A Boy and His Dick (2012)

A Boy and His Dick (2012)

Cast: Levi Johnston (Vic), Bristol Palin (Quilla Jane Holmes), Dick (“Dick”), Jude Law (Dick’s Voice), Sarah Palin (Mez), John McSame (Lew Craddock), Strother Martin (Dr. Moore)

It’s 2012 A.D.—several years after the BP oil spill flooded the Gulf of Mexico and then all the oceans of Earth with putrid, slimy, cruddy, killer crude oil in a terrible Oil Spill Apocalypse.

Levi Johnston plays Vic—one of the young “solo” survivors of the End Times. His goodlooks and cinematic charm are perfect for this sci-fi remake of Harlan Ellison’s violent, sexy and vulgar dystopian black comedy.

So very much like young goodlooking Don Johnson—Levi Johnston plays a new kind of Vic in this post-apocalyptic nightmare movie of the future. Rather than a telepathic dog—Levi talks with his telepathic penis “Dick.”

Bristol Palin plays the spaced-out, loony-tune femme fatale survivor Quilla who seduces Vic and takes him “downunder” beneath Phoenix, Arizona—where a suburban community of underground desperate housewives are desperate for young men.

“Jizzville” is run by the ruthless, cruel Sarah Palin—along with ditzy ex-senator John McSame and mean media queen Matt Drudge. They hook Levi up to an artificial insemination machine that milks Levi constantly day and night. Naturally Levi’s petulant, pouty penis, “Dick”—rebels and leads a revolution that brings down the Jizzville Dicktatorship.

Levi and Bristol escape back to the surface—where Levi and “Dick” decide to do in Bristol and barbecue her. Dick remarks: “She had marvelous judgment—if not particularly good taste.” The boy and his penis laugh at the pun—and walk away into the sunset.

The best part of “A Boy and His Dick” is the wicked repartee—between Levi and Dick. Both have sexual lust for women—but Dick plays coquettish and hard to get.

To satisfy Levi’s constant hunger for sex, Dick makes Levi endure insults, rambling conversation, naïve speculation and martyristic ramblings about how stupid human beings are and how greedy Big Oil was to get the whole planet destroyed and covered with muck.

It’s a black comedy verging on an absurdist play—with a constant undercurrent of snide, sexy innuendo going on between Levi and his Dick. Dick comes across as a vicious, insolent critic of everything that’s stupid and all too human.

Like Ellison’s novella, “A Boy and His Dick” poses as a comedy team—staining the already stained, greasy landscape with blatant misogyny and lots of stupid scavenger chit-chat. TV Guide hates it—but Cinefantastique loves it.

A telepathic dick is nothing new to Hollywood—LA has always been populated with Provocative Penises and Pretty Boy Pricks. Ed Wood Jr. the true Master of Talking Dickheads, directed and produced a whole galaxy of flawed Black Holes and Masturbation Masterpieces—unequalled in sullen camp and tricky satire.

“A Boy and His Dick” is an intriguing vision of Tea Bagger Trouble and Excruciating Exxon Excesses. It’s a crazy world where Dicks are smarter than men—and where post-WWIII Penises run the Planet. Often billed with “Plan 9 From Outer Space” and porno-flick “Top Gun,” ABAHD won an Oscar for Best Special Effects.

Sarah Plain and John McSame do a simply marvelous job as—the two “Clowns from Outer Space,” adding a little bit of Repug repugnance to the downunder Desperate Housewives sequence.

Something else that adds realism to the movie’s SF horror—is “Dick” himself or herself or itself. “Dick” is rather polymorphously perverse as the Devil’s Advocate in this flick.

Jude Law is the perfect voice—for the role for this rude conniving, treacherous Mata Hari Piece of Talking Meat. Jude Law’s crisp British accent adds a certain dictatorial command to “Dick”—the odd man out. “Dick” is such a fuckin’ “Bitch”—no pun intended.

ABAHD is another flick in a long line of films in the “buddy movie” genre. Love and romance is pure and unstained—between a Boy and his Dick. It’s a sublime, not slimy—noble partnership in crime and punishment between a young man and his precocious prick.

Both Don Johnson and Levi Johnston—are favorite actors among gays. Both have boyish naïve charms—and a regular shotgun endowment down there in the Bargain Basement Department.

One doesn’t have to be a Harlan Ellison cultist or a sci-fi Hugo Nebula Award queen—to appreciate this movie. Hollywood Babylon still manages to get a little breathless and weak in the knees—when somebody like Levi Johnston comes along…

Gay Expectations X

Gay Expectations X

I don’t faint or swoon so much anymore—not like I used to do. Back then the first time—when Magwitch got me in the old churchyard cemetery.

That was a long time ago down by the river—in that other cemetery world of the Living Dead. That lonely courtyard where my family was buried—my mother, my father, my brothers and sisters.

They must have turned in their graves—me up above getting manhandled by Magwitch that way. Especially because I liked it and wanted it some more—shoved up against that old rotting tombstone. The way we made love again & again—beneath the scudding dark moody cloudy sky.

There’s nothing as exquisite and ruthless—as a young runaway escaped convict. Needing to make love one last time—before the hangman’s noose jerked his neck and made him go spaz for eternity.

But I helped Magwitch to escape and get away—leaving me all alone back then. To sullenly grow up a bored blacksmith’s young apprentice—never to forget the way he made love to me that dark day.

And how I pleaded with him—to do me again because it felt so good. And how Magwitch made love to me again—except more slowly and gently the second time. I guiltily confess and even now feel so ashamed to admit—that the 3rd time was even better!!!

So that now years later looking back on all that—lounging and lollygagging here in this swanky captain’s hammock on the high seas. That yes indeed, it probably was an unforgivable sacrilege back then—to be so greedy and needy for shameless love back then.

But what about now? Am I any different and less shameless—here now compared to back then? Here aboard this ship The Wake of the Red Witch? Sleeping and making love—with Magwitch and his younger brother, Edwin Drood?

As we near the port of Dejima—the fan-shaped artificial island in the Bay of Nagasaki. The Dutch trading post on the coast—now during Japan’s self-imposed isolation (sakoku). The Edo period—from 1641 until 1853.

I’m even more shameless—and in need of love now. Heaven can wait—but I can’t. I need to be loved—and to make love back. I need to be turned inside-out—and upside-down. I need to get it both ways—with both handsome brothers. I was lucky indeed—to be shanghaied by two such goodlooking young thugs.

Young handsome Magwitch who came back for me—and pouty, sullen Edwin who ended up in love with me too. What was this thing—that had grabbed me up that dark afternoon in the cemetery? What was it that kidnapped me and whisked me far out to sea? The hardness of the high seas—that pulled me deeper and deeper into the deep blue sea of love?

I didn’t know—I didn’t care anymore. I could sail forever and a day anywhere—who cared where or when. It didn’t make any difference to me—anymore anyway. All I needed was my two guardian angels—who sprained my thigh and bruised my lips.

It had all been decided back in the cemetery a long time ago—I didn’t have much of a choice anyway. Getting knocked up—and my head banged hard against a tombstone. I thought I was going to be murdered and die that day—and in many ways that was true. I was fucked to death—and born again anew, my dears.

And so what else could I do—but take each day one lay at a time. Back there in England at the Ratcliff Highway opium den—that’s where I got wised up to the soup du jour of my own personal denouement.

That’s when Magwitch—introduced me to his moody younger brother who hated everybody. He hated me with a passion—and treated me like a no-good fucking slut-whore.

But as the night wore on—Edwin gradually realized that I was into rough trade amour. I craved it—I pleaded for more. And he gave it to me—in sullen spades. Then brutal clubs, pierced hearts and sharp diamonds. Soon he fainted in a royal flush—taking me with him all the way down to Davy’s Locker. Magwitch smiled and nodded—arrogant, better-than-thou Edwin had finally met his match.

And so here we were a year later—my love for Edwin running through me silent and deep. His love hissing at me—like the sea-foam and curling surf sliced by the sharp-edged brow of the ship. Pulling us further and further—out to sea. It was like wrestling again—with an angel.

Except the canvas tent down by the river—had changed to straining canvas sails. And instead of me spraining my thigh—it was handsome lithe Edwin who limped away each time from bed.

