a work in progress

And Then, The Drug Thing

INT: We see a hopeless fucking junkie sitting in front of a computer in a room where many boys, having slept in sleeping bags all night on the floor, and walking nude into a bathroom to pee, and where two of them are peeing together (is this dog behavior, behavior scientists please write to me: Cinematheque@Europe.com and remember, it’s an account I never see, it gets reported to me, but never in terms of haters whose messages go directly into junk, and I assume some gnome deletes junk). So I never see it. The peeing or the junk. Junk makes my cock go hard, and cum all over the computer screen if you want to fight. Remember this is fiction. One boy is walking into the bathroom with an erection. Peeing with an erection is a rush. Peeing with someone else with an erection is a double rush that usually leads to other human activities. Can you possibly see this as a film. Angelina would laugh me out of the room, and I love her films. It cannot be done. Go ahead, tone it down. I don’t care.

The rush is in doing it with other people. Facebook does not have a let’s slam like button, but they, by now, maybe do.

I am doing it in such a way that you can view my mistakes.

Why. Because it’s performance art.

Dancing on stages and jacking off in front of an audience is old hat for me. So yesterday. Dancing on stages and jacking off in front of an audience high on LSD is old hat for me as well.

Sure, I will call you back. Who the fuck are you.

If you pay me upfront, I will tie you up, I will blow dope into your face, but your arms are tied, too, and your little dick will have to ejaculate or not, why would I care, and the door is this way.

Posing for an art class with a full erection is what we fucking do.

If you cum, it’s on you.

I used to teach sex ed in junior high schools. The boys and I get our own room. It’s their curiosity that is ridiculous. It will be the only time in their lives they really put it on the table, and everyone sees. I have seen boys walk into the classroom (we see a man, a junkie bitch whore with a thousand names, standing by the classroom door) and have to hold their little own hands because they might shake in light of the discussion yet to come. Pun intended. In front of everyone. You have never thought about it, you know, in that way, your friends are going to see your dick. OMFG. Hard again.

I kid the school districts. Do not email me.

If they can’t take a joke, fuck’em.

Sigh of relief.

Fiction is safe.

He’s only kidding school districts.

Peeing with THREE guys with hard cocks, now, slammebambi.

What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

I kid Las Vegas. The school district there is abysmal. Girlfriend, I know all those whores.

Girlfriend, don’t say girlfriend because it causes the stereotype of the gay faggot to put himself into a feminine context that demeans anyone who might want to fuck me in the ass tonight at the Stud. I have a solid relationship with the Stud which is not a leather bar at all, it’s too wild for that, the floor has almost caved in, you can see holes and down into the basement as said holes — a hole is a hole — the toilet at the stud has no door. Peeing in there is ordinary. But taking a shit in there is not that ordinary, and the smell of poppers makes it kinda cute if you are doing cocaine. And viagra.

I kid the viagra company.

Push in on the scene where Jack Scripture is giving mass in full leather drag.

No touching. Sex ed in junior high has rules. It would be too rude. If you cum in your pants, it’s on you. I sent Junkie Bitch Whore to Mach magazine for a reason. Drummer, to me, was about the slam where you could advertise like in the Village Town Crier that I will tie you up, and I get paid upfront. Mach was real it just was it just was it just was.

Readers thought I lived South of Market.

I did that one in Key West. The blood on the wall was red paint, Billy Bowers did the photographs, and the mummy was Brian whose cock I sucked in the shoot we did at the Palms. But Brian wouldn’t fuck me but he did ask me out for dinner at the Rooftop but I had no money.

Mach paid whenever Mach paid.

The only reason I got that job was because I sent the owners a thank you card (who the fuck else would do that) that I bought at Walgreens on the way home up Jones Street. I have never lived South of Market because my heart and my guns belonged to the Tenderloin.

Doing sex ed with junior high school boys was sublime. Don’t ask me what name I was because I do not remember get a clue. TCI which became ComCast was encouraging Billy and I to do a TV show that they would shoot live once a week.

We did try to do it.

But Marsha Gordon nominated me for a Pulitzer for a piece I wrote for the Weekly News in Miami.

Transparency is often a mistake, but especially with fiction. Behind the fiction, there is some kind of other shit. I have no idea what the fuck nonfiction is.

“But you set out to ruin publishing,” Vivian says because she’s a big blabbermouth.

“No, I tell her. “I set out to suggest that nonfiction is fiction and fiction is fiction, too. Publishing is patently absurd and beneath contempt.”

