QUEER MESSIAH SHORT FICTION

PROMPTED BY MATHEWS
              

James Mann smiles his I'm ok smile.
               He's quite cute for a man’s man and is cutest by far when he smiles ambivalently.
               When James Mann smiles his large eyes twinkle. He is mouse haired, blue eyed, of average height and overweight.
               It doesn't matter a jot that he's fat.
               Big can be alluring. Large, with the distinctive elegance of the large, he is attractive in the way that all aliens are. Strangely imposing.
               He definitely has something about him. Nothing quite focuses, there is no certainty to put one's finger on, nothing definite. The ‘g’ word having been posted on him endlessly has somehow never stuck.

               James is finished with the outside for the night.
               The outside can do what it wants, be what the hell it wants to be, he's out of it.
               The car is garaged.
               James Mann's overcoat is off.
               The German electric kettle is on.

               James is successful. Jim has a right-on life. He has a job, a house, a car. He has a warm overcoat and an automatic, hands free, mirror chrome electric kettle.
               James has a means of shutting the dark night out, a facility for putting the cloying reach of the outside firmly behind him.
               Jim is so clever. He is so adept at survival in this age of capitalist acme that the kitchen table is laden with overflowing carrier bags. Rewards.
               Spilling their entrails these guts applaud him.
               That was good, that last hunting trip, stimulating.

               He'd parked the car hurriedly, stealthily he thought, his mind on the thrill of the chase. About to exit the car, his head filled with the unravelling routine of coin, trolley and revolving door, he'd heard an
               'Oi!'
               shouted, followed by an
               'Oi! You!'
               shouted even louder.
               He'd looked up then, furtive at first, and then with increasing fear, like an unarmed native parting tall grasses and being surprised by a Panther.
               Advancing towards him at that time, shouting, snarling, waving black polished boots and a smart clip board was a neo Security Guard wearing a black uniform and a black peaked cap that inanely announced his provenance with both the name of the supermarket and its logo. You know precisely the type.
               I say neo because nobody in their right minds believes that these are true Security Guards. These fucking neos are not what it says on the fucking packet, they are Mickey Mousers.
               Everybody knows that true Security Guards, have been anally raped, carry real guns and emotional scars from extremely violent mercenary service in West Africa.
               You know the sort of service, service where Landrovers are decorated with victims’ limbs, where heads are decapitated and stuck on poles at village boundaries, service where white mercenaries appear on camera blacked out, their voices sounding like they are on triple x Prozac.
               They are, all of them, sick as dicks-on-sticks fuckers!
               Everybody knows that true Security Guards have real criminal records other than ones for petty thieving and parking violations and pissing in public places. Everybody knows that true Security Guards are proper psychotic cunts.

               This particular fucking pants Panther with designs on ripping into James Mann's face was someone he'd vaguely remembered from his teaching days. Or somewhere else. Or both.
               This was not a proper kippered cunt.
               This was a young man whose baby features used to shine on Friday afternoons in a remove class double-plus designed as a dustbin for bored fifteen year old illiterates, wasted kids too thick to see the sense in bunking off.
               These were giggling kids still excited by the underwear pages of Home Shopping Catalogues, wankers not yet graduated to real fucking or crime or shooting up.
               Mathews always was a clean boy.
               Meticulous Mathews.
               You could always rely on Mathews to have a clean handkerchief [spunk-rag] in his trousers’ pocket. Mathews was the kind of boy that really did wash his hands after using the urinal.