The more he limped and gimped—the more I wanted him bad. He was my pouty reluctant angel—my young mermaid stud of the high seas. He smoked like a fiend—and then I’d get him off. How many times—did he blow the back of my head off. Splattering my brains—all over the hull of the ship.

Magwitch had other things to do—planning ahead for our business deals with the Portuguese and Dutch traders. He said there were things in China—that would change my life forever. But in the meantime—I had my hands and limbs and heart full of something else. I was addicted to his younger brother—which is what Magwitch wanted to happen.

I wanted it to last forever. It was like having Magwitch all over again—this time through his kid brother Edwin. I was addicted to young brotherly love—my lips oozed with his liquid family jewels. His Family tree—was a part of me. His muscle-bound branches—his gnarly roots.

I got to know the taste—of the Forbidden Fruit. Edwin was good at it—at stuffing me with it. Biting my neck—and stretching me out in the swaying hammock at night. Bending and twisting me—like a warm stick of cherry licorice.

Magwitch every once in awhile. But he was an important trader—and successful businessman now. As we neared Dejima—he met and made plans with his fellow henchmen aboard ship.
While Edwin and I got ready for Japan—by taking another toke and him playing dead. I got pretty good at resurrecting him—like Jonah and the Whale.

Gay Expectations IX

Gay Expectations IX

It was the Night of the Forbidden Dead—I’d been hijacked and shanghaied aboard “The Wake of the Red Witch.”

I’d been cursed with Forbidden Yearnings—and shameless Unbecoming Urges. But now it was time— for my secret High Seas Denouement.

I had to actually crawl outta the hammock—and check out what the fuck was going on. It seemed like Forever and a Day since way back when—I’d been floating on Cloud Nine for quite some time.

Followed by Cloud Ten—and Cloud Eleven and Twelve. The hammock in Magwitch’s captain chambers was quite the seductive magic carpet—I could’ve drifted there much longer it seemed to me. But I simply had to get up...

Somehow I’d managed to ooze my way from Ah Sing’s opium parlor back in London—clear over into this new high seas den of inequity. Without even trying—without even blinking an Eye.

Now I was way out there—sailing on the High Seas!!! What an Adventure for a nelly little London fag like me—wobbling around without my sea-legs yet. Gawking at everything...

Not having learned the trick of bending my knees—and going with the gentle rocking back & forth swaying of the huge swift Clipper spaceship.

I peered outta the window in the Captain’s chamber—through the tinted panes of elegant stained-glass panels.

The sweeping deep-blue vistas that I could see as I clinged to the windowsill—it was all so breathtaking and beyond compare. I’d never been on a Clipper ship before—I’d never set step aboard such a sleek fast craft. I’d never ever felt the tug of wind and sails pulling me forward—the silent-running and hissing-slicing through the turquoise blue-green whitecap-foaming sea.

Edwin Drood was still passed out—sleeping away in the Captain's hammock. It was different than Ah Sing’s opium parlor bamboo hammock. It moved and swayed with the creaking timbers of the ship—the reassuring movement forward almost felt like we were flying.

I’d heard of "The Flying Dutchman"—and the exciting exploits of other Clipper ship adventure stories. But to actually feel one under your bare feet and to lean with the motion this way and that wat—it was really very soothing and exquisitely homoerotic for me.

Things were busy onboard The Wake of the Red Witch—the crew knew exactly what they were doing. They seemed happy to be at sea again—away from that dark damp rainy London with all its crummy landlubber crowds crammed into that stinking cesspool of a city.

I felt like surely my final demise had finally caught up with me—the Love that had no name seemed to have a name now. It was called The Wake of the Red Witch—and with it and through it and because of it, I would never be the same.

Nor would I ever come back to London—or see my beautiful England ever again. My new life aboard this ship had taken on a whole new meaning for me—and my love for Magwitch and Edwin I sensed would never ever be quenched or satisfied.

I couldn’t help myself—I had a whole new set of gay expectations. I slowly crawled back into the soft comphy hammock next to the long naked lean eighteen-year-old Edwin Drood. I stealthily felt him up with trembling fingers and was more than pleased to discover him erect and waiting for me.

Was Edwin still slumbering—was that why his ten inches seemed eternally, shamelessly erect? Or was he pretending to be deeply, unconsciously asleep—out of it completely like we were still back there in the Chinaman’s den of homoerotic heavenly bliss?

Edwin was always coy and clever—I never knew whether to take him seriously or just tongue-in-cheek. I think he was playing games with me—to see just how much I wanted him.

There’s no doubt about that—it was like picking up from where we left off back in that louche highway parlor of sailorboy sin and exquisite degradation. It was impossible for me to not want it, to not want to be even more denigrated—disgustingly so and all the way once again.
"Light the pipe," he said.
We lollygagged in the hammock and soon Queequeg's clay pipe with its long stem got us there again. Surely this was how Ishmael of "Moby Dick" must have felt, that night in bed with the giant headhunting, savage harpooner of Melville's gauche novel?
Edwin harpooned me to death all morning long.
For breakfast on the high seas—I pealed back the tight swollen flesh of my captive sleeping mermaid boy. He was covered with Neptunian blue-green shiny scales—and soon I had an anchor halfway down my gulping throat. I gagged, I choked, but I wanted more. I was queer for my Queequeg sailorboy.

Edwin got it down deeper inside me—by flexing his nice tight ass. Grabbing my ears—he made sure he got it all deep down inside my wise-ass glib gullet. And up my goosey, girlish ass.

I’m sure Edwin was thinking—“There that’ll shut-up that insolent smart-ass little cocksucker. Let’s see how he handles a real man this time—ten inches twenty thousand leagues beneath the sea...”

Oh, dear me. Talk about tingling, tantalizing Tonsillitis!!!

Slowly Edwin let his cheesy harpoon tip slip in & out, leaving its funguloid manly mucous smearing my pouty, wise-ass lips. Then he slipped it in deeper and further down my throat—until his tight wiry pubes became my new virile moustache, cramming his groin up against my pursed pouty lips.

My youthful peach-fuzz dainty moustache fled—instead my naughty lips merged with Edwin’s manly pubes. I could smell him with my trembling erect nostrils—I could feel him holding it back not wanting to lose it right away.

The way he pulled my curly locks out by the roots—and thumbed my burning ears inside-out. Working his forefingers down deep down inside my ear canals—weaseling them all the way deep inside my brain. It made me feel like a busy bee-nest honeycomb—full of frissony gauche goosebumps going crazy.

I almost fainted it got so intense—surely I was beyond the humanly possible "point of no return." It was like a sudden nocturnal emission out of the adolescent blue—a bruising wide-awake wet-dream that turned me into a hopeless spastic child idiot. And idiot savant starved for love...
Edwin took advantage of my newfound nelly vulnerability—the way I was going spaz so helplessly there in the slow, swaying, patient swinging hammock. My sprained neck bent over the edge of the abyss, cross-eyed with forbidden love. He smirked and butchyly flipped me over on my stomach—even as I gazed helplessly into his cruel blue-green eyes.

Edwin had the cold cunning look of some kind of insane Jack the Ripper—it scared the holy shit outta me. But there was nothing I could do—he bit me hard on the neck. It hurt me so bad I wanted it some more. Back & forth went the hammock of pleasure and pain—up & down undulated the Clipper ship on the Skull & Crossbone turgid waves.

It seemed to last forever—it was more than I'd bargained for. Taking turns with Edwin and Magwitch—getting nailed down deep every day and night. Deep as Davy’s Locker—deep as Captain Nemo. They were both surpised by how needy I was for Capt. Nemo's lean & mean Nautilus "Up Periscope!!!"

The Wake of the Red Witch sailed on & on—leaving behind us the jetsam and flotsome of so many lost moments and memories. We were surrounded by nothing but the cold North Atlantic going on & on from horizon to horizon. Later things warmed up in the hot humid Tropics—sailing down by the Hawaiian Islands and up through the Pacific warm breezes.

Had I ever once upon a time been a naive country boy—sulking around there in Miss Havisham’s moody haunted mansion? Had I ever been a silly spoiled little Fop—moiling about in the great dark labyrinths of mysterious London? Had I ever really been myself as I was now way back then—before I hooked up with Magwitch and Edwin Drood, his stunning young brother?