Let me know when all the tribal warfare is over. I am bored by affiliation. I just don’t give a fuck. I live in the South. The South will rise again. Please, shoot me. If the Scotch are thrifty, I’m okay with it. I just want their whiskey.

Publishing was ripe to stick it to them. Are you seriously going to tell me that Amazon has serious book reviewers.

No, child, it doesn’t. Amazon has morons. In San Francisco, the really vital publishing could have been in the idea of LeatherLit. The New York tribe was different. They could get published at the drop of a dildo on the disco floor. But it was all just too nice to apply the rules of sadomasochism to a class or tribe of boys from Yale who had never heard of it. As a writer and photographer, sadomasochism interested me because of the tension in the thing.

But we are all de Sade.

I wanted to say that.

Do you really think I am so stupid I thought Nasdijj could live forever.

What astounded me was that he could last an entire decade. He was first published in Advocate Men who let him get away with writing about getting fucked in the ass in New Mexico.

I did it, too. To wit. You are reading this.

Oh, yes you are.

Esquire does not believe a word of this and Anton says I am unstable.

Our TV show never got off the ground. Not because TCI didn’t want a few women in leather on the premiss. But because we were having too much sex to make it to the TV station.

Brian never did fuck me. I miss him. I did eat his asshole once. I tried finding him on Facebook with the other whores.

“Don’t say whore.”

“Why, Jack.”

“Because it stereotypes the sex worker into a more feminine social and psychological context that precludes men from fucking other men at the Eagle.”

“Jack, I got fucked a thousand times at the Eagle.”

“That is why you are a fucking whore bitch.”

“You should try it on LSD.”

“I’m never really sure if you are you.”

“At Penthouse, I am known as TR.”

“You criminal cunt.”

“She said that, too. Did I tell you about our trip to Finland TR said let’s all go to Finland where we found a leather bar in the woods for Finish midgets.”

“Say Finnish Little Person.”

“I bought red shoes there, too.”

“Red shoes in Finland, how gay.”

“That’s what the Weekly News said.”

TR died before he could get on Facebook. 10,000 friends would be nothing.

TR was as transparent as a brick wall.

The Town Crier is transparent as well because the village is a place where too many people know too many people, and they’re all over fucking Facebook.

TR taught me to write letters to the editor. We wrote a column once for Jackie whose brother was Bob at Penthouse called ASK MR. MANNERS. I think Miss Bliss agented that one.

We’re all on fucking Facebook in my head.

The camera pans around the room and we see Linsey Lohan sitting at a computer while on Facebook. She is liking comments in the Tasteless Junkies Group. Group schnoop.

Jump cut to: the man we saw in the beginning of this is now writing feverishly to a tech site in the UK.