               'Sir.' Mathews had said to his ex-teacher, the dim light of recognition barely registering, 'Sir.' he'd repeated. He was pointing to the yellow lettering that filled the adjoining parking bay.
               'Disabled Parking only!' Mathews had spouted, his voice a mite too high on account of his excitement. He'd cleared his throat. Checked his fly. 'Are you disabled now?'
               Now this was a glorious question because Jim very often felt disabled. He would regularly look at his monthly bank statements and feel uncommonly fucking disabled. He would try weaving his way up the high street through a minefield of pushchairs and shopping trolleys and lovers arm in arm or down each other's throats and he would feel overwhelmingly enfeebled. And there had been vast tracts of his life to date through which he had not walked or run but very definitely limped quite definitely impaired. But, at that moment, faced with Mathews in a fancy dress uniform and heavens knows how many old schooldays’ axes waiting to grind, he knew he'd appeared rather too well, rosy almost, indeed a touch over perky.
               'No.' he'd said, enjoying the authoritative brevity of his reply.

               There was one of those silences.
               Anything could have happened.
               It was then he remembered the awkward occasion he had stumbled upon him, left school and on dangerous ground, and had exacted a little more than lip service.

               Mathews could have been an evolving serial killer, at the very least a severely disturbed person.
               This minor contretemps with an ex teacher might well have been the secret subconscious trigger to have unleashed a knife attack of startling ferocity.
               James could have been eviscerated, spread all over the car park and the following days’ tabloids.
It was not to be.
               James saw that it was not to be and James Mann saw that the game was up. He wanted to scream fuck off at the little upstart but he opted to be charismatically pleasant.
               'Don't I know you?' he'd asked, locking the car and turning on his accuser, 'Yes. I know now. You're Mathews. Well. Well. Haven't we done well. A uniform. Delicious. You always said you wanted one of those.'
               Mathews had at once backed off, confusion finally giving way to recognition. The two men then walked towards a tangle of silvery trolleys lost in mutual reminiscence, a long jump injury on Sports Day, a 'B' for First Aid. An unpleasant cheap zip-fly entrapment.
               There was a snug Security Guards’ Station- a hut providing more than sufficient privacy.

               Jim smiles to himself, content that he got so fluidly out of it and the rest. He sets about moving the kills from his plastic hunting pouches to his stashing places; dead chocolate covered digestive biscuits, comatose pre-prepared vegetables, tins of dead things, cans of dead things, cartons of dead things.
               Jim switches on the portable TV.
               More dead things.
               That Mathews, he's thinking to himself, that too clean, too kind, far too neat and ironed Mathews, he was cleared of aggravated rape of a fellow scout at sixteen.
               He was up for rape and his nickname was Spam on account of the sparsity of his pubic hair.
               Hadn't it been evident for all to see that the boy was not biologically prepared for extreme penetration?

               The police never knew though, did they? They never knew what had gone on in the April of his fifteenth year. Few people knew the truth of that.

               Jim then catches the tail of a broadcast, a public information insert between the national and the local news. It is a new concept, the two minute feature, something developed from the runaway success of music videos and advertising, something for the promotion of community awareness.
               It is blatant propaganda.
               There is a doorway in the film and animated in the doorway are three persons determined to prevent the entry of a fourth. They are screaming, these three, washed but dowdy, one of them a man who keeps touching his crotch with one hand and waving a wooden crucifix with the other.
                'Don't wake him! Don't bloody wake him!' they scream.
               'Pray for him to come. Yes. Pray for him to come again.
               But don't wake him! No. Never, never wake him.
               This is good here, as it is.
               Saved!
               Whatever gave you the idea that we want to be saved?
               Bugger off! Go on. Get the fuck out of it!'

               Mann watches as the one who was turned away goes, she has not lost her smiling face. She is not sloping away. She has not lost her dignity.
               There is a caption. It reads- One person's Jesus is another person's Satan.
               He switches the telly off.
               Another dead thing fit only for transmitting shit.

               James finds it much more difficult to switch off his memory of the spurned but dignified woman with the constantly smiling face. But that's the whole point of it. Then, in a sudden rush of what he perceives to be insight, he announces to himself- perpetual benevolence!
               Constant benevolence, he decides- that's it!
               She has usurped her natural fear of fucking death with the entirely unnatural monster of constant fucking benevolence.
               He confirms it, yes, she was a woman of constant benevolence, retaining her dignity but nevertheless electing to be spurned.
               Why?
               The question stumped him.