And so we sailed the High Seas higher than a kite—Magwitch’s sleek Clipper ship slicing through the foamy waves. As we sailed on & on toward destinations unknown—not even Magwitch knew where or whence. I didn't care one little bit.

I didn’t care where we were going—nor did I worry about poor Pockets back in London probably worried about me for awhile. Jaggers probably told him the whole sordid story. I'm sure Pockets smiled and nodded knowingly.Nor I was especially worried about myself or where I was going—surely I wasn’t meant to be so happy? But I was and that was the important thing.

Herbert Pocket would simply have to get by—and take care of himself back there in London. He was good at that—much more nonchalant and practical about things than me. I'm sure he missed me but then for only a minute or two. He had gay expectations of his own. We all do...

Actually I enjoyed not knowing anything at all—not knowing was like taking a vacation from myself. Not knowing made for such an ad lib and spontaneous adventure to be had. It was full of impromptu feelings—feelings I’d never had before. I got to know some of the other sailors—there were plenty of hammocks down there below deck.

I didn’t miss reading newspapers—or spending nights by the fire with books. Something else had taken over. I suppose you could call it Foolishness. Or perhaps get hoity-toity and get your knickers in a twist. Negative capability, my dear?
The time went by so quickly—there was always something or somebody to do. The Chinese cook kept us loaded to the gills—I spent lots of time with Edwin getting off and on. Magwitch approved: finally his truant younger brother had found his match. He winked at me and I winked back. We'd come a long way since that churchyard tryst...

I got my ear pierced with a gold earring—and the First Mate tattooed my right shoulder with a nude mermaid who had a nice smile. The other sailors tolerated me; some even liked me.

The times of being totally surprised and shocked never seemed to end—Magwitch with his tongue halfway down my throat. His long oozing, muscular, python Tongue—that I’d wrap my tight lips around when he came. Feeling him ream me with it—all the way down my greedy gullet to my protruding bellybutton.

Oral sex and kissing was nice—but Edwin preferred it the other way around. He liked to sink his big Vampire fangs deep into my nelly twisting neck hard and hold me extra-tight when he lost it and lost it some more. He smoked like a fiend—and then he’d want it some more. I confess I fell for him hook, line and sinker—Edwin dropping his veiny young anchor so many times down inside me. That I felt like The Titanic going under.

Between Magwitch’s huge exquisite Tongue—and Edwin’s touchy, thick Torpedo Tool. There was nothing else that I was interested in. There was nothing else between us—except maybe for the Deep Blue Sea that went on forever.
Forever and a day—forever and a night...

Gay Expectations VIII

Gay Expectations VIII

I woke up deliriously dazed and devilishly discombobulated—lying there in this big swaying hammock looking up at the convoluted ceiling.

I found myself somehow enslaved in an evil decadent opium den—and I’d completely forgotten how in the world I even got there…

It’s as if I’d somehow I’d got terribly intoxicated—and there I was in this lovely swinging bamboo hammock sandwiched in between two young sailors semi-awake there next to me.

Slowly I became more & more conscious—of the soothing sandalwood incense and strange exotic Chinese flute music that was floating around through the luxurious opium den chambers.

And then gradually I realized—much to my shocked pleasure and exquisite enjoyment—that I had both my nelly little hands completely full. Completely full of Big Trouble—in Little Chinatown!!!

In my right hand—I was clutching something rather nonchalantly. It seemed to be like—the tight hard gearshift of a sleek, aggressive Porsche 911 (996 Series GT3) sports car!!!

I could feel its throbbing no-nonsense power—connecting its big thick smooth knob all the way down to something huge and purring like a racetrack thoroughbred infernal machine!!!

In my left hand I ever so delicately squeezed and grasped—something that felt like a big thick throbbing Roman Candle. Getting ready to POP GOES THE WEASEL!!! Shooting and sky-rocketing up into the heavens a most piquant and penis-like pyrotechnic spurting fireworks display!!!

There I was like Jacob down by the river—wrestling with my two tall young lanky handsome Sailorboy Angels. Manhandling them with both my hands—stroking and masturbating the young Meat of the Gods.

It made me feel so weak and dizzy—I almost fainted, steering through the sinful, shameless Sargasso Sea of my own most incredible Gay Expectations.

Holding on tight for dear life—squeezing and stroking those two elegant streamlined prongs that were guiding me through the opium pit giddy darkness. It was just awful—awfully nice…

Jaggers had known the truth—the whole truth and nothing but the truth. But he’d only told me so much—and that was all I got. He only told me—what I needed to know.

Jaggers dolled out Magwitch’s allowance to me—but didn’t reveal my true benefactor. He kept mum about a lot of things—sounds like a poker-faced attorney, doesn’t it? Yes, Jaggers with his double-triple jowls—and his aloof manners with his mistress & business affairs. But that’s another story…

Magwitch had escaped from England after all—thanks to me and my pork pie. Maybe it was our racy rendezvous—there in the churchyard cemetery that twilight evening? Anyway, Magwitch ended up in Australia—and then New Zealand. And then Hong Kong, Singapore—and the Forbidden City.

He’d done well with all his nefarious business ventures—his wheeling & dealing, his struggling & smuggling. His wrestling with the ups and downs of a very lucrative, clandestine trade—in illegal cargo shipping between Canton, Singapore and San Francisco.

Magwitch was now filthy rich—and, well, somewhat bored. He wanted to spread it around a little bit—his newfound wealth and well-being. Edwin and I were at the top of his list for some reason—first his generous allowance for me out of the blue…

And now generous Magwitch—was even giving me his younger brother!!! Edwin Drood himself!!! Right there in the hammock—next to me. On my left moiling there—moody and sullen letting me feel him up.

I squeezed it a little harder—Edwin squeezed it back. Surely both Magwitch and Edwin were telepathic brothers—their well-endowed juicy manhoods seemed to twitch at the same time!!! I couldn’t believe my Fortune Cookie Good Fortune!!! Double your Trouble—Double your Fun!!!

Could it be that Mother Nature—in her vast ancient Animal Knowledge and Carnal Know-How. Sensed how deeply I needed them both—down there in the dark exquisite Bargain Basement of Love?

Down there where the Wolves howl nightly at the Moon—when the Wolfbane blooms and the Fangs bite deep into my Neck? When I run my trembling fingers—through their Golden Fleece? That lovely curly-cue, tight little triangular patch of pouty pubes?

Estella would’ve simply turned green with hate and jealousy—penis-envy writhing through her S & M heart. Seeing what was in store for me—the rest of the night and into the weekend.
Probably she’d have simmered and burned—like a neon chartreuse flame with her ogling eyes. Seeing the two nude young studs getting it on with me—in the same huge swaying hammock in that awful den of inequity...

Stoned out of their gourds and luxuriating in Ah Sing’s special opium den bedroom—the Flowery Heaven opening up like some decadent lavender orchid blooming just for us. Reserved for the two studs—the captain and his sailorboy kid brother. us. It was time to die forever—oozing and dying slowly in my arms, as the jade night leaned over us.

Somehow I’d ended up here in this exotically decadent, heavenly space—the orphan in me sobbing and crying with long-lost joy. Rough trade had always appealed to me—and now I was right in the middle of it.

I died a million times that night—and that wasn’t enough for me. Even Edwin was cynically shocked—by how much I needed him. I was as needy as the Chinese cook—aboard The Wake of the Red Witch. While Magwitch smiled—and looked on. He had my number—he knew I’d like Edwin. And maybe Edwin—would end up liking me?

I confess that I was no virgin to fine rough trade—but usually it was pretty dangerous and untouchable down by the docks where rough trade came and went. I was still somewhat the shy country boy—Miss Havisham’s fumbling lonely teenage boytoy who didn’t know shit.

Usually I shunned the East End—hardly ever cruising the docks. I certainly didn’t wanna end up dead-drunk—or somehow deliriously doomed and diseased? What’s a girl to do?

And yet here I was—swooning away in an oriental hammock of forbidden male pleasures. Here I was with handsome Magwitch again—and his young over-sexed, nefarious brother. Sequestered silently here in this strange opium den—full of infernal incense, intoxicating fumes and exotic drugs.

