t get any laughs— dying is serious business, outside the perimeter of day-to-day living, it's a time when normal people are railroaded outside.

Only the thousands on Twitter who read my stories at busted-on-empty know I’m a writer. But, I keep hoping AOC or Biden will phone and ask me to email them a campaign speech or something. I’ve been mulling over a eulogy for Biden’s funeral, something like—

Scranton Joe was born in a shoebox on top of a Pennsylvania landfill— by the time he made it to the Whitehouse he had more shoes than Elton John, all of them black.

America’s son did things in a big way— his mistakes were epic and his successes were few.

His lovely wife Jill, who’s sitting in the front row tonight, is a doctor of something, but, no one knows what.

Joe died while in office like Lincoln, Kennedy, and Roosevelt, a member of an exclusive club— let us pray for Scranton Joe.

I haven’t been feeling good (SHTICK WARNING SOUNDING). I need an operation for one of my maladies but can’t afford to go to the hospital. I never get genteel clean diseases you can chat about over a cup of tea, like a heart attack, stroke, or amnesia, but instead, for me, it's hemorrhoids, madness, boils, ingrown toenails, and rotten teeth. 

Life is avoidance of pain until death.

Life is love between two people that only go one way— one is always the master and the other the slave. 

Death is the master of life.

There are days, rare days, when I lay in bed in a fit of depression, afraid to get out of bed, knowing something dreadful is going to happen, something waiting around the bend.

Christmas Day, today— is one of those days. I’m spending the day in bed drinking Jack from the bottle and popping Tramadol. I’m afraid to go out on the streets because people on the streets are whacky, Christmas is something they have to do, if they had a lick of sense they’d pass it up.

The residues of Indian Summer have evaporated and we are stuck fast enduring Christmas and it smacks of something with razor-sharp teeth.

There is no way out of our present impasse, not just Christmas Day, but every day. Anyone whose eyes are truly open sees the horrors that surround us— it's so fucking lousy that I can't talk about it. 

Right now, I’m getting a little loaded, being loaded inspires me. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. And, honestly, I don't think much about right and wrong— allowing my well-lubed prefrontal lobe to do the job.

I want to bring this story— my confessional in first-person style experiment to an end, so I'll say good night to my esteemed readers.

We Three Kings

Some Christmas memories are atypical and have nothing to do with—garlands, cozy fireplaces, ornate cookies, eggnog, the giving of stuff, and mistletoe. 

This is a story about a seasonal memory that has everything to do with the magic of youthful adventure and little to do with Christmas.

Henry and his parents traveled to Acapulco from Mexico City on Christmas eve,1966, staying at The Las Hamacas Hotel, across the street from Acapulco Bay in the central city.

The Lucowski family show at the small-time hotel in a pink Cadillac limousine at 10 AM, checking in and going to the canopied dining area by the pool for a late breakfast. 

The hotel serves a homespun and memorable breakfast— freshly baked hard rolls, Churros or Mexican donuts, sliced avocados, tomatoes and cucumbers, bananas, fresh strawberry papaya, eggs, bacon, and brewed coffee. All of it served in a fun, relaxed manner on tables covered with white linen. 

The Mexican waiters wearing white chaquetas and black pantalones are known for their dark sense of humor— directed at each other and the gringo guest. 

Like, telling a woman with a wig on, 

señora your hair is bonita! 

Or, saying to a kid who isn't eating,

Niño, finish your breakfast or Papá Noel is going to bring you coal for Christmas. 

And, telling an elderly woman who's dining with her husband, 

señora, take it easy on the Red Snapper your eating, he looks like your husband.

After breakfast, Henry walks across the street to a taco bar on the bay, and his parents shop for souvenirs, crap really— bogus machetes that couldn’t cut butter, silver from Taxco that turns green by the time you get home, cheap sombreros wrapped with Shrink Wrap, making them look costly, and so on. 

Anyway, Henry's sitting at a taco bar on Acapulco Bay drinking a beer at a small table. He puts a hand full of pesos in a jukebox filled with 45 RPM records, the hippy music of the day— Sopwith Camel, Strawberry Alarm Clock, Hendrix, The Doors, and Jefferson Airplane. 

At 16 he’s an easily tempted, astute lover of everything native— psychedelic music, incense, exotic and erotic literature, who’s constantly reading— Hemingway, Henry Miller, Anis Nin, William Faulkner, William Butler Yeats, Kerouac, and even the Kama Sutra, still a virgin though.    

He notices a young couple approaching, crossing the street, coming from his hotel, they are walking arm in arm. As they pass he leans towards them, asking them to sit down, they oblige.  

They're siblings, Juan and Moon, 16 and 15 respectively, also staying at The Las Hamacas Hotel.

Moon’s fetching, willowy with long chestnut hair, wearing glasses, looking nymph-like, a child who's becoming a woman. Her older brother Juan is cool, lean, tanned, with long sideburns, his hair parted in the middle, a member of the Carte Blanca surf club of Southern California.