               She wore a plaid skirt, pleated, and a bland cardigan beneath a fawn plastic mac. She appeared childless. She was fiftyish and her hair was mousy and her tights were thick and she had held aloft her good book against the rain of abuse.
               She deserved her spurning.
               She'd bloody earned it.
               She had gone, unarmed, protected with nothing more than her beliefs and her plainness, out there amongst the perils of the heathen outside world to win a fucking good spurning.
               It did her proud.
               It did her proud and home knitted back a deal of good to be lashed raw by mass insult. Abused repeatedly as a child I shouldn't wonder, he told himself.

               Marvellous, isn't it, that you almost never hear of anyone who was abused just the once.
               Yes. Abused and abused again she was, because of her bully of a faith? We've all met the type, a mouse in the supermarket, a lion on the doorstep.
               And, repeatedly abused she becomes the abuser flogging the dead horse of unquestionably dead remedies.

               Well, there was her personal war Lord hidden in her fucked up head versus their opposing war Lord hiding behind the closed door.
               It was always going to be an impasse, the one faith cancelling out the other and the resulting void inviting faithlessness, lawlessness, mayhem.
               How fucking stupid the whole thing was.
               The sick god botherer fucks.
                Didn't they know it was little more than an ancient drug culture designed to ease the pain of knowing that we're going to die?
               She's on sleepers and Sherry.
               Spiritual ecstasies, that’s what it is.
               Medieval 'Es' to guard against nature's old heave ho!
               Hadn't they noticed how forever had died?
               Didn't they know that time is always running out?
               But it was only on film.

               The film was only part of the celluloid dream that James refused to dream. The dream goes- if it moves, shoot it to fuck on video. If it sells, celebrate by throwing a party. If it doesn't, stay at home and call it fucking art.

               James made Assam tea for himself.
               He is very domestic.
               He likes his creature comforts.
               His surroundings say as much.

               The small house is spacious, airy. Afraid to lose this feeling of space James has let it remain sparsely furnished. Minimalist. A sofa. A lamp. Some art.
               You get the picture.
               This style has many benefits to recommend it.
               What you would spend on more, you spend on less, so you can afford quality. James liked that.
               Guests seldom stay long. You pays your money and you generally get what you pay for. No more complicated than that. Rent a body.
               There is much less to dust.
               Decorative objects have to be chosen with great care. The western world is already overstuffed with carelessly chosen decorative objects. It is a sickness. A wasting disease. A disease of wasting valuable resources.
               It's invasive.
               Invading sick as fuck products appealing to sick as fuck minds or sheep or white trash with money to incinerate, floods the shopping malls like so much effluent.
               Turds disguised as pottery figures.
               Things to sit on the telly.
               Dead things.

               James has a lacquered brass Buddha.

               With such comfortable starkness colour becomes increasingly significant. A Parchment as distinct from A Cream. A Magenta. A Delphinium. A Violet. It can become quite a worry.
               Eau de nil is extraordinarily good for stress.
               Monotone is as good a solution as any.
               James likes black leather. Waistcoats. Chaps.

               He took the black tea and the chocolate covered digestives into the lounging space. Putting the tray on the polished floorboards, he sat on the black leather sofa. Leaned back. Thought about some music.
               Thought.

               Yes.
               The hunt was good today.
               Delicious.
               It had turned up anysexual Mathews, Mathews and rabid Caroline Pikenard. Both of them carrying a juggernaut's worth of secrets and lies.

