I've Faced Worse Before

I'd rub my eyes if I could. I'd cry if I could. I'd tear at my hair. I'd slap my cheeks. I'd pinch my nose. I'd do them all if only I could. But I can't. This morning my face fell off.

I'm not sure how my face (and scalp and ears) ended up a grisly puddle slumped in the bottom of my bathroom sink. How do any of life's mysteries happen? One day you're in the mood for a latte and instead you order a cappuccino. Mysterious. Today my face slid off of my skull.

Perhaps it was my Jergen's face wash? I bet it was expired. I've had that shit forever. My stylist Enrique gave it to me in October as part of a beauty care package. Maybe its all the stress I've been under lately. I've heard of people getting bald patches when things get hectic at work. But none of them have skulls for heads...

The noise was sickening. Sssllllluuuuuhhhhpop! The pop at the end was so crisp. Like a suction cup coming undone. And then - I looked down and there I was staring back at me. My left jaw still covered in shaving cream, my right so baby smooth and newly shaved. Wow, my eyes are really pretty. I stared back into the mirror. My throat ended in a tidy little nub and from there the pale vertebrae of my upper spine attached neatly to the blanched bones of my lower skull. My little black eye sockets stared back at me. Wow, my eye sockets are really huge.

My jaw chattered open and closed as I talked. Without lips my disembodied ... disemfaced? ... voice floated from an unknown source. I didn't have a tongue anymore either. I poked at my face sitting slumped in the sink with the end of my toothbrush but didn't see my tongue among the red lips and horribly blubberly looking jowls. I thought how disappointed my boyfriend Bryce would be now that I have no tongue. He so enjoys French kissing...

My second alarm beeped from my bedroom and I realized my face-off had set me terribly behind for work. How am I going to explain this to my co-workers? Expired facial creme? Stress? Rugby? YES! Rugby! I blame everything on my rugby participation. The rugby excuse helped explain last month's black eye.

Suddenly I missed my black eye. I missed my eyes.

After carefully choosing my nicest shirt and tie (I didn't want to show up to work with no face and a slouchy outfit), I took to the streets. My empty eye sockets scanned from side to side as a nun and three young Hispanic boys walked past me. I closed my eyes. No, I didn't. I. . . well it's weird. I swear it felt like I was closing my eyes, but . . . yeah, no eyelids. Anyways, I waited to hear their laughter, or screams, but nothing came.

Two strapping men on motorcycles idled by the curb. My little skull turned and smiled directly at them. The larger of the two, a glowering bruiser with a handlebar moustache replied, "Nice fucking tie nine-to-five!" His buddy laughed something about a noose and I saw a look of confusion on my skull in the reflection of his giant, mirrored sunglasses. I ran.

I ran to the subway station. With no muscle to support them, my teeth clattered together with each heavy step. People ignored me the entire way. Why was I in such a panic? Why did I care that people didn't notice my handicap? It didn't take two eyes to see that I had NO FUCKING FACE?! I was living proof of that fact!

I miss crying. I hid my grim visage behind a newspaper and quietly shuddered as my head went through the motions of crying, but without the tears and puffiness. Euripides wrote "Often a noble face hides filthy ways." Now my filthy ways were exposed to everyone around me! And worse of all, noone really noticed.

Crab Grass

I’ve had the symptoms for a while now. I guess it was more denial (and my own personal shame) that kept me from seeing a doctor sooner. But I finally went and although the news was bad, getting a diagnosis feels as though a weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

I don’t know where I got it. If I’d been more careful perhaps none of this would have happened. But what good is speculation now anyways? I move on from here. Acceptance is a major phase when dealing with any illness and I’ve finally accepted mine.

Apparently my entire stomach is infested with body lice. For two entire weeks I’ve been itching my furry belly raw, reassuring myself eventually my weird rash will go away.

For two weeks I’ve scratched my stomach through my work shirts, my t-shirts, my bed linens, in the shower, at the movies, out having a drink, and while riding the subway. The whole time I was content in my denial that the little white flakes caught in my fingernails were dead skin cells and not vermin. Little white skin cells with legs and little beady eyes.

Lousy (lou' ze) adj. 1. Infested with lice.

“Body lice?” Dr. Levine, my nebbish general practitioner, asked me if I had any exposure to anyone with body lice. I quietly answered “No. Not that I’m aware of.”

He then asked if I had any contact with children. I loudly cringed “No! Oh God, absolutely not!”

Nonetheless, he confirmed that I had body lice. He was taken aback (or rather he took a step back) when I suggested that perhaps they weren’t body lice, but instead goose mites that had set up a new world colony on my forested belly, “Because, you see, I play rugby and the field we play on is usually covered in goose feces and discarded feathers from where the geese lay during the day. And I bet the geese had parasitic mites that could have jumped onto me and thus my problem.”

Dr. Levine, without the need for my erudite second opinion, restated “Gayest Neil you have body lice, that’ll be five hundred dollars.”