After a beer, Juan sees a shadowy figure walking the beach who locals call El Mago, The Magician. 

Juan stands, running to catch up with El Mago, then walking down the shore with him.

Henry and Moon talk over beers at the cafe, for them, love is in the air.

When Juan returns, he sits down at the small table, the lover’s trance fades as he says, 

look under the table.  

Juan flashes a plastic bag full of golden buds, Acapulco Gold. Henry was familiar with ganja, having read about it in Kerouac’s On the Road, and Henry Miller’s book Big Sur.

At sundown, the trio walks across the street to The Las Hamacas Hotel, going to Juan and Moon’s room. Their mother is staying next door and she respects their privacy. Something, Henry’s parents didn’t see as an innate right of youth.  

They sit on the single beds at the center, facing each other as Juan rolls a joint. Eventually, he lights it, instructing the nascent lovers on the art of taking a pull.

Draw steady, hold the smoke in long enough for it to flow through your veins, heart, and brain. Whatever you do, don’t fish lip the joint. Moon laughs at her brother saying,

fish lip? Where'd you dig that up? 

After smoking awhile, they laugh at nothing, and anything— exaggerated, fun, laughter. 

Finishing the doobie, the trio walks through the patio door to the pool, sitting poolside with their legs dangling in it, tossing fallen flower peddles into the blue water, watching ripplets expand outwards as their chakras open magnifying their senses. 

Henry stands on the poolside, bolting to his hotel room, returning with a paperback copy of Yeat's The Land of the Heart’s Desire, going to the diving board and standing at the end, reading out loud.

Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!  

Juan and Moon stand and applaud.

On Christmas Day they wake at sunrise, giving their parents the run-around, taking a taxi to a beach on the Pie de la Cuesta coast. There's a rundown film location behind the beach where scenes of Johnny Weissmuller's last Tarzan film were shot by RKO in 1948.

The beach is packed with Mexicans who went to Mass on Christmas Eve to honor the Baby Jesus.

Going to the beach on Christmas Day helps the Mexicans to shake off the stifling circumstance of praying for hours in church pews the night before.

You can hear Ranchero music blaring from beachside cantinas, shacks made of bamboo and thatched straw roofs serving, fresh grilled chicken and fish, tortillas, refried beans, rice, beer, tequila, and soft drinks.

Juan, Henry, and Moon walk away from the crowd to an isolated area of the beach with a single cantina. They place a large Las Hamacas bedspread on the sand, strip down to their swimsuits, and drink Pacifico beer.

Juan body surfs while the precocious teens, Henry and Moon, talk about esoterica— 

What is life? 

Is there a God? 

Did Martians create the human race?

The young lovers bond intellectually, physically though, their both virgins.

At sunset, the trio catches a taxi back to The Los Hamacas Hotel and go to their room. The virgin lovers lay in one single bed and Juan passes out on the other. 

At this point, Henry's parents were missing him and suspected something was going on.

Henry and Moon make out on the bed, breathing hard, deep kissing, fumbling, confused, finally getting naked under the sheets— getting closer to first-time coitus.   

Hit and miss, he locates Moon’s pink taco and gently puts the meat to it, getting off in record-breaking time, 30 seconds. She's surprised, shaken some, and she can't recollect feeling anything.

As for Henry, he couldn't have pulled it off if he hadn't read the Kama Sutra.

In that it was their first time, the lovers clean up more than they need to, Moon spends 40 minutes in the shower. 

They walk out the patio door to the pool. Henry’s mother, Linda, is waiting and she corners him. He realizes he missed Christmas diner with his parents and she reads him the riot act,  

Henry, what were you doing in THAT hotel room with THAT girl? Where have you been for the last two days? Your father and I have been worried sick. You could have left a note at least.

She smacks him around, cross-slapping him European style on both cheeks in front of Moon. 

He's more embarrassed than hurt.

His mother goes on with the sermonizing, she’s juiced on Martinis.

Henry, you missed Mass. It's Christmas Day, a time for families to be together, to pay respect to the Lord. I can smell beer on your breath, and God knows what you've been doing with THAT girl? Go to confession tonight.

Linda opens her purse and pulls out a Rosary, handing it to him, knowing her son is beyond hope and backsliding. He says to her, 

Ma are you on a sainthood crusade? 

Speechless, his mother does an about-face and goes to meet his father somewhere.

In spite of missing Mass, Christmas Dinner, and getting chewed out by his mother, the happenings over the last few days are an awakening for Henry.

Maybe, the magic of new love discovered was paramount to— garlands, cozy fireplaces, ornate cookies, eggnog, the giving of stuff, and mistletoe.  

Juan, Henry, and Moon— We Three Kings, or Two Kings and Queen, win the crapshoot of life, this time around anyway.