               There was always a certain in the pants frisson to meeting Carrie Pike, even fleetingly. This was because Carrie Pikenard was openly false, which was refreshingly erotic in itself, but also because she was generally credited with putting synthetic finger nails into the pornographic film industry.
               Carrie went through life wearing a noticeable signature taint, the scent, almost, of having been there during the shooting, when the big guns swung over well oiled abdomens and shot their implausible load creating gobsmacking strings of pearls.
               God!
               How we envied her balls!
               She really was the bollocks. She'd done everything there was to do in the sex industry. We reckoned she'd even shagged Alsatians. Donkeys.
               How we gossiped about her Californian Silicone. How we surfed the late night cable channels for her old movies.
               We all saw her tits.
               We saw her pleasured raw wet bits.
               We were there!

               James saw her fearlessness.
               Of all of the people he had met on his journey she was the one most able to live in the moment and bugger all the consequences.
               She was not a child, though she was capable of wilful childishness. She was an adult who could forget, for most of the time, her own mortality. Her inevitable death rarely if ever got a look in.
               Not even in the rush hour.
               Not even in a crack house.
               Consequently, for almost all of the time, she had no use for religion or belief systems or rules and regulations of any kind.
               James thought her impossible, easily the gentlest of all possible sociopaths. In debt to a degree that you just would not believe and a fine cook, she took to throwing lavish dinner parties on supplementary benefit. She was the first full blown spiritual anarchist he had ever met.

               He had, of course, and quite ridiculously, fallen in love with the idea of the circus of her at once. The Big Top. The tumbling intercourse. Trapeze sex. Tightrope cunnilingus. But, for some unfathomable reason he had never quite managed to be the ringmaster and fuck the arse off her.
               Was he liable to become unbalanced?
               Without a catch net, would he ultimately break his neck?
               The act of holding her in awe, he had decided, was the most likely culprit. For men at least, there is nothing less like an aphrodisiac than the phenomenon of holding a woman in awe.
               Carrie suspected he was gay anyway.
               As yet undecided, although it was all a matter of linguistic juggling, James Mann, was almost there. Almost ready to agree as much about himself, at least in part. That is to say in respect of the only part that matters to a man.
               His head was arguably hetero but his dick was decidedly homo. It happens. Mathews knew.
               This situation was a magnet for farcical relationships and made reciprocal oral sex a very hit and miss affair.
               No matter.
               She was unreal, a wraith, after all. Disembodied flesh displayed splayed, widescreen, open crotch in macro close-up, the very epitome of a cat with its throat cut.
               Caroline Pikenard was nothing much more than prettily arranged ectoplasm.

               And suddenly there she had been, the huntress in mid-hunt, hovering like an angel between gondolas of cat food and dogwood, visibly debating the diet of her furry familiars. She had swamped him in smiles and heady perfume and she'd printed Revlon lips in lipstick on his hunter's cheek and he had asked her something, probing in that incorrigibly gossipy way of his.
               It was-
               'Are you still with your cameraman?'
               She'd looked a little sulky when she told him                         'Yes.'

               Crumbs from the crumbling biscuits littered the pale grey floor boarding. He was undecided about the music. He was unhappy about the thought of a book. He was out of sorts with the home cinema.
               Thought. Still caught.

               On still days, he was remembering, you could follow the pale smoke sky-writing as it rose silent from the crematorium, its chimney stacks hidden from the playing fields by a long line of tall Poplars. This wall of trees would usually funnel up and away all of that unwelcome breath of the burning dead with its reek of urine soaked winceyette and cigarette singed moustache.
               On warm, Spring days with just a light breeze it was different. On days like that James could sit there, on his school lunch break, marking pitiful essays and breathing the dead in, poetically ingesting an air soup composed of the various remains from the local hospices and the bagged up offal from the ER morgue. He once wrote a poem about it.
               When this poem was written he ripped it into tiny pieces and floated them on the beck that was the boundary between two Counties.