As a heroin addict, I have a love/hate relationship to Facebook. I deeply deplore what opiates do to me. But if you put a fully loaded syringe on my desk, I would use it. Right here, right now. And then, I would want more. Even typing the word — fentanyl — causes my mouth to water. This is not a metaphor. There are only two ways for fentanyl to work. IV or it can be absorbed through the mucus membranes of the mouth. Thusly fentanyl is sold exclusively to cancer patients who are at death’s doorstep, and are in mortal agony. You can only get it if your death is imminent. Fentanyl is WAY more powerful than heroin, and is manufactured as a sugary sucker candy on a stick you rub against the inside of your mouth. If you can’t reach your mouth, a nurse will do it for you. IV fentanyl is indescribable, and I would never try writing it. The fact that you could easily die is no big deal, so what. IV fentanyl risks death, but we will take that risk because we have to. Death is nothing. The rush makes any other poppy plant product seem totally ephemeral. And if you think the drug market can limit itself to dying cancer patients, you know nothing about addiction, and a lot about Facebook, and there’s a thing. We pretend we know all about addiction. This is hubris. Fentanyl caused tumors in my mouth, and I could have cared less. My life hit rock bottom like the worst late night grade B movie starring Lindsey Lohan you have ever seen. It took years of treatment to remove the tumors. But I would do fentanyl in a New York minute if one of those suckers was in front of me. Now, that I have typed the word fentanyl several times, it will take the day for my salivary glands to recover. I never kid. Especially about addiction. I have never seen my Facebook account. I have one. But going there would be dangerous. The last Facebook account I had came with 10,000 friends. Many (perhaps all) were fellow junkies. Facebook nuked us all. It was like Big Mama said no more dope for you, bitch. Detox from fentanyl causes me to see green snakes emerge from the walls. I hate snakes. I hate Facebook, too. It disables my brain. It is so far from a moral issue, it’s laughable. Facebook is not benign. If you are reading this, your brain is different. A true junkie would never read this because they’re on Facebook. I am horrified to think I could accept the analogy that Facebook makes us happy, happy, chirpy all the way. Our brains do that. Facebook is smoke and mirrors and software numbers and when you add Big Mama’s cash to that equation, it’s an addiction. American Russophile is correct. The operant word is again and again and again. Mark Z is a drug dealer of the worst sort. We all fall in love with our drug dealers in the same neurological way we grow to love our torturers, and the military understands exactly how sadomasochism works on the human brain, no drugs other than the ones we manufacture ourselves, and that is just another quite dark way to break a human being. But this one comes with a social acceptance that is equivalent to cultural worship. We have placed Marky as the high priest of not just tech, but of life itself. If I run across a photo or video of the man by accident, I have to click him off because he makes me want to vomit as if I am back in detox with the snakes. If you want a real rush, try Facebook on fentanyl. Fentanyl was created for dying people in pain, its distribution was scientifically based in creating those standards. Legally, very few people can get it. You have to be diagnosed in such a way as to indicate you do not have much longer to live. You also have to be a able to afford it, or have health insurance that can afford it, because it costs tens of thousands of dollars. So what is the analogy here. Big Pharma to Facebook. Follow the money. The economic similarities are profound. Facebook is not free. Your computer is a syringe. The billions Facebook makes are almost shockingly similar in graphic trends as Big Pharma’s charted, expected annual income. Any Act Up member will tell you that Big Pharma’s response to confrontation is one of appeasement, not change. That is why we have antiretrovirals, and not a cure. What is the analogy here. Again, the graphs are the same when you throw into the comparison and match it to the human behavior called sex, you end up with a neurologically electrified (no metaphor) MRI image of cash. Drugs, sex, and money. Not moral issues. But issues that have caused human activity since the species began the phenomena known as trade, and there is it: the human brain on Facebook. The giddiness I find in this piece is apt. But I question the seriousness and the accuracy of articulating that giddiness as harmless to everyone or kinda amusingly surprising because that is how addicts think as well. The recovering addict will just change addictions. That is why there is no light at the end of that tunnel. I have seen this so many times, it’s almost sickening. As soon as many of us can now self-identify as “recovering,” (more socially “liked” as a label), the first thing we do is either turn the computer on (or buy one), and where do you think we go. In junkie jargon, this is called slamming, and it’s a magnificent rush because it immediately puts you in touch with other slammers electrified on Facebook. It’s like TOR being driven by GOOGLE. I am not making that up. TOR will tell you right upfront they are driven by GOOGLE. What no one wants to talk about is that we are also driven by Facebook. There’s another powerful analogy in this scenario, and we call that food. Thank you for reading this rant, and thank you, thank you, for the hit.

So what happened.

I have this almost scary (it scares me, anyway) ability to walk away because I have had to learn how to walk away so many times, I am The Man Who Walked Away.

Suicide is to walk away from life.

At the moment, I have a very close relationship with someone who is suicidal. I am not hopeful because this kind of depression is so rock bottom, the brain which has been overdosed on stuff like adrenalin, is now absolutely depleted, and getting out of bed is a task Hercules would be spent for. Adrenalin is a very, very addictive drug. Your brain can learn how to make it. Fight or flight or just getting high.

And then, there are the flee bees like in Romper Room..

I could flee my father pretty damn well. He would even take me to places where we’d truck my bike out and I would ride away and not come back for months.

I could handle the bike. It was awesome. That freedom. But I could not handle being alone.

I was okay as long as I was literally on the bike and people could drink in my leather and my naked chest. You can have sex on a bike, but it’s overrated.

Like most addictions, I miss the bike.

A woman in a Cadillac (about seventy with blonde hair) hit me in an intersection, it was a hit, and run, and I was on my back in the middle of the street when she hit the accelerator and drove away. It was raining at the time, and I was both bloody and drenched. Eating concrete and my bike is in pieces.

Obviously, no one was going to help me, and so I had to stagger myself upright, and walk away. I should have gone to the hospital, but I had no health insurance. The cops were not amused. What I did have was a concussion, abrasions, and broken bones. But my dad had broken all my bones before so I knew those would heal. Perhaps not correctly but what the fuck.

People who have great health insurance take it for granted.

Dodge is nothing.

Today, I ride around the cemetery on my bicycle with the boys and pretend I’m still hot.