Following my checkup, during my weekly trim, Enrique, my Latino stylist, tossed in his two pesos.

“Maybe jew have dee crabs, non?” He had just finished trimming my goatee down to a hip, East village moustache. I scratched my belly through the vinyl blouse and replied, “Egads Enrique. Why do you say that?”

“Ah meen come on Meester Gayest Neil. With a moustache so sleazy you haf to haf zee crabs!” He was right. Little giggling Enrique had cut me one hell of a sleazy moustache, but the crabs were so 1997.

I was much younger and living in Washington D.C. Having never experienced our nation’s capital I was determined to go to a gay sex club, fuck the Smithsonian and fuck me! So I found a tawdry gay rag and flipping through the back came across an ad listing an “All Male Party” located not too far from where I was living. Scandal!

I went to the club, if you can call it that. It was someone’s filthy home with battered wood encased televisions in each of the rooms showing amateur porn while a variety of men (with sleazy moustaches) sat around jerking off. One moustache tried to fondle me, but I wouldn’t let it near me. Instead I demurely sat on a stained sofa and proceeded to catch a sleazy case of crabs while masturbating, alone.

If only my present vermin were goose mites creating a suburban sprawl on my stomach, then I’d have one hell of a story. Instead I’m stuck with run of the mill body lice with no porno sofa or diseased goose to show for it. Oh, and I have a nasty head cold.

Finally, at the drug store I emptied my blue basket and Patrice, my salesgirl, caught her breath as she scanned body lice ointment and an economy jug of NyQuil. She glanced at my sleazy moustache as I failed to discretely scratch myself. I caught her smirk as she slid my change to me.

Feeling judged, I resorted to what I do best. I lied. “These are for my dear children thank-you-very-much-madam!” Pouting, my moustache, my head cold, my body lice and me stormed away into the brisk October evening; lousy salesgirl.

Fucking Elephant

I was at my favorite martini lounge, Reynard’s, enjoying a cocktail when a handsome man approached me. We made casual eye contact and he shyly complimented me on my shoes. I invited him to the barstool next to mine. He had a sophisticated aura and delicately sniffed and swished his Cabernet before accepting an entire glass. He was suave. He gave me his hand and introduced himself as “Karl”.

Karl wasn’t from these parts. He lived in Nebraska. I asked him, “Are you here for the convention.”

“Yes. I’m a Republican delegate.”

“Funny.” I replied. “I hate Republicans.” Karl laughed and ordered us another round. Karl had smoldering eyes and chose his words wisely. He said so much without saying anything at all.

“Are you also gay?”

“Yes.”

“How can you be so pompous and deceitful as to stab the gay community in the back?” I sparred.

“Why do you need to fuck in the streets, dress like women and beg America to accept you?” He suddenly returned.

And right there on the barstool at Reynard’s I fell in love with Karl. The humid August night was no match for the frigid, playful conversation. Within four hours I had called Karl a “Bastard” nineteen times and spilled two drinks. He had jokingly threatened to shoot me. (He carried a handgun when not at the convention. He was a member of the RNA and had his permits in his luggage.)

At the night’s end he picked up the entire bill and left exactly a 15% tip. Out of disgust, I left an extra one hundred dollar gratuity. He invited me to his hotel room and I accepted.

Our love making was as rough and loud as a donkey mounting an elephant. Nasty, phreaky sex. Karl sexed like his very life depended on it! He loved talking dirty. His careful intellectualism was replaced with the reckless vulgarity of a sailor. He would fly into one act of pleasure and five seconds later start kissing and pinching something else. A diabetic child with a chocolate box couldn’t have tried to consume so much so quickly. “Karl! Karl, Karl, Karl what are you doing?”

“Unngh more, more, more. Don’t stop pig fucker, oh don’t stop! Come on, I’m your bitch! Your nasty, spunk hungry whore, fuck, man slut. Now! Fuck, fuck NOW!!” Karl was out of control. He furiously dry-humped by back while I sat there holding my ears.

“Karl, stop it!” I slapped at him and he ceased. “Why are you acting like this?”

He rolled onto his belly and stared at me with those sincere, smoldering eyes. He paused before saying, “It’s my first time with such a handsome man.”

Oh my. I knew he was right. But there was something deeper he was hiding.

“Karl, is this your first time... ever…”

“Yes…”

Karl and I made love, and he didn’t talk. Our forbidden lust was replaced with a kind of delicate desire. Our souls entwined and I gave Karl a tremendous gift. I was his first. As I fell asleep in his arms I felt such pride. I had done good. Karl, suave, naive Republican, had felt the forbidden love of another man.

The next morning I woke up alone. Karl had checked out, stolen my wallet, my watch, my rings and had written on a note: Bush 4 More!!

Also, a nasty rash developed yesterday. Karl the virgin has given me an STD.

I hate Log Cabin Republicans! They are NOT to be fucking trusted. They are the bane of homosexuals. Oooh, I’m so angry, and so scratchy. Now don’t get me wrong. I didn’t always hate gay Republicans. For instance I’m certain Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have lied to me. Abraham Lincoln was a gay Republican.