               And on Sundays these fun-for-the-community acres, adjacent to the Crem' rails, would come alive with boot and ball, with screaming profanities and steaming wind.
               There was always a battle of the colours.
               The blue army with the yellow feathers would attack the goal to the right. The red army with beads and shells would oppose them.
               In the middle, on the centre spot there would sit a head, its hair matted and its eye sockets empty. Some mercenary's memento from Angola I shouldn't wonder.
               It was The Security Guards First Eleven versus The Surrey Clerks Of Court Eleven.
               They will cancel each other out, James had said to himself once, and into the void will thunder cunting madness.

               One such Sunday, at what would have been half-time, though the pitches were empty of anything but crows, James was on a recreational across the war zone to the farmland beyond.
               There was a small coppice beside the beck, a deep shelterbelt of Hawthorn, Bramble and Silver Birch through which a Celtic knot of pathways had been driven by both Deer and determined boys on bicycles.

               You stepped out of the jaundiced, urban light and into the mossy illumination of leafworld, a place of mystery and magic where dwelt the greater and the lesser hidden forces such as elfin folk and higher selves.
               Two strides in, James stopped in the dank doorway, his dark jacket mottled by the dust of catkins, his nose assailed with the scents of moist soil and rotting leaf.
               This was not a new place.
               Oh fuck! Mighty fuck. He had been here before.
               He had been here before and the memory of it was mounting an attack on him. He felt an old shame make a sudden attempt to swamp him, it was like a moist cloth pressing against his face, at once blinding then, at the same time, stifling.
               He knew this sensation.
               It was weakness.
               Weakness, with its sudden sneering presence always had him fumbling for his Asthma inhaler, always had him feeling that he shouldn't be discovered with the pump in his mouth, his breath held and his eyes as wide as a creature who's just smelled the slaughter house.

               What he wanted was to be away from that place. It’s a cinch in virtual reality.
               What he wanted was to be at home, alone, safe in his bed, his hand at his groin, his length stiffening and his eyes closing, the daylight beautifully dulled by the pale curtaining.
               You get what you want in virtual reality.
               How good it always was to be in isolation, with God, and doing something with your genitals that feels that good.

               Carrie...now what was the TV channel that your legs were once wide open on?

               They could have been great friends, the alien messiah and the celluloid whore. Indeed there was no one else more capable of hearing his confession.

               She never heard this confession.
               How, one day, when the chalk and talk had finally dried up, nothing came. That was the day when nothing had come out to play in a very big way.
               How, one day, when a great improbable chasm opened where a class of thirty two disinterested faces had just been, he- to all intents and purposes, calmly downed his pencil and walked away never to return.

               He'd remembered a distant friend, a city desk journalist, who'd been on his way home on the five fifteen out of Waterloo when, shortly before Woking, he had looked down to discover what was itching his feet, only to find that everything below his knees, trousers, socks, shoes, the lot, had disappeared, vanished from view.
               It was a stress induced illusion.
               But it was fucking convincing!
               He had stifled the scream and broken out into a sweat so great that people in his vicinity began showing signs of urgent self-interest.
               Shortly before arriving at Winchester, the tips of his brogues had reappeared.
               He walked home. Sober. Legless.
               You see, it is true, some of us have it in us to be very brave, even artists. And not so very long after this bravery, he had the courage to quit his job in the city. No more prostitution. Just exquisitely attractive art for art's sake- spiritual riches homelessness and bankruptcy.
               James had remembered that.
               Materialist suicide.
               That day, in that moment he had remembered the in-therapy look on the man's face when he'd told him the story.
               It was one of those looks that said- what happened was tragic but also very funny but please don't laugh because that's what everybody wants to do and I want you to be exceptional. I want you to be the one person that I know who is not afraid.
               Well, James was not afraid.
               James knew how playful the mind could be, whimsical even. There seemed to be no limit to its creative potential.

               The fledgling Mathews was flying.
               Mother Carrie was fearless.
               James, the son of God, was not afraid of the fucking school anymore.