Instead of just one—I had two tough convict types to deal with. One in each hand—going to town. Until Edwin couldn’t take it any longer—and pulled me over on top of him. Lubricated with peach-fuzz ointments and cherry blossom salves—to anoint my tender virgin you-know-what to the inevitable plunge most Minotaur-esque. The engorgement of my, well—most anticipated Greatest Expectation…

What in the world was I ever going to do—after this dizzy evening in the depths of depravity? Could I ever go back to being—merely just another dizzy fag from London? How could I ever escape this strangely sophisticated yet primitive oriental Flowery Kingdom—tucked away so faraway and yet so close to my deepest gay expectations?

I could feel Ah Sing’s whole ancient, rotting brownstone mansion—leaning and tilting backwards and downward straight to hell. Pulling me with it—under the supernatural weight of these two young superhuman sailormen.

The whole dream mansion—like some “House on Haunted Hill.” It seemed to heave and breathe on its own—and I could feel its knowing, leering rafters above me bending downward to Hades as well. I could feel the rotting rafters—moving back & forth like moaning ship timbers. And here we were—in the captain’s cabin of Magwitch’s fast Clipper ship.

Where were we going—where was it taking me? The floorboards in the special guest den—kept pleading with me to run and hide. The floorboards creaked and moaned—undulating backwards and forwards. Upward and downward like waves they went—taking me with them whence I knew not where?

Somehow I’d been Shanghaied—and now I was in Magwitch’s captain’s chambers!?! The “Wake of the Red Witch” had become my new home—it wasn’t a pipedream anymore. The hammock wasn’t in Ah Sing’s joint anymore—I was aboard Magwitch’s fast Clipper ship!!!

I was beginning to get seasick and dizzy—I didn’t have sea-legs like Edwin and Magwitch. Those sea-legs were good for seafaring adventures—like wrapping around my neck real tight. Squeezing me tight—just like I squeezed them tight too.

I must have passed out in Ah Sing’s secretive, decadent den of inequity—off to the side of that raunchy, ratty Highway Going Straight to Hell. I must have been waylayed by bandits—along that cursed old Ratcliff Highway.

Surely it was the Pipe—that made me do it. The last thing I remembered—was turning slowly into a big fat ugly Rat. I had this nervous twitching nose—all wrinkly and rodent-like. Wiggling away with these little delicate nose-hairs—all fidgety inside my nostrils.

I could feel each tingling hair follicle—in my ratty raunchy rodent nostrils. I could smell these two fuming crotches next to me—I could feel these two writhing Snakes I had in each hand. Stroking them in the darkness—in some eerie, ancient Gypsy caravan.

There I was with Maria Ouspenskaya—whipping the horses to go faster. While I was locked in the dumpy trailer’s backroom—as we all went weaseling our way down narrow Balkan highways to the moody sea.

Magwitch took a toke—and passed the evil pipe to me. I didn’t have to open my eyes—I could see right through my thin translucent eyelids. Then I passed the pipe—to Edwin Drood. They both leaned over me—how could I ever go back to London now?

Magwitch laughed—grabbing me by my ass. He yanked me over closer to him—Edwin pulled me hard the other way. Soon I was getting it in both ends—the blushing bride that Miss Havisham could never be on her bridal night.

Deliriously wrapped up in muscular arms and legs—had I not always wished to be squeezed to death this way? How many wasted lifetimes had I lost—between then & now, now & then? Between the exquisite churchyard cemetery tryst—and this swinging, swaying hammock that was now me?

Gay Expectations VII

Gay Expectations VII

Magwitch took me over to Edwin Drood’s place—way out there on the infamous Ratcliffe Highway.

We took a coach to New Court, Victoria Street—that’s where Ah Sing lived. His opium den was open all the time—hidden deep in Dis just to the east of St. George's-in-the-East churchyard. Between Cable Street and St. George Street.

It was a secret den for just a few privileged opium cognoscenti, of course—Ah Sing’s clientele included only the most discrete British habituates. A backroom by the alley—was for the run-of-the-mill riffraff addicts. Some of them—lived and died there.

We entered New Court through a dark narrow covered alley—our cab snaking its way slowly between the well-to-do houses of Victoria Street. And then the driver turned left into a short cul de sac—that’s where Edwin Drood was waiting for us.

Magwitch had handpicked one of his young handsome sailors just for me—a moody sullen foretopman named Edwin Drood. He was much too beautiful to be a sailor—and he had tragedy written all over his face the minute I saw him.

Magwitch had knowingly nicknamed him “Billy Budd”—after a beautiful doomed youth in one of Melville’s stories. Billy had been impressed into service aboard HMS “Bellipotent”—from another ship, “The Rights of Man.”

But unlike Melville’s pretty boy—Magwitch’s “Billy Budd” wasn’t very innocent at all. He was moody and extremely surly—not suffused with even a drop of good cheer, openness or natural charisma. All the rest of the crew hated his guts—so Magwitch took him under his wing as his cabin boy.

It only made Billy more spoiled and surly. He smoked opium all day and all night long in his hammock—playing with himself all the time. The ship, “The Red Witch,” left a wake behind them—full of young jizzy jetsam, creamy flotsam worthy of the gods. Sharks fought in the foam—craving it…

The Chinese cook fell in love with the youth—keeping young Billy loaded to his gills all the time. His hammock slowly swung and swayed back and forth with the rhythmic waves and creaking timbers. What a luxurious opium den up there in the captain’s chambers. The youth surveying the high seas—through glowing stained-glass portals.

The gracious, only-to-willing-to-please Chinaman was so enamored with Billy—that he gave him baths and massages. Manicuring the youth’s fingernails and toes. Serving him meals in Magwitch’s cabin anytime he wanted—pampering the youth with everything a boy could possibly desire.

Except for one thing—young brooding Edwin Drood wanted to live forever. He dared to want to love forever—if only he could find somebody to love. Magwitch tried—the patient Chinese cook tried. The pipe tried. The sea tried. The waves tried. The creaking ship’s timbers…

But he knew he wasn’t going to live forever—there was only each moment to die for. Who wants to live forever anyway, he asked. Magwitch couldn’t answer him—he didn’t even try. The sea rolled on—the pipe with wings tried to entertain him. Forever and a day—he drifted away into an ersatz tomorrow.

That’s why Magwitch wanted me to meet Edwin. I was perhaps the only one, Magwitch told me. The only one who was like Edwin. I’d whispered desperately in Magwitch’s ear in the churchyard graveyard—that I wanted him to do me again.

Making love with Magwitch—it made me feel like I was living forever. And so, he leaned me gently up against a tilting old tombstone—and gave me what I wanted again. He gave me—forever and a day. The first time anybody—had ever loved me. That’s how it felt—it felt like forever.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Only the now—that was the only forever. Young Magwitch sadly smiled—and the twilight cemetery died that day too. As the young moody convict—slowly died in my arms…

I walked gingerly into the special Guest back bedroom—reserved for special gentlemen like Magwitch and his friends. I didn’t know what to expect—I’d never been in a den before.

It was then I realized just how special Edwin Drood really was. He was standing there nude—in the sandalwood incense moment. He was the spitting image of handsome Magwitch—in fact he was Magwitch’s cute younger brother.

Magwitch smiled. “I told you so,” he said.

Magwitch took a toke—and then Edwin took a toke. Magwitch took another toke—and so did I. After awhile Ah Sing’s pipe sprouted wings—and off we flew to faraway gay Cathay.

We’d left my charming comphy abode that rainy midnight very late—so that Magwitch could introduce me to this young man named Edwin Drood. It was like seeing a “Double”—Double-Trouble. Both Magwitch and Edwin were so very much alike. I’d known one—now it was time for the other.

Actually they were just half-brothers—they’d had different mothers but the same father. Somewhere back in the mists of time—their Family Tree had endowed both Magwitch and Edwin with the same incredibly fine physiques.

They were both natural-born athletes—and their Family Tree had encased them in a dreamboat casket way down there deep in Davy Jones’ Locker. Twenty-thousand leagues beneath the sea—wasn’t deep enough for me. I fell into—Edwin’s arms.

When Edwin dropped anchor—he took the ship, the crew, the cargo, the sails, the rigging and everything else including me—down, down deeper and deeper into the darkness. It was that deep darkness I sensed in Magwitch way back when—and now with Edwin smoking in bed looking up at the ceiling. It was the same deep darkness—it went on forever.

Magwitch nodded, “I thought so.”

