It's safe to make fun of necrophiliacs

“pornography”

There were so many dudes trying to do weird shit to me when I was a kid that you would’ve sworn I was a chick. Talk about fucking up your first orgasm — I’m eight years old sleeping over at my dads’ girlfriends’ house, when I wake up to her seventeen-year-old son sucking my dick. I thought I was dreaming and wasn’t really sure what was going on. To some extent, that’s probably an excuse just so you won’t think I was a fag. Seconds later I come for the first time. It felt both good and disgusting all at once, sort of like jerking off at an autopsy. I’ve never done that by the way. And I’m not trying to insult necrophiliacs, though I do think they’re fucking weird, but me, I’m not in to corpses and have a really weak stomach when it comes to blood and the like. And I’m not just saying that because it’s safe to make fun of necrophiliacs, I’m speaking from experience. Well, sort of.

See, I told this girlfriend of mine once that I was curious to know what it would be like to have sex with a corpse, you know, because complete submission can be really cool. And I really meant it when I said it. Well, one day, in the middle of sex, with absolutely no warning, she randomly plays dead — head tilted to the side, eyes rolled back in the head, tongue hanging out of her mouth. I lost my erection in a New York second. And that line’s funny too, because she was from Long Island. At that moment, I was positive that I had no interest in necrophilia, and that my fantasy was probably more along the lines of wanting one of those blow up sex dolls or something like that. Anyway, I’m off track.

So like I was saying, it seemed like there were tons of fucking weirdos coming at me when I was a kid, and in my mind, there was always a difference between the weirdos and the people that just do cruel shit to children. Like, take my mother, or my father’s side piece — who also happened to be the sister of the dude that blew me that one time (nice family, huh?) — they were just cruel sick bastards, like the kind of people that torture small animals or something. But other people, like Harry, who lived down the street, he was just a fucked up guy. I remember when I was five, he was in my backyard, jerking off in front of me, crying that no one understood him and how difficult it made life. Man that shit was awkward. I was like, “Yeah, I can see that.” But he didn’t hurt me, he just kinda freaked me out, I guess you could call that my introduction to surrealism, because looking back on it, it was like some kind of weird ass performance art.

Or take Fat Pat from around the corner. Anytime I was over at that dude’s house, he only wanted to talk about two things: dicks, and what it would be like to kill someone. And he would get this really sinister look in his eye when he talked about murder. Then one time he tells me this insane story about how Ronnie, the rich athletic handsome guy that lived in the big house on the corner, pulled a shotgun on Harry and said “Either my dick is going in your mouth or this bullet is going in your head.” He told me Ronnie was a fag, he said lots of dudes were and didn’t even know it, and then he said that I might be one too, and that there was only one way for me to really find out. I knew what he was getting at — by then, I was nine, and had known plenty of people a lot fucking stranger than Pat. But Pat had one thing that none of those other weirdos had.

He had this book called “Dirty Jokes” — just pages and pages of filthy fucking jokes, the kind that would get you suspended if you told them where a teacher could hear. And I really wanted that fucking book. So I told him, I’d agree to try his gay shit if he gave me that book. Well, Pat tossed me the book and went to take his pants down, and I bolted out of his room and house and took off down the street. A couple of seconds later he emerges, chasing after me, screaming, “You little son of a bitch!” And I remember running backwards, knowing he would never catch me, laughing the whole time, “Fat Pat’s a homo!” I mean, that’s why we called him “Fat Pat” — even though he was like seven years older than me, that dude couldn’t catch a fucking venereal disease.