The extent of the pretense. You have no idea.

I sold the last bike for food.

If I walk away from boys who remind me of myself, both my friend and I will kill ourselves. I am serious.

They are knights in shining armor and I am no Katherine Hepburn.

Appalachia works for me because most families have twelve children. This nothing. Certainly, it’s not unusual. And the kindness of strangers keeps it funded and alive.

The numbers on this thing astound me. That anyone would read it at all. I have no idea who you are, or why you read it. The typos are crazy because I have huge fingers, my dick is pretty big, too, and, really, I should be using this iPhone with my dick.

You see, it’s humor that allows me to put on my panty hose and walk away. Always leave them laughing.

Laughter is a neurological rush as well.

Georgie is retarded. He got us into trouble on a poetry blog.

I tell them this: I am not your mother.

Georgie now lives with a relative in Croatia. The war there had left him homeless and with HIV.

If you think that truckers with HIV are a problem, like in Indiana, try an army that just moves in.

Slogans like — AIDS-free Generation — have little effect on armies with guns and tanks. And men who will fuck anything in sight.

I think my friend will jump. There are children involved. The neurological committment to cyclical depression is more committed than the committment to parenting. Jumping in front of your children will so fuck them up that the cycle will simply pass from the parent to the kids.

What we do here is attack the problem night and day. 24/7. Every person in this small house has tried to kill themselves multiple times. Sometimes, I jump in there and fight alongside the rest of them. And sometimes, I secretly think: maybe they’re better off dead because they are in such mortal pain.

Sometimes, a few of them will dream the same dream for a few years where in varied and infantile ways, they dream they kill themselves. I know one devastated family whose son did it in a diaper. The final fuck all of you. Antiretrovirals like Sustiva keep these neurons firing like Vladimir Putin with a Remington 700. They learn to hate sleep. I have been waiting for twenty years for an alternative to Sustiva. Now, I doubt that it will happen because Big Pharma is addicted to the money it makes on a monthly basis.

One way to intervene in suicide is to stick two people in the same sleeping bag. It is hard to kill yourself when someone is holding you. Then, we will work you out on bikes in the cemetery. In an attempt to cause your brain to produce adrenalin.

I would have been dead a long time ago if I had been a hopeful person. Today, my expectations are so low, I am rarely disappointed. The cops eye us in the cemetery. We ignore them.

We literally walk (don’t run) away.

I did this on the Appalachian trail in Maine with a Bull Moose once. I had no idea they could be dangerous, and they will attack you.

I just moved away very slowly.

And then quickly up a tree.

I am still hugging that tree. Looking down.

EXT: We see a flaming idiot stuck in a tree in Maine.

Again, it was like hiding in plain sight.

The boys fall in love with my dogs for about the first two weeks. Then, it’s over. I am not a fool. I only look like one.

Let us remove the romanticism. The day will come when the boy forgets to feed the dog.

It’s something we have to do together.

I walk away from bonding, too. I am not good with the dying. If you are dying, I will assemble a small army to create an assembly line of cooking tuna casseroles the almost dead usually throw up all over everything if they so much as smell it.

The best idea ever invented is called Scotch, and it is made by ten thrifty but cute red-headed Scotch boys in kilts who moon anyone who sees them.

For a country where everyone in it is fucking cheap, they make great whiskey in great vats of cheese. This is what gives Scotch its flavor. I am not allowed to wear a kilt.

Mainly, I just walked away from drugs.

I have no idea why, but I would almost rather live.

I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in twenty years. You live with Sustiva. It does act like LSD, but not the good kind. Sustiva feels like a batch of LSD where bear piss and moose shit has been poured into the Scoth fermenting in the cheese, and now you have a new cocktail the HIV will run from. Once you’ve tasted Sustiva, you will never forget the thing.

But I am an adult.

Now, let us look at these same issues but in the context of a fourteen-year-old boy who has left his support system and has been getting fucked in the ass by suburban men with families, and such boy shares these wages with a pimp who also fucks him silly, and loves to beat him up, and the kid becomes suicidal when he finds out he is infected. What does this mean.

It means he might end up in a sleeping bag with another naked boy who also takes Sustiva to keep his viral load down to the undetectable level.

What I have told the FDA and Big Pharma a thousand times is that it’s more LSD research that should compel us to know more.

