Young Gorilla

Young Gorilla

“He stood alone beside the
sea railing in Battery Park.
Dark waves lapped at
the concrete shore.”
—Thomas Disch, “The
Death of Socrates,” 334

“You don't use irony;
you have irony. It's part
of your world view.”
—Thomas Disch,
“Disching It Out: An Interview
with Thomas Disch,” Joseph
Francavilla, Science Fiction
Studies #29, Vol 10, March 1983

He was a young gorilla—out of uniform. But I could see stars and stripes tattooed across his forehead—as he came out of Frances Schnapps’ apartment. I felt a flash of lust—then a wave of revulsion. What I saw—that look on his face.

I couldn’t sleep that night. My body felt dead—sinking down into a lake and then floating back up again. I could feel the young gorilla on top of me—pressing his lips hard against mine. Tonguing me in the ear—biting my neck.

I didn’t want to think about it. I could feel the whole crummy subsidized slum tower—oozing down in and out of me. 334 East 11th Street—that’s where 3000 of us welfare queens lived inside 334 apartments. Elevators didn’t work—greasy stairwells full of sexual crimes and dope.

I could still see the young gorilla’s face—his young Marine buzz-cut haircut. His face all stretched out—after he’d made love to Frances. What a little animal—shipping out that weekend to Bangkok.

His face so distended—he dragged it along the hallway. And then it slid down the staircase—ahead of him. Eyeballs bugling out—after whipping Frances in the dark with his belt. Gorillas were like that—they were into rough trade.

I couldn’t help myself—I was depressed. I came with a smooth one or two jerks—and then let my gorilla lust fade away. I pretended I was Frances—nude in her dingy apartment. I let the young cute gorilla beat me—beat me, burn me, fuck me to death.

Then the Cadillac commercial came on the vidscreen—my favorite commercial. From back in the good old dayz—during the pre-Squeeze affluent Fifties.

The vidscreen flickering into life—there it was. A big beautiful black 1956 Cadillac—with Paul Birch inside. Cruising LA for virgin vampire blood—in the classic sci-fi thriller Not of This Earth.

That’s the way it was in 334. It kept all the Wrinklies in check—just douche them with a little nostalgia now and then. Everybody breathed a sigh of relief—and then the happy pills kicked in.

My name is Jommy Yuck—go ahead and laugh. I’m used to being the butt of jokes—“Yuck! Look who’s here! Yuck!!! It’s Jommy Yuck Face!!!”

Girls smirked at me—fags leered at me. Everybody could see I was hard up—the way I self-consciously limped down the hallway. Dragging my gimpy third leg behind me…

I tried to wise up—I felt ashamed of myself. It didn’t seem fair to me that I couldn’t have a girlfriend—or get married and have kids. I needed a home life—I needed a steady fuck. Just because I was a dumb unemployed sixteen-year-old—didn’t mean I wasn’t human. I needed love—like everybody else.

“Jommy Yuck”—came the voice on the vidscreen. “We saw that—shame on you. Masturbation gets you 10 credits subtracted from your Food Stamp card." A dark smirky bureaucrat entity—flickered briefly on the bedroom wall. Big Brother—didn’t miss a trick.

I wiped my hand on my sheets and reached under my pillow. I unfolded the Marine Corps shiny slick poster ad—slowly, religiously. The sullen face a lean mean gorilla stared at me. Pointing his huge gnarly phallic index finger in my face—making me swear to enlist the next morning.

I was getting tired of being a welfare queen—a public housing dwarf in the Big City. I stayed up late that night—digging at my toenails.

Frances the girl next door—offered to give me a blowjob. It turned out to be a disappointment for both of us—I couldn’t get it up. Let’s face it—I was her. Only gorilla meat—turned me on.

I told her about it—the young gorilla coming out of her apartment that night. Who was he—was he any good in bed? Could she set me up—with a blind date? She shrugged—she looked away. She didn’t like being a fag hag—she had some pills. She wanted to get laid—and run off to Mexico.

“You’re crazy,” I told her. “You wouldn’t make it past the city limits. You ain’t got no money. You’d starve down there anyway. Those Tijuana perverts—would gobble you up.”

I lay in bed—smoking a ju-ju. Why explain anything to her—she wouldn’t understand. I only felt alive—in the presence of a Masterpiece. A nice dumb piece of—Marine Masterpiece Meat.

Books, libraries, college courses on the vidscreen—that didn’t have anything to do with anything. Except getting some extra credits—on my Food Stamp card.

The only Upward Mobility left—in the Mex-Americano-Canadian world—was the fast-lane highway outta town. Either that or—enlisting in the Marines for the Bangkok War. Or Trouble on Titan—mining the lonely Rings of Saturn…

Frances started crying—she didn’t want a guy with muy macho vibes. She hated that young gorilla’s flat hard stomach—his big bulging biceps. His killer washboard abs—and tight thin lips.

She couldn’t understand—why I wanted young male magnetism. Rather than her nice smooth welfare pussy—she had the credits to get married and have kids. All she needed was me—to sign the dotted line. Isn’t that what I wanted? A happy 334 welfare kids and family?

I told Frances Schnapps I was going to enlist—she grabbed my legs and wouldn’t let me leave. She wouldn’t let go—all the way down the hallway and halfway down the stairwell.

She screamed—and cried out bloody murder. Even the dumb vending machines—blushed and looked ashamed. She loved my spumoni—she didn’t wanna give it up. She clung to my skinny legs—she would let me go.

I felt like a jerkoff—but I left her there. Handcuffed to the railing—promising me all her food stamps and happy pills. I didn’t even look back—at 334.

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