Magwitch had this knowing, surly smirk. I looked back at him over my shoulder—as I felt myself already sinking downward into the hammock. Deep, deep, down I went—into the dark-blue Neptunian eyes of Edwin Drood.

Gay Expectations VI

Gay Expectations VI

“He emptied his glass,
and stood at the side
of the fire, with his
heavy brown hand on
the mantelshelf.”
—Charles Dickens,
Great Expectations

And so, it was one such evening that it happened—like I said it was one of those dark and stormy nights when it felt like something bad was going to happen. And yet I had no idea what it was or what it would be.
It was simply exhausting to be in such a state of nervous suspense and anxiety that way—as if the tendrils of my poor nelly brain had been reaching out into the darkness and knew something was out there. But what? Here, there, everywhere—but what pray tell was lurking for me out there in the stormy, rainy darkness, waiting patiently for me?

I’d finally got so hopelessly exhausted that I drifted off into a restless half-slumbering sleep sitting next to the fire—reading a strange article in the East London Observer (January 11, 1890). It was about a curious burial entitled—“A Chinaman Finds a Resting Place in Bow Cemetery. The Extraordinary Career of Ah Sing.”

Herbert had known Ah Sing for many years—the wise old Chinaman had been buried on Sunday there in Bow Cemetery. According to Herbert—Ah Sing was "buried most comfortable."
According to Mrs. Ah Sing, or Mrs. Johnson, as she was called more frequently, Ah Sing's various smoking vices and noisome money troubles of which he’d never ever told her about (she said) were now over—and that surely he was in heaven, she felt certain, where happy at last that wicked opium habit was no longer a necessity, and where "that cursed vice of his" would trouble him no more.

Though born in the Flowery Kingdom, Ah Sing was not laid to rest to the hollow and sad sounds of Chinese flutes and dancing girls. No sweetmeats or paper ornaments were laid upon his grave—and no appeals were made to any of the heathen gods, no joss sticks and incense were burned nor any fortune cookies were consulted on his behalf.

For many years Ah Sing had professed to be a Christian—for Miss Ah Sing’s sake. It’s doubtful though that he became much of one though—addicted to reading a Bible like his wife wasn't exactly up Ah Sing's alley. It was much more probable that his real business was somewhat more practical—that of providing opium for those who cared for a "hit" with the pipe which took unto itself wings. Herbert vouchsafed for that and was a regular visitor to Ah Sing’s deleriously laid-back den of inequity.

New Court, Victoria Street was where Ah Sing lived—just to the east of St. George's-in-the-East churchyard between Cable Street and St. George Street. The more common and well-known name that the opium cognoscenti gave it was, of course—the infamous name of the House on Ratcliffe Highway. The 1873 Ordnance Survey map shows that one entered New Court through a narrow covered dark dirty alley between the houses of Victoria Street—and then turning left into a short cul de sac, one entered Ah Sang's home away from home.

According to the journalist Charles Dickens who sometimes whiled away the time smoking and writing there at Ratcliffe Highway House—Mrs. Ah Sang rented Nos. 2 and 3 while her husband, Ah Sing, rented 6 and 7. They were said to have lived there "for about thirty years"—until the place was pulled down "a couple of years" before Ah Sing's death. Dickens mentioned Ah Sing several times—but was less than candid about exactly what the Chinaman was baking there.
There was this entry in Dickens's Dictionary of London, 1879—entitled “An Unconventional Handbook: Opium Smoking Dens.”

“The best known of these justly-named "dens" is that of one Johnstone—who lives in a garret off Ratcliff-highway, and for a consideration allows visitors to smoke a pipe which has been used by many crowned heads in common with poor Chinese sailors who seek their native pleasure in Johnstone's garret. This is the place referred to in my novel "Mystery of Edwin Drood." Will I ever finish it? Only time will tell."

A similar establishment of a slightly superior—or would it perhaps be more correct to say a place a shade less nauseating—would be the establishment of one certain Johnny Chang, at the London and St. Katharine Coffee-house, also by the Ratcliff Highway itself.

It was while I was napping and brooding over this strange East London Observer obituary with its dreary drug-induced Drood story subtext—that suddenly I was started from my slumbers by this ominously hard knocking at my door.

I crept over to the door, unlocked it and cracked it open just enough to peek outside at what mysterious visitor was calling on me at such a late hour. A huge hulking shadowy figure—stood in the dark lightless hallway in front of me. Whoever or whatever it was—he was slightly drunk and swaying back and forth very slowly like the somebody very familiar that once upon a time I’d known so well. Intimately...

I started to close the door not knowing who it was—but the tall stranger stuck his foot in the door and said, “C’mon now, Pip. Is that anyway to treat an old friend?”

I recognized the voice right away—feeling the most delicious shivering frissons going up and down my nelly spine. The hair on the back of my neck—stood straight up erect. I felt weak in the knees—overcome by a repulsively repugnant but at the same time exciting animal-like attraction for this stranger standing before me. Somebody I'd never be able to ever forget the rest of my life. Without saying anything more—the stranger pushed the door open, pushed me aside and strode over to the fire to warm and dry himself from the cold rainy outdoors.

I closed the door and locked it—wetting my lips and feeling my nostrils nervously tremble. My heart hadn’t got weak and pounded like that—since way back in that churchyard cemetery a long time ago. Back when thuggish Magwitch the young runaway convict—had surprised me in that place of death and crumbling tombstones. I joined him by the fire—and hugged him like a long lost lover. Because that’s who he was—it was Magwitch all these long years later.

“Get me a drink,” Magwitch mumbled, itching his crotch.

I got him some cognac out of the cupboard and he drank it down without a glass. He leaned closer to the fire warming himself up—with his elbow on the mantelpiece. He was just as sexy, rough-looking and handsome—as he was that first time in the churchyard cemetery. Except he was better dressed and had put some weight on. He was still lithe and muscular—dressed like a sailor. He’d got out of the country back then—and sailed around the world. He’d made several fortunes in Hong Kong and New Zealand—he’d lost them and made some more fortunes again.

“Are you… are you the…?” I started to ask him, leaning back in lounge-chair, feeling weak and gawking at his manly curves.
Tall aloof manly Magwitch smiled down at me—he didn't say anything. He seemed to be in a melancholy mood. But then he'd always been that way. Always such a moody, brooding young man, the moodiest man I'd ever known. And yet that was the mood that always turned me on—as if he weren’t there but always somewhere else and not with me. But a part of him would be mine again that night. And I wanted him bad...

“What’d you think, my pale little pipsqueak Pip boy?”

And then I knew it was him after all—Magwitch had been my benefactor all this time since that day he got me in the old churchyard cemetery. It hadn’t been Miss Havisham at all—although she’d gave me some gold sovereigns now and then. She’d made Mr. Jaggers the haughty, worldly-wise lawyer—my guardian while I’d come of age in London.
jBut it was really Magwitch who'd hired Jaggers separately, making sure I was rewarded and looked after nicely for helping that day out in the moors.

I stuttered to myself—guzzling my drink. I couldn’t believe it—had it been five years that had gone by so quickly? Losing my virginity in the churchyard cemetery—when I was sweet sixteen up against a cold granite tombstone? Done in by a graceful villain so smooth and sleek—tonguing me in the ear, biting my neck, rotor-rootering me inside-out. Cleaning my nelly gutters, making my gutter-spout gush and drool?

“Do me again,” I ended up whispering in his ear. I was such a naive little fool—I didn’t know when to stop. But he sent me away to get a file and some food to eat. Some brandy in a bottle—he gulped it down just like that. Along with some mincemeat, some bread & cheese, some pork pie—all devoured in one big starved gulp. Just like he did with me—in such a violent hurry, as if he hadn't much time left in the world.

And now here we were sitting by a fire—his mind somewhere else, only part of him really here next to me. It was that part that gave me goosebumps—the part of him that was here and now. It was that part of him that that I wanted—like that moody night out there in the swampy cloud-scudding darkness. He’d made me see shooting stars—reaming me inside & out. This time he did me with some expensive sented salve from Paris—instead of the way we did it back then with his slimy spit sticking it in deep...

There in front of the warm fire—stretched out on some pillows on a rich soft Persian carpet. With my chartreuse-glowing bug-eyed jealous cat—glaring at us from beneath her hiding-spot under the delirious divan. For several hours I clung to my handsome benefactor—as he gave me more than I surely deserved. Groaning, moaning, for more of my greedy allowance.