I have suggested that Google hire poets, they hire everyone else, poets need free food, and I have also suggested that it could be LSD itself that we add to the Sustiva cocktail versus going down the path of making Sustiva void of the very properties that suppress HIV even through the brain barrier. But no. Google doesn’t listen anymore than Big Pharma does. We end up with an endless array of nightmares for young boys who are (the difficult to reach) and unemployed junkie poets on drugs. You figure. Knowing more asbout LSD could help. But it’s a moral dilemma for the FDA because the Baptists of Oklahoma, Indiana, and North Carolina are such tweaky little pricks, we are not allowed. I wish a bunch of truckers from Nashville would drive to Indiana, get everyone hooked on meth, and infected with needles (not sex because no one in these places has any), but, oh, we already did that.

People who had never been loved were not loved.

Extermination was in the singing of the wind — people watched the burning of the witches and the warlocks and the prophets in their doom, a few stars half-lit, alien, the people with the golf-course lawns dark stretches heavy with the stench like honey and oil, pulling like the shallows, forty million people had once had HIV, and just when we were all told, it was going down, no one wanted to say how far down, the emails between the CDC and the DOD whistle-blowed their fields to harvest showing clearly we had been lied to they had laughed the way they always laugh who you gonna call, Mexico. Mexico was bags along. Inanimate in the minor house of necessity requisite in the hostile silence. Unhinged. The numbers had been going up — new infections — and the tipping point stood at the foreign edge of the beast and outer space. 40 million meant 100 million. Traces of dust falling softly to parched ground and long vicious twisted weeds then praying.

The prayers above the cities would rip the air.

Indiana was a big long scroll of lists and the plunged lovers on their silken thrones and churches, churches could keep their non-profit taxation status religion before before. All they had to do was meet their annual quota of infected hands that could plunge a sword as well. Extermination began but no one knew when or how or why standing in your driveway, hands driven in pockets, people who had never smoked did now, and they just stood there, oblivious of princes. For three or four days — sometimes until they dropped, and often just dropped dead, and it was growing more and more common.

What I love about Indiana’s response to an explosion of HIV in a rural context is that when you go to get your new, clean syringe, you have to arrive with your identification which they summarily xerox.

There are junkies in a ditch somewhere along I-75 laughing.

The system never stops trying. But we do. Usually, we pick ourselves up again. We can usually smell the boys who arrive with anal gonorrhea. A drooling rectum salt and stitches. Ribs rub the body of the handle. Splits in two. Brains like clams within their chambers. It only was. People were used to it. Hanging and yellow wristbands.

You have no idea the skills we use to not interface with authority. They will send us back to Mexico. They will send us to porison where there is no HIV and no drugs, and they will send us to Sunday school in the Baptist church of their choice.

They will bust your balls and bust you down and beat the shit out of you with clubs and if you think they give a flying fuck about seeing themselves on le Tube, you do not understand how authority acts when challenged.

There is nothing I can do about the fact that some kid could be, possibly is, an addict. If you think that I can assume an authority over addiction’s well-established domain because Jesus wants the junkies to behave, chances are, you’re a stupid Baptist. Islam has nothing on a Baptist. One believes you deserve to die and the other one believes you are going to hell anyway. Pick one.

I would rather walk away.

One baby step at a time and then climb the nearest oak tree. You can sit up here with me and the other monkeys and we all make great monkeymeat.

You go put some suicidal kid on a bicycle he rides around and around and around in. You sleep with him in a sleeping bag on the floor. You sell your bike to buy him food.

I blame the world.

You can’t even admit that the family as an idea has failed, that there are boys who get thrown out into the street like dog shit, where they are infected by the (family) men who fuck them, and where getting fucked in the hole buys you a pizza, so why not just come on over and we will buy you the pizza and you don’t have to get fucked because we don’t know you and aren’t too interested in fucking you until we think you might be worthy of being loved by people who lie with their contention that everyone is worthy of being loved when, in fact, we have to see something of your behavior before we get that close.

Just like any other family.

The policy around here is that it’s a self-regulating system. Everyone is responsible for himself because drug users hate washing dishes and doing laundry and we are only going to wash your skidmark underpants so many times before we say things like bitch do it yourself.

It is a matter of survival. We kill pimps and traffickers because we are good at it and no one else will. We want them dead. We want them dead now.

How is that a secret.


This is a work of fiction. Images and video via Show Me Your Life(Real Stories Gallery Foundation Non-Profit Initiative), Smash Street Art Program for boys at risk with HIV. Research Project: How Children at Risk Use the Internet. Non-profit Classroom Teaching Application: Fair Use: Multi-media Artistic Materials in an Instructional Setting. International Digital Millennium Act.

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