               He watched the school pencil roll- HB, blank, HB, blank, HB, bloody blank. It rolled extremely slowly as if there was all the time in the world for it to travel across the grey Formica. There was nothing to impede its painful progress. No apple. No gum. No string. James was not an obsessive confiscator.
               Eventually it reached the sharp edge of the grey Formica then stopped. It stopped as if commanded by some cosmic intelligence that had suddenly shown mercy.
               That grey Formica extremity is, more often than not, as far as any of us are prepared to go. That is to say- we will do it, we'll embrace the drama of it up to the precipice, right up to the very lip and then lie still, going absolutely no farther.
               We generally cop out.
               We mostly opt in to seven days of psychiatric care- sleepers, drugs, waitress service.
               Most of us, in any case, are pretty much summed up by the legend- All talk and no action.

               He looked at the class. They were unmoved or unmoving, though he couldn't decide which, and they were very definitely silent. No talk. No action. It didn't compute.
               As you might imagine, the pervasive silence of a roomful of adolescents was very strange. It disturbed his equilibrium.
               I am unsteady, he told himself, I am unsteady and unsure of whether or not I am ready. There was nothing for him to hold on to.

               This was not life. This was not death.
               This was a prelude to real change.
               This was the last and the first breath.

               He left the room in the way one leaves a cinema halfway through an unsatisfactory offering from Hollywood, the brain-dead tutting, the swing doors clapping. James imagined it was applause, the kind of welcome that a star receives even before they've done anything.
               He passed the Deputy Head's office with its door wide open so as to suggest an invitation or that nothing untoward could ever happen there.

               That was crap. He'd told him as much.
               Teaching is not a skill. He'd said so.
               Teaching is not a science. He'd gone on, once.
               It is an art.
               The best teachers are gifted artists.
               They have the artistry to nourish the natural gifts of children.
               At best this school was a disgraceful farm, a bloody disgraceful production line of sheep that all looked suspiciously the same.
               At worst it was a fucking abattoir.

               How fucking neat it was to engineer a liberal open door policy as a smokescreen for a whole shopping basket of child abuse. That was how it was.
               Tidy cruelty.
               Fabulous masks of benevolence masking faces of persisting fascism.
               Are we really surprised? It always was in our nature to be something other than what we seem.

               Like one boy whose smell was like a cry for help.
               There was this one boy whose odour fell on deaf ears. He collected his faeces and kept them in his desk- it always raised a laugh amongst the staff.
               I mean you've got to be congenitally daft haven't you to be buggered by your blind father? We'd run away, they said, anyone with half a brain would. We'd hear the tapping of that fucking stick and leg it!

               Like one boy whose genitals had waved goodbye to childhood.
               This coal black fifth former was an eye opener.
               'God!' they'd exclaim, the men with Toy Town degrees in Physical Education, 'Some poor girl's going to be injured by that.
               That.
               One look at that and wham, it's enough to make lesbians of the lot of them. It's wicked man. A real life- Welcome to Barbados I hope you enjoy your stay. I mean, truly massive. Majorly memorable.'
               A bookies book was opened and bets were duly laid. James remembered. Eleven inches was odds on. How could you possibly forget.

               Sir- that is Mr Mann, English and Art, he always believed that he was firmly in the front line. He was.
               He believed he was the last true teacher to be given a full contract in the whole of the United Kingdom.                         This was, very likely, true.
               Almost immediately he'd been heavily under fire from right wing revisionists. They were led by balding cunts in tweed jackets with leather patched elbows. They were pipe smoking vegetable growers of bloody straight rows of spring greens and bloody straight canes of string beans.
               What was there fucking problem?
               Fear of prostrate cancer, that's what their fucking problem was. That and jealousy. Fucking prostrate cancer, jealousy and loneliness.
               It's the truth.

