Illiterate Whore

I was not objective.

Since I loved him, I did not believe that he was illiterate. I did not believe it. Since I loved him, I did not believe the school reports. I did not believe them. Since I loved him, the last people I was going to believe would be educators. I did not believe them.

Do I appear to be a stupid person to you. I am not your mother. I am not your guru. And I am not the Shell Answer Man.

He had been doing sex work for years and his teachers never knew it.

This is where I get attacked for being sex-negative. I would support the right of any adult who wanted to do sex work. I have done sex work.

What I question is sex work being done by kids. I have trouble with it. How is it that young boys always seem to end up with pimps.

Pimps, of course, who do nothing but look out for the boy’s best interests.

Let me say this about that. I have known thousands of pimps. I have never met one who was so much as aware of what the whore’s best interest might be. Whores need to be slapped around. Boys who did not want to be controlled by their father were now controlled by pimps who fucked them and sold them to other men. Most fathers do not arrive at this or anything like it, but some do. It would not occur to any pimp I have known that a whore might matter. It’s a perfect match made in heaven. A young boy filled contempt for himself, and a pimp who feels contempt for the little whore as well.

It was an accident. I did absolutely nothing to facilitate him to want to read. It did not come from me. I had nothing to do with it.

“There weren’t too many books at the Las Vegas motel I lived in,” he explained.

Go back and read any number of my rants on American life, and you will find a lot of references I throw around like the fact that there are a million homeless kids in the US. That figure has been revised by the latest census. There are now two-and-a-half million homeless kids in America. Some of us were screaming that it was going to get a lot worse and then it did. Heroin in Vegas costs less than gummy bears. He shit and puked his guts out in detox which is also known as Cold Turkey for two whole weeks. For two weeks, he was never too far from a toilet. He did not go fishing. He did not go swimming. I never know what to do with a kid if he’s puking. I stand there like a fool.

“Don’t just stand there. Hold me UP,” he said.

It’s very intimate and then there’s the puke. No one ever pukes in Vegas. That is why people get married there.

“I’m dying.”

You’re not dying.”

“Just one hit.”

“No. No. And no.”

He crawls back outside to his books on the grass.

I don’t like books and I do not want them in the house. So he could read them out on the grass with the dogs and dispose of the books as necessary.

Is it okay to throw library books away into the trash.

Yes.

When is it okay to throw library books away into the trash.

When the writer becomes annoying and begins writing about money. Cease and desist. Book into the trash.

Writers have always lead one kind of depression or another.

Most writers have no reason to live let alone write. Do I look like Betty Ford to you.

They usually puke and shit their way to wellness.

Not.

No one knows what wellness is.

Sometimes they puke and shit their way to wellness, but sometimes they don’t.

Here’s the problem: How do you hold your HIV medication if you can’t keep it down.

It gets very tricky out there.

This is where I am supposed to write some rah rah about how antiretrovirals are miracles, and give me an A, cha cha, give me an N, cha cha, give me a T, cha cha, give me an i, cha cha, give me an r, cha cha, give me an e, cha cha, give me a T, cha cha, give me an r, cha cha, give me an O, cha, cha, give me a V, cha cha, give me an i, cha cha, give me an r, cha cha, give me an A, cha cha, five me an L, cha cha, give me an S, cha cha. Whatdayahave PILLS. But where the fuck is the cure.

It’s very politically incorrect to pose that question.

Why.

Because it makes the ARV rah rahs look kinda dated. Their pompoms have pomed the last HIV pom left around to pom.

Exactly, where is Bill Gates when I am holding some adolescent’s head in the head.

Pompom that, honey. After you get tested, you kinda do wonder what the fuck more do they want.

Blood.

More and more.

Give me a B.

The AIDS rah rahs will tell you it only gets better. It’s a lie but if we tell people the truth too many of them will kill themselves, and we couldn’t have that, could we.

Since I love him, I asked if I could see what books he was reading.

Sitting on the grass at Lake Lure watching boys fishing from canoes.

This is where I am supposed to enchant you with a list of heavy duty writers who had seduced him. Mary will be disappointed. I’m not going to do that. Do I look like a librarian to you. “I used to do my homework in the bathroom when she had tricks over,” he said. I was going to have to remember to ask his mother if she would bake me an apple pie.

“I want to be a writer. Like you.”

My eyes to the sky.

“Well, not exactly like you.”

“You mean washed up.”

“Well, kind of washed up and kind of a failure and kind of fat.”

“And you want to kind of be like me.”

Not the fat part.”

He’s 5’8” and weighs in at 129 pounds soaking wet. I was watching his weight carefully. He could not afford to be much thinner.

I love how they wear baggy sweaters, but not in North Carolina, and not in the heat.

“If you shared some of your weed with me, maybe I wouldn’t vomit quite so much. You’re a doctor.”

This was true. I am a doctor. I forgot.

“You could prescribe me that joint you’re smoking.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I smoke this for nausea.”

“Why nausea.”

“I read too many books. And I’m sorry but Proust has to go. There are limits to literacy.”

“There are limits to everything.”

“Not to Proust,” I said. “I told Marcel, Marcel, I said. This has to be the end of the book.”

“What did Proust say.”

“It’s never the end of the book.”

“I like Proust. A little cloistered. I’m reading Hawking.”

“Yes, I’m reading Hawking, too. “The Universe is So Topsy Turvy.”

“When I die, I want everyone to come and collect my books and see everywhere I’ve underlined select passages.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I’m dying.”

I gave him the joint.

“Do you give all your boys marijuana.”

“Only the ones with AIDS.”

“Don’t fall in love with me. I’m trouble. I’m not a good person.”

That’s what all the bad ones say.

“I don’t love you,” I lied. “I just want you to get through this so I don’t have to clean up shit.”

“Do you think you could love someone after you clean up their shit.”

“Do I look like the Shell Answer Man to you with the uniform and the cute hat.”

“You don’t have a hat.”

“It might be kinda hot to wear that gas station hat…”

“During sex.”

I nodded.

“Do you think the universe has worm holes.”

“You read too much.”

“In Vegas, they put me in Special Ed.”

“Everything that happens in Vegas, stays there.”

“Mom and I did the same tricks.”

“Next time I’m in Vegas, I’ll give her your regards.”

“Don’t.”

“Why.”

“I don’t want to ever see her again.”

“How bad was it.”

“Pretty bad,

“Do you think they’re out there catching any fish.”

“I don’t see a single fish.”

I do not know why we thought that was funny. Not a clue.

Had to be the weed.

The fact that no one was catching fish caused us to laugh so hard, we rolled into the lake where we continued to laugh. But harder.

Since I loved him, I wanted that one moment fully dressed and in the lake to never end.

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