YEAR OF THE COCK

While going through my old journals, I found a record of my famous New Orleans trip of some years back. I really should have published this stuff, in retrospect. I guess it was just too incriminating at the time...

Anyway, here are some highlights of what I'd written regarding a one-night stand I trapsed around with most the day, and her obnoxious friend who tagged along when we went down to the Absinthe bar:

Jet-black raven hair and jet-set powder skin softly framed cheeks hungry for all her pierced, flaring nostrils hungered for: Bad Angel Powder, the Devil’s Parties and powder kegs of sin. Her lovely eyes twinkled with nothing, sparkling in the hollow that her smile so often hid. Pouting post-vamp lips scrunched and puckered often when she’d lost track of her sneer. They know only how to speak to fools, despite the face she stared through at the time. She spoke often, and mostly when she had nothing to say, though her pierced tongue cruelly skewered my sewer dreams to screw her, it seemed smoke still seeped from the lid… She tagged along for hours like the fools her lips could only speak to…following my groping Id and the swinging chain of a wallet poorly stuffed with change from several stores. Like a sock in the front pocket, heavy wallets are the single guy’s best friend, feeding the libido best when it is roughly just as fat.

***

I tried hard to like Nick, for the sake of Lydia, and later, of peace—and perhaps for the sake of a piece of Lydia later. But this pretentious whining imp who somehow won her friendship burned though any rational sense of patience and control that I contained. He was a nervous pecker of a person, with eyes that googled, though he was anything but plush. He claimed to have been “everywhere.” How such elaborate travel was funded without a job, and with a hungry needle in tow, was indeed amazing. He faked a slight British accent at times, and ranted about how this or that or everything “chaffed his bum.” Irritant unto the chaffing of any random bottom was his pretension, and the man it hid behind. He left us now and again to inject himself, like a redneck leaves mid-conversation for a beer. As such, he was less man than Miller Commercial, as that High Life that was slow demise shot and trickled through his numb veins and numbing membranes like an overdue morning piss.

All that did not chaff my bum was Lydia; it was she alone who moved my queasy, greasy heart to foster one damned grin before it festered, or I drooled. She was all that flustered paradise, like rosy beaten or blushing toddler cheeks; and all that offered joy or warmness were her tattooed breasts and buttocks, a pierced tongue and a pierced clitoris—and the dream of making one moist as the other. It was the promise of soft spangled heavens, war and famine so warm and feminine, that became the very urge in urgency—the force in and for the sake of the forsaken. She was fear and trembling, and rambling speech; the lust for life and living in sin; an aching joint before the storm; the hope of suction and of crudely sloshing within the puckered void where speech was born.
And it came to pass that upon coming, I would come to pass on for countless twitching hours a great and terrible Peace I felt from her name and my ignorance: it was that I knew her name, and it was Lydia; and that I knew nothing else at all about her, other than she did not know me, either. Great and terrible indeed was this piece of Peace, and of ass—it was a piece that passes all understanding.

I knew not her faith or creed, yet knew the name of every god she called for when she screamed. And so it was, that God knew the number of hairs upon her head; and that I would know the number and location of every birthmark, and the shapes that each would make when squeezed from an infinity of angles. And as I ravaged as reprobate the image of God among the Godless, I swiftly and with Heaven’s hellfire would eat the flesh of a perfect sacrifice—as the lips of the devoted shook and shivered from the gift of tongues… It was here that nipples were erect and temples were defiled, where dreams and visions of pale steeds and scarlet whores gave sight to the blind and bound, and soothing aloe to the handcuffed... Where the erect Elect took up their cross as handmaidens took off their clothes… Where the knees of those who knelt were ground to thin stigmata while the master gnawed on any ears that were to hear, all that I would whisper here—sweet nothings, precious else and the lonely now. For, by grace, the Lonely Now was yesterday.

***

Sweet Pickled Jesus, I must have been high....

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