Yes he was gay! Most people didn’t know that for four years he shared a bed a fellow man, Joshua Fry Speed. Historical stuff says they “kissed and kissed” and Abe’s boyfriend likened him as a “school girl.” It’s all right HERE.

This morning, sitting in the free clinic, I daydreamed about our sixteenth president. Abraham Lincoln sounds like a romantic, a gentleman. He’s so tall. I bet he was really endowed. Abraham Lincoln would have held me that night and never let go. He would have turned his back on our maniacal president, instead of supporting him. Abraham Lincoln wouldn’t have given me an STD.

Abbie, as I would have called him, would have done the right thing. He’d have pulled a McGreevy and brought man-love into the public centuries ago. Forgotten during that little era called Reconstruction, gay marriage would have flourished.

I’d have been sitting there instead of Mary Todd. I would have seen Booth sneaking up behind my man and I would have karate chopped his hand, disarming him. Abe would have lived. Abraham Lincoln and I would be little old men sitting side by side in the Lincoln memorial. Congratulations Karl, you’ve absconded with my Louis Vuitton wallet and any lingering trust for gay Republicans. You also stole my heart. For that I will never forget you.

Sexual Education

Sex is bohemian. On a lazy Sunday afternoon, I’ve taken a stranger as a lover and he’s in no hurry, nor am I. We undress bit by bit, admiring one another’s hairy bodies. Our casual voices interspersed with gentle kisses, smiles and then leisurely fucking…

Sex is tedious. We’ve been together for four years. He touches my thigh on the sofa. I’m tired from work. I exhale tersely and flip the channel. His hand retreats and we sit in silence, looking straight ahead bathed in the sterile blue light of the TV…

Sex is curiosity. We’ve known each other forever. Why not? You giggled and covered your eyes when I undressed. We awkwardly grew into a surprisingly frenzied passion. It was incredible actually. We finished, yet still we kissed. Eventually we fell asleep in each other’s arms. I don’t know what to say in class tomorrow…

Sex is primal. I left my friends at the bar. I left with him the minute I saw him. Our clothes were a trail across the loft. The sun rose and we were still awake, going into our third time. Four days later I can still smell him on me. I await tonight like a predator anticipates prey...

Sex is deliberate. Part A fits into Part B and part B sits perpendicular to Part C. My erector set assembles the same fucking every time, and it works for us, over and over. Don’t change whores midstream…

Sex is nameless. I close my eyes and try to enjoy. I buckle my sandals and leave without a word. His dachshund barks as I close the door behind me…

Sex is drunk. Sloppy kisses and strangers whispering, he fell on the train and nearly pulled me over. Squeezing his ass, I pushed him up three flights of stairs. We tumble into bed half dressed. Our heads loll and open-mouthed kisses result in unabashed snoring…

Sex is accessory. He showed up with a leather harness, three dildos, cock-rings for us both, flavored lube, handcuffs, poppers, five porn DVD’s and an assortment of textured condoms. I ask him if he needs his luggage checked. He asks me if I have any batteries…

Sex is intimate. Our bodies meet and the world becomes an inky black void beyond the edges of our bed. Aside from the inch separating our bodies, our mouths, nothing else separates us. We keep our cherished, erotic secrets in a safe, hidden box…

Sex is embarrassing. I didn’t know my body could make a noise so loud! All of the sudden “pflblblblblblblbblblblblblb!!!!” My ass emits this bassoon noise and the smell? Squealing and holding our noses we retreat to the living room…

Sex is solace. I don’t love this guy. This guy doesn’t love me. We fuck because we need to be close to someone. We gently acknowledge it in each other’s eyes...

Sex is muted. If I lean on my left hip the mattress squeaks so I rest on my right. You’re beneath me and I’m whispering naughty things in your ear. You moan into your pillow. It would blush were it not already burgundy. The light in the hall flashes under my bedroom door. Oh shit, the roommate is awake…

Sex is regulation. I am determined to orgasm. I have a goal and I will attain it. We’re drenched in sweat and our attentions are lingering, but we can’t give up now. I’ve invested too much already to call it off. I started this and I will get us out of it. I can’t take my eyes off the damned clock next to the bed…

Sex is submission. I serve you. I seek to please you. Whatever your desire I shall obey. As you experience euphoria so do I performing the act. Like a business agreement, the give and take pleases us. I know where I stand, or rather kneel…

Sex is fakery. I bat my blue eyes and compliment. It’s amazing how much ass a smile can get you these days. Over French toast - my treat - I slid him my phone number and squeezed his knee under the table. Later that day the diner’s pay phone rings…

Sex is awesome. We shudder together and fall on top of one another. My legs ache and I’m chuckling out loud. Exhaustion meets bliss. I roll onto my back. You snuggle close into my ribs. You hum along with the radio. My hand trails down my wet stomach. I contently smile at the ceiling…