               Like all of the boys spared by peace, Mann was at war, allied and marked.
               And the unarmed boys were hit by anything to hand.
               It was like a drug.
               They were pure white.
               They were like cartridge paper before the point of the pencil kissed it.
               Then the pencil kissed them, covering the blank canvas of their faces in a scribble of lies that went by the name of Christian moral responsibility.
               And they were hit by hands engorged by rage and loathing and middle-aged frustration. They were routinely beaten, bended and upended into a shape that somehow resembled conscripts.
               These were boys who'd never volunteer.
               These were boys who'd never pass exams no matter how many times you moved the goal posts.
               These were boys expecting to be unemployed for years.
               These were candidates needing to be raped.
               These were children trapped by a system eager to unzip its flies and do the fucking lewd business.

               Once upon a time, Mathews, who now knows all there is to know about disabled parking, had it in for Kipper Clarkson. Kipper, two years his junior, had the kind of urchin face that did well in advertisements for charities. He had freckles and wiry unkempt hair and River Phoenix eyes. It meant that he did less well in the school playground than he did in the classroom.
               Kipper Clarkson had put it about that Mathews was a girl, a freak of nature. This was not altogether surprising since at the end of the Christmas term of Mathews' fourth year he played a dame in the school pantomime- cast largely because of his paleness and the fact that his voice had not yet broken.
               Meanwhile, his various winter excursions into the school showers had earned him the nickname Spam on account of the hairlessness of the puppy fat that covered his pubic bone and the distinctive, luncheon meat pinkness of the diminutive features that hung there for all to see.
               These bare facts, five whispers distant and downloaded into the cavity of Kipper's second year's skull, resulted in the ball-game that was to lead to both boy's demise. The teasing little rhyme went- Mathews is a girlie, no girlfriend of mine, he sticks 'is curly wurly where the sun don't shine. This ditty was, as you can imagine, accompanied by obscene gestures. Then there was that later occurrence- the police never knew though, did they? They never knew what had gone on in the April of his fifteenth year. Few people knew the truth of that.

That poor fat sap.
It's not difficult to get very pissed off.
               What do we expect to find at every turn?
               Apologetics? Saints? Fair-minded folk? Women in scarves with gloves and a glut of homespun goodness? These days it's relatively easy to get very very pissed off. It's a breeze. But Mathews in a half-baked uniform- there’s a queer thing. Prompting.

               Jim suddenly started one of his little spasms- in fact a full blown attack.
             He could smell death lurking in the room- an uncommonly enticing cocktail of skat, spunk and fermented urine. He confidently smirked. James was blessed with miracle tablets for these life-threatening occasions and they usually worked.


Copyright Chris Madoch 2010



ZOO CHANGE

It was, I knew, bordering on psychotic- folding the letter yet again and re-inserting it into its creamy envelope. OCD. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This repeat activity, the reading and the re-reading had emptied the coffee pot. It would be a rare thing indeed to live a rich life without a bomb never having been dropped randomly through your post-box. This explosion had been anticipated, long awaited. Here it was, albeit somewhat overdue. Hot. A new brew of liquor strength emotion whose smell alone seduced the naughty past from slumber.
I watched the awful pleasure of it wake utterly regardless of my flat’s harsh light and gleaming surfaces. The blue film would have to be re-run before suitable arrangements could be made. A small phone call. A place to meet. Starbucks I thought- safe, neutral, other women with offspring in breeder’s buggies, machines hissing, mobile songs.
I was ten back then, one of absolutely identical twins besides the gender. My wanton sister never minded my almost hairless disproportionate dick. A thing that made me significantly sick. A tool she loved to fool around with, loved to lick and loved to stick inside her beautiful secret. We habitually did it ‘till the torrid afternoon we were first and last discovered. Lou’s chin was covered in my cum. I was finger fucking her from behind when the bedroom door was violently flung open and the air was blown apart with my name shouted louder than I’d ever heard it before ‘Zoo!’
They re-homed us separately. I never saw her after that- except in mirrors as I daily shaved or regularly dealt with whiteheads.
I tried homosexuality but it always hurt- apparently I have a gristly sphincter peculiarly resistant to stretching. Men quite happily sat on my large prick but I always felt some sense of ennui and the notion that something crucial was missing. A cock in my mouth was neither north or south to me. I stuck with it for years because on some subliminal level I recognised my growing addiction to the various flavours of body warm gissum. I actually had a boyfriend who memorialised my member in the best latex. Imagine that in my various effects post mortem. He inevitably went. I never could keep any of them. Well, in truth, I missed her. I missed my stolen sister. None of the gay interlopers knew there was a competitor, a very heavy hitter, hiding in my closets.