“Well, Pip,” Magwitch finally said.

I rubbed my face down along his chest—flattening my swinish nostrils against his damp armpits glistening in the fire. He had a delicate golden earring like a plundering pirate—piercing his left erect nipple all the way through. Down below—his anchor line running halfway down his knee. When he was hard—it stretched up past his bellybutton and down my throat.

Magwitch had a tattoo, of course—the face of a pretty girl he once knew. By flexing his biceps—her smile would come and go. She made me jealous—and Magwitch laughed. He flipped me over—and did to me what he did to her. The storm raged outside all night—the rain beat against the windows until morning.
But he could only stay a few days—they were unloading The Red Witch his ship down by the docks. Deals were being made—bribes were being paid. His illicit cargo was very hush-hush—there was a friend he wanted me to meet.

“His name is Edwin Drood,” Magwitch said.

“You’ll like him—he’s a lot like me.”

Gay Expectations V

Gay Expectations V

“It was wretched weather,
stormy and wet, a vast
heavy veil had been driving
over London from the East”
—Charles Dickens,
Great Expectations

Yawn, my dear. Ho-hum and all that. It was another one of those dreary, tiresome “dark and stormy nights.” And you know what usually happens—during those moody, dark, stormy nights don't you?

What usually happens to me (I don’t know about you)—is that something terribly frightening and yet amazingly insightful seems to come out of the blue and scares the shit out of me. Like that time in the churchyard cemetery—when tall, dark, handsome Magwitch the thug loomed out of the grim swamp dead of night twilight and grabbed hold of me.

And yet… and yet how did I know that something strange and provocative, perhaps even somewhat penisly piquant was going to happen that fateful stormy evening? I was about as psychic as a bump on a log. I'd bite my fingernails nervously and hide under the bed with my cat.

It was the same kind of chilly expectation that filled me that strange night in the cemetery—when I quite by accident fell head over heels in love with a handsome young moody stranger. A young muscular convict on the run—a rough and tumble escapee from the nearby prison. A young desperate hoodlum type—in his early twenties. Who took a liking to me—just as much as I took pity upon him.

It was pouring cats and dogs outside that night—and if one could slowly fly down over the slick, glistening London rooftops beneath that stormy, devilish downpour, gliding over the drenched old buildings with leaning chimneys, stinking coal smoke morosely oozing out from the hovels and swanky brownstones here and there—one might possibly spy the rooftop window of our new little comphy apartment that rainy, troublesome night.

Our new well-appointed bachelor’s apartment—that Herbert and I now lived in quite elegantly. Enjoying my new extremely-generous allowance—now that I was a young twenty-one year old man of great expectations.

Not that I had any great expectations for myself—or even any small ones. The most important thing was London itself, that huge bustling Evil Garden of Eden metropolis with all its various and sundry sins and sad sorrows, all its various cosmopolitan adventures, delicious cruisings, cumly comings and goings.

If one had money, of course—that was the main thing. Which I did possess thanks to my unknown benefactor—so that the City was more than willing to let herself be opened up, embracing me in her arms with pleasure and spreading out the red carpet for such a pair of young bon vivant nelly queens as Herbert and me. For indeed we were gay and debonair—especially Herbert who already knew all the ins & outs of the Pleasure Dome of Madame Kukla, Fran and Ollie.

Soon I grew accustomed to getting my own way—and soon I had a coterie of masseurs, manicurists, Bridge partners, young male prostitutes, queenly tavern intelligentsia of great knowing and forbidden knowledge which they were only too ready to share with me—for a price. Rather than feeling burdened by such an ungainly entourage of silly sycophants—I actually felt buoyed and uplifted by all their coy flattery and appeals to my vanity. They were so different than Estella with her negative, nigardly, no-nonsense scoldings and put-downs.

So that after awhile, I began to believe everything they said—and I got spoiled rotten, getting peeved if they didn’t live up to my gay expectations. Usually I had to up the ante to buy some more of their precious flattering nonsense. I'd become so addicted to them making me feel so superior and gay. I paid my manicurists especially well—since I never ever wanted to look upon those same coarse, rough hands and dirty fingernails I forever associated with the crudity of being an ironsmith’s lowly apprentice.

Not only spoiled, addicted and uppity—not only vain, snotty and unforgiving. It got much worse than that—especially when it came to love. I bought love like fresh fruit at Covent Gardens—I threw it away as one discards an apple core or the pealed skin of a grape into the garbage. I would’ve partied, drunk more wine and not slept at all—if it hadn't been for Herbert’s protective, solicitous ways. He came from a fairly well-to-do family and was much more naturally gay than me. There was still within me the resentful Bad Seeds of yesterday—after years of being a nervous orphan all alone and growing up poor down by the sea, the river and the lonely moors.

Mr. Jaggers called me into this legal offices one day—and scolded me for being such a spendthrift with my life and finances. But then he shrugged for some reason and upped my allowance some more—suggesting that I was to expect a visitor soon. My benefactor. There was a hanging going on outside the window—down in the crowded courtyard where they hanged people in debt and those who couldn’t pay to live any longer.
The crowds cheered—as the dangling feet twitched and danced. It captured my attention completely—heaven forbid I’d ever end up that way. Dancing the jig—from a tight, straining rope!!! Mr. Jaggers just shook his head at me. "It happens everyday, my good boy. Now run along, I've got business to attend to."

I’d lived in London now for quite some time—and even though I was now twenty-one, I still didn’t know who I was or what I wanted to be. I still was totally in the dark—about who my gracious Benefactor was.
I’d always assumed it was rich, witty Miss Havisham—who’d taken a liking to me for some strange reason. But now Estella was off to the Continent—being taught the cultured ways of a lady of Parisian high culture. It seemed to me that both Estella and I—surely were Miss Havisham’s most tender favorites. Did both Miss Havisham and Estella still harbor ill feelings about me—wanting to see my heart broken? And my gay great expectations dimmed like theirs?

Yes, I knew Miss Havisham was too old and ill to travel to London or Paris—after all I’d wheeled her around in a wheelchair toward the end of my stay with her. I’d always thought that she was my generous Benefactor—and that she’d sent both spoiled Estella and yet-to-be spoiled me to the City for both of us to become who’d we become. Selfish little City Mice to be or not to be caught, tortured and played with by some cosmopolitan creepy Cheshire Cat with a nefarious grin and sharp hungry teeth.

And so there I was at home all alone—while Herbert was entertaining some friends at the Black Cat Cafe. He wasn’t spoiled one bit—in fact he preferred to moil and mingle with the rowdy young sailors and Rough Trade crowd. He had a certain weakness for young sailors just in from the sea—ones that needed it badly right away and were willing to be had if the right price was paid.

Herbert had connections with all the denizens of the East End lowlife opium dens—and would disappear for days and nights when a ship would come in from Canton or Hong Kong. It’s not hard to imagine Herbert lounging about—down by the docks and Limehouse District cruising for you know what. Nor is it hard to imagine Herbert fondly admiring the exquisite obscene tattoes on various bulging young biceps of brooding nude rude sailorboyz—stoned out of their minds in those opium-drenched dens of inequity and pits of danger and debauchery.

Herbert was discrete though—he’d never drag home his young sailorboy tricks or hustler riffraff. He’d always leave all that opium-induced sordidness and debauchery behind him—back there in the dark dimly-lit rooms littered with the sad wreckage of wasted, shipwrecked youths gone bad.
There's nothing more exquisite than a gone ravished cross-eyed Rimbaud losing it completely in some dark room full of famished admirers and Transylvanian vampires sucking away. Or better yet some young pale hung wiggling Billy Budd type being hauled up to the forecastle and then dropped all the way down to the deck, getting off one last awful spaztic time in front of some ogling voyeuristic crew.
Sometimes Herbert got so loaded himself—that it was impossible for him to even crawl outta bed sometimes. And so I had long weekends to myself or I'd end up having to send a cab to pick poor Herbert up at some East End dive. But on this particular cold rainy night, I was alone and waiting for something strange to happen. I sensed it and it did happen...

Gay Expectations IV

Gay Expectations IV

“I hate you.”
—Charles Dickens,
Great Expectations

Looking back on it now, my admiration of Estella had known no bounds—even after she revealed herself to me as who she really was. And who she really wasn’t. I was still infatuated with her years later—did I love her?

Scarcely a night went by back then without my falling asleep in bed playing with myself—imagining her pretty face before my eyes. It was easy for me to relent to the charms of Estella’s seductive ways. Too easy—I always felt embarrassinly hard.

And so we kept up our secret rendezvous soirees—beneath the creepy, creaky staircase. Estella wouldn’t let me touch her—and I didn’t dare disobey her. I let her have her way with me—because I’d never met anybody with such a forceful personality.
Yes, she broke my heart—but I simply got used to it. In fact, I got to like it very much—like when she insisted on spanking me. Spanking led to switches—and switches led to horse whips. And horse whips led to hot wax—and hot wax led to handcuffs.

Long before I met all the delectable Mistress Dominatrix Madams and London Leather Queens of the Night—I let myself succumb to the domination and dominatrix peccadilloes of Estella each weekend beneath the staircase. Miss Havisham surely couldn’t hear us—or all the things going on downstairs.
My mock-screams of anguish were extinguished with a hankerchief stuffed in my mouth and I tried to suppress any loud sighs and noises of put-upon guilty pleasures beneath the stairs down below. But then maybe Miss Havisham did hear us—I’ll probably never ever know.

It always resulted in an awful mess—and I got so embarrassed each time when Estella got down on her hands and knees—and licked up the awful sticky runny remains. With her pouty lips—and her wicked, devilish little tongue. I felt so ashamed as she slurped it all up like a greedy little kitten—not gross or louche like some swinish glutton. But rather curiously and even politely—like some sophisticated frugal gourmet.

I blushed and tried to look away—but secretly I loved every ravishing moment of it. To think that such a lovely “girl” as Estella—could possibly be enamored with the crude likes of me. She dished me—she denigrated me. She sneered at me—she said she hated me. I felt so denigrated—I almost cried.

Surely I was worse than the lowliest slimy slug out in the abandoned garden—and I couldn’t imagine what pleased her/him so much about the dirtiest thing in the world that was surely me. It filled me with incredible shame—to be tied up nude on the old sofa beneath the stairs. And it felt even worse—when I thought about it later in church. And yet the more ashamed I got—the more Estella seemed to get off on it?

Miss Havisham may have wanted Estella to break my heart—and she did that quite nicely whenever she looked at me meanly or aloofly. But Estella seemed to want more than that—she wanted more than just Miss Havisham’s long smoldering, moldering desire for revenge against the wretched male species.

What was the reason for Estella’s strange kinky disposition—posing as a beautiful young girl on the outside?. While she gave the impresson to me of actually being a young woman held captive deep inside the body of a boy? Her exquisitely coy touchy transvestism seemed to fade in & out—depending on how transparent and translucent her moods would get. Her bisexual personality always seemed—so ambiguous and strange to me. In an attractive, appealing way...

But since I was truly a virgin either with a man or a woman—it really didn’t truly make any difference really whether Estella was a Stella or a Steve. She had me seduced and entrapped—and there was no way out.
Again & again—I’d simply close my eyes and pretend her pretty lips were divine even though they could be devishly mean and vain. Were angels really bisexual beings with wings? Weren’t they polymorphously perverse in all the ways of men and women—petty and pouty like Estella who could pretend and be both sexes all the way?

Which Estella most certainly seemed to be—lovely and angelic one moment and devilishly divine the next. The more pouty her lips got the more I was attracted to her—like when she insisted that I become more aggressive with her and more manly with my growing manly Thing.

“Here,” she said, taking my rough, course hands—and placing them on her pretty head.

“Now then, grab my ears, Pip,” and I did what she said.

Estella had me pull her ears and yank her hair—stick my fingers down inside her earlobes and wiggle them around deep inside her. She had me caress her long hair—and then pull it back behind her head hard. Twisting her neck down around the edge of the sofa—strangling her just like she strangled my you know what. She liked to strangle it—she liked to pull back my uncut head and gnaw on it like a badboy doggy bone...

But most of the time Estella acted simply untouchable—she didn’t liked being touched or fondled too intimately. She could be as cold and ruthless—as a mean little mongoose going after a big slinky King Cobra. And that’s one thing I did possess—it’s what seemed to turn her on more than anything.

How could a young girl so dainty and petite—want anything so awkward, over-sized and gross? I could tell by the look on her face—that she wanted it more than anything else. Whatever sprang from my Family Tree—it's what she truly desired to be, to possess, to stroke and to manhandle. She told me that I didn't deserve to have—more than twice what most men had. After all I was just a boy not a man. It made me blush and embarrassed—when she ogled that way at me. It made me faint and feel weak in the knees when she did me.

It was rather scary and creepy at first—the look of a desperate young headhunting Nubian princess on her petite savage young face. Who knows what she was capable of doing—once she got in the mood to get what she wanted. To stroke, suck and strangle me. To get her lips on that most intimate fleshy male treasure of mine that I let her have. It brought out the best and worst of her. Her carnivorously sharp teeth—her pale white fangs. She was a starved man-eater in heat. I was afraid of her and yet I let her have anything she wanted.

Later in London living with Herbert Pocket—the same sort of thing happened. Going to the various gay taverns—and numerous opium dens down by the docks. It was during my shocking metamorphosis from country bumpkin to cosmopolitan fop—that I soon realized the benefits of being an available well-endowed young man. It wasn’t only Estella who was a size queen I soon found out—but also a large proportion of open-minded humanity was attracted to guys like me too.

I shan’t go into all the embarrassing details—but suddenly Herbert Pocket’s dumpy little apartment was simply flooded with overnight guests and curious, inquisitive newcomers. All of them hearing through the size queen grapevine—that a young naïve country bumpkin had just arrived fresh as a daisy from the sticks and was hung like a lithe naive race horse.

The gifts, the money, the new clothes, the unexpectedly fawning attentions from both men and women—began flowing in like an overripe cornucopia spilling out its comely pleasures into my humble bulging lap. We got a better apartment near Hyde Park—and soon the new lifestyle of a being a well kept man had spoiled me rotten all the way past my bellybutton down into my sinful rotten core. Herbert just smiled and nodded—counting the money and making sure that we could pay the bills and that I got paid well for every pretty inch.

I couldn’t help it Mr. Pocket told them—I was simply a born bon vivant bad boy just waiting to happen. Estella had sensed it—yet she never complemented me or explained anything to me about why or this or that. Nobody told me anything but they nevertheless seemed to want me for something or other.

Herbert simply smiled and shook his head—saying Estella was just jealous and wanted to keep me to herself as long as she could. There were plenty of Estella’s out there—in London and this big old world, Herbert told me. And now was the time—to let the rest of the world know what a nice little goldmine was between my adolescent thighs.

Miss Havisham surely knew—that more than just my broken heart was involved. How was that old dying blue-rinse wrinkly grand dame queen to know—what drove Estella toward more than just breaking my heart? At first I thought Miss Havisham sponsored my move to London—but later I found out it was somebody else. Somebody that would come knocking at my door sooner or later but I had no idea of who it was.
It was a different life in London—I had all the gay expectations that any young gentleman could have. Perhaps Miss Havisham wanted it that way—knowing my heart could be broken a million more times better there in London rather than Estella could ever do. Yes, Miss Havisham was quite the Queen Bee of my early boyhood years—taking me under her wing to be the Pip I’d grow up to be.

Gay Expectations III

Gay Expectations III

“Bad taste,” said Herbert,
laughing—but a fact…”
—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Herbert Pockets was such a fag—I simply couldn’t believe it. A foppish London fag—and my first lover there in that much-overrated faggy, foggy metropolis by the Thames.

“Dear me!” said Herbert, wrestling with the door. While I stood there in the hallway, holding the paper-bags and groceries.

“Such a sticky wicket!” he said, laughing to himself.

We’d just got back from shopping at Covent Garden Market and having a couple of drinks at Barnard’s Inn.

We’d met there in the tavern—by a prearranged rendezvous made by Miss Havisham and Mr. Jaggers for my first day in London.

“Dear me! This goddamned door—I’ll just have to kick it down one of these days.”

He shoved and kicked it—fought with it like a caged beast. I’d never heard such a nelly fag—curse and carry on that way.