Eventually I tired of it. It. I’d known for years. The source of all my inner sorrow lay between my legs. A psychiatrist concurred- for the sake of my sanity it had to go. You know the process- lengthy and stuffed with drugs and self obsession, pre-op, depilation, boob-job, plastic-surgery, then the final coup-de-grace. In recovery I laughed- told the surgeon to feed it to his dog.
Funny. I suddenly had a painfully re-formed fanny I had to prod with a prosthetic to prevent it from closing, healing over. I had a button clitoris created from the meat of my bell-end. I remember when I was mended I saw myself in a full length mirror and it was not me who I saw but her- a perfect, kindly, sympathetic caricature of her. Lou, Zoo, two peas in the pod.
It didn’t strike me as being at all odd. In fact I felt awesome, transcendentally complete. Because we are identical twins we have the same size hands. Brilliant. Because we are identical twins we have the same size feet. Fucking fantastic.

Now, after all this time, she wants to meet me. Fuck a cunt. She doesn’t know. What if she wants a cunt fucking? I’ll take along the latex me, the virginal best of latex strapadictomes. Tubes of tingle linger lube. The transgender diaries. Photographs. Book a hotel room. Cream trouser suit. Nothing flash. Black hair slicked back. Minimal slap. Rather demure. Vintage Jean Muir.
She was there before me. Par for the course.
I should not have been astonished. Lou was in a cream trouser suit. Black hair slicked back. We mirrored each other as we kissed. Cheek. Cheek. No tongues.
You never fall in love so fast as when you fall in love with the perfect representation of yourself. Shit. This was it. I was ten again, pumping her pussy with my long lost cock. She was shouting don’t stop Zoo, Zoo don’t ever stop. I was delirious with pre-pubescent exposure to endorphins. Screwings. Doings.
Lou collected the low fat latte caramel grandes. I was plotting the route to the queen-sized bed, imagining my bendy model disappearing deep into her velvet secret purse- curse or no curse. Of course we had a lot to talk about, years to catch up with. It could fucking wait. It is so post coital, pillow whispers between incestuous sisters.
I had not felt such holistic quickening excitement for two decades.
Lou took my shaking hands quite firmly, almost disturbingly firmly. She told me then, straight out, cold, clinical- she’d followed my whole journey, was fascinated, incredibly well-informed, hideously researched as if it really mattered, which of course it did. Cunt.
Her journey is very different, opposite, travelling in fact totally the other way. She’d been in close contact with my former boyfriend, learned about the perfect latex artefact. She asked me for a loan of it to take to her brilliantly creative surgeon in Holland. He’s a wizard with inner thigh tissue. Her thinking was, if she was going to have one at all, she might as well have one like mine.
Of course I let her have it. I always had given her things. We were always close. She/he was my very close sister. It’s not been returned. No loss.
Where is he now? How? Why? Shit! I have absolutely no idea.
Like most long-term post-operative transgender creatures I am constantly battling phenomenal suicidal inclinations, looking in mirrors, popping pills, getting drunk, turning tricks and waiting for the belligerently straight postman to bring me a letter that will change my life like a nail bomb would a mother’s meeting in Starbucks.

Zoo Blessed.

Chris Madoch © 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FIRST PUBLISHED BY PARAPHILLIA  



Image by DPF for eye2eye designs international
Copyright 2010 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED





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