We’d met at the tavern—earlier like I said. It was the most amazing thing—when we first met. Talk about hilarious déjà vu—mixed with the most ironic laughter and sense of recognition.

There was no doubt about it—I’d recognize that face no matter what. Herbert Pocket, it turned out—was the young pale gentleman I had a fight with in Miss Havisham’s overgrown garden.

It was a mock fight—since Herbert was as much a boxer or fighter as a powder-puff. He was so nelly and fem—I didn’t really want to hit the poor thing. He provoked me though—slapping me arrogantly on the face and butting his head into my stomach.

I had to defend myself—I had no idea that both Miss Havisham and Estella were observing it all from a window high above the courtyard. It was like a scene in a play—but only a mock play with two fools.

It was all so staged and then quickly covered up—by a kiss from Estella. As if I’d somehow I’d won the chivalrous chance to be her fiancée—her chicken champion who deserved a peck on the cheek.

And later on who’d be rewarded—under the staircase. With long, prolonged and extended pretty shocking blow jobs—that made the card games we’d play for Miss Havisham seem like child’s play.

But there we were meeting again at Bernard’s Inn—just across the street from Herbert’s dumpy little apartment. Standing there both of us laughing—at who the other was. For both of us were in on the same secret—we gossiped about it like a pair of old queens.

“The idea of it’s being you,” he said. “The idea of it’s being me?” I queried.

“Yes, my dear Pip. You see we were both set up by Miss Havisham to be—how should I put it? Engaged? Betrothed? Affianced to the beautiful young Estella?”

“Both of us?” I said. “Surely you were much more the type for Estella. After all you were the pale young gentlemen—surely you were the choice pick. You had all the correct manners—and poise of a gentleman. Who was I? A mere blacksmith’s apprentice…”

Herbert flipped his wrist and laughed. “Yes, my dear Pip. Miss Havisham fancied me as the object of her nefarious evil plans. And she was the one that set us up to fight each other in that weedy old courtyard outside her dumpy old mansion.”

I looked at this Herbert fellow—with bulging, ogling eyes. I’d never met such a loquacious human being—who dealt with such murky things in my past with such ease and debonair nonchalance. Surely he was the type of cultured gentleman—that Estella respected and most certainly deserved.

“But Pip, don’t you see, my dear boy?” said Herbert, tidying up his makeup and coiffure in the little pocket mirror he carried around in his purse.

“I was much too nelly for Estella or Miss Havisham’s nefarious plans. They both had the most evil, conniving, cynical minds concerning us—we the members of the poor male species. We were the ones—who they blamed for everything. Especially Miss Havisham’s being stood-up by her bridegroom-to-be that fateful despicable wedding day of hers.”

I was shocked—simply shocked.

“And you, my dear boy,” said Herbert Pocket. “You were much more butch and boyish than little faggy me, dontchaknow. You had all the hurt and pride all stored up inside—just waiting to be had and had again and again. You were like most young males—so very tender and vulnerable. So willing to be had—and your heart so easily broken.”

I looked at Herbert—as if for the first time. He was no longer just a foppish fag—no longer the pale young gentleman who deserved uppity Estella so much more than me.

Nelly Herbert was quite the lucky young man—because he was nelly and totally incapable of being completely 100% masculine and all-male. Not butchy and naïvely dumb—like some stupid nincompoop child idiot like me.

“Jaysus Christ, Pip! Didn’t you know?”

“No,” I said. “Not until later.”

“Dear me,” Herbert laughed. “It’s quite a story isn’t it? But we’ll save it for dinner time—for a delightful aperitif.”

“But in the meantime,” Herbert said. “May I take the liberty of asking you a question? How did you come there that day?”

I told him—and he was very attentive to the very end. When I told him who or what Estella really was—and how much my feelings were hurt to have been used that way.

And then he burst out laughing—and asked me if I were still broken-hearted by it all. I didn’t ask him—if he too had been snookered under the staircase like I’d been had.

Obviously he hadn’t been attracted to the ersatz Estella like I’d been enamored by her/him—that’s why Estella and Miss Havisham didn’t take him on as their plaything like a cat does a mouse.

I’d been the perfect mouse—to be tortured and played with endlessly. I even had been looking forward to it each and every time—until the inevitable denouement plunged me down into the worst pits of despair.

It was just as bad and yet just as thrilling to me—that whole experience with Estella under the staircase in that old crumbling mansion. As that time in the spooky churchyard cemetery—when Magwitch loomed out from among the graves and got me good against one of the gravestones.

Magwitch was a young dangerous convict—on the run. He was desperate and hungry—hungry for love not just food. He ravished me like a rag-doll—turning me upside-down and getting me off. While down below—stuffing me senseless with his huge gangster Godzilla tool. After that—Estella was just a piece of cake.

Gay Expectations II

Gay Expectations II

“Keep still, you little devil,
or I’ll cut your throat!”
—Charles Dickens,
Great Expectations

There’s something about sex and graveyards—that still turns me on. How can I describe it—that rough trade thing that happened to me?

That first time Magwitch got me—in the spooky churchyard. That cloudy, moody day—when I fainted and was reborn. I had the most vivid experience—out there in that marsh country graveyard.

Everything coming inside me—and everything turning me inside out. The feeling of being on a roller-coaster ride—going down faster and faster. And then zooming up—shooting upward even faster and faster. Until things derailed completely—and I sailed off into the moody manly sky…

I was such an easy trick—easily had by the likes of young savage Magwitch as well as subtle scheming Estella. I couldn’t help myself—I was such a naïve, young vulnerable Pumblechook Pinhead. So easily had—and had again & again. I didn’t really much fight it though—it was kinda nice being had by somebody who seemed to want me pretty bad.

Out there in the windy graveyard—where my mother and father were buried. My brothers and sisters—all lined up in neat little graves. Down by the river—the winding river twenty miles from the sea. That’s where I came to visit regularly—since living with Joe Gargery and his shrewish wife was such a drag. I’d come to the churchyard not to worship—but rather to hide like the orphan I was and would always be.

It was the perfect place to hideaway—bleak and overgrown with nettles. That forgotten churchyard—out in the middle of nowhere. And beyond it—the dark flat wilderness beyond the abandoned churchyard. The marshland intersected with dykes and mounds—with gates and rotting fences.

The low leaden sky—beyond the river. The distant savage lair—that was the sea. Outta it rushing the salty breezes and winds of the ancient omniscient ocean. And me just a miserable little bundle—of shivering shadows and shadowy fears. Me growing up afraid of it all—and beginning to cry.

It was suddenly young moody Magwitch—looming up from behind the graves. It was sullen teenage Magwitch who grabbed me—and shook some sense into me. It was shameless dirty-minded Magwitch—who got me up against a tall leaning gravestone and made me forget about everything else.

Handsome young runaway Magwitch—holding a knife to my throat. Whispering in my ear—that he’d slit my neck and drink the blood. And that he’d cut something else off—if I dared to scream for help. For Magwitch was the devil—of the deep blue sea. And he couldn’t wait—to get himself inside of me.

Magnificent manly Magwitch—was a desperate young man. A fearful phantom from another world—the world of thieves, murderers and mean rapacious rapists. He had cold gray eyes—and a broken nose. He had no hat—and only ragged pants to wear.

He wore a great iron on his leg—and he stunk like the dead. His face was smothered in mud—his knees bloody from seashells & his feet cut by stones. He limped and shivered—like a petulant Hunchback of Notre Dame. Except the hump was between his legs—and he stuck the ugly thing right in my face.

He had nettles in his hair—and briars in his pubes. He glowered and growled at me—letting me see how sharp his pointy incisors were. He seized me by the hair—and bit me hard on my skinny neck. My jugular wiggled—but my dick wiggled even more. I grabbed him tightly—like my last chance in the whole wide world. My last chance to finally feel some love—even love in a graveyard up against a cold granite stone.

I buried my face and all my small bundles of shivers and fears—about me being afraid of it all. Out there on the marshes—the dark flat wilderness of love. Magwitch must have sensed it—the way my blood was rushing through me so fast. Like the wind in the willows—roaring in from the sea. Past all the dykes and mounds and gates—the low leaden sky oozing through me.

I wasn’t Pip any longer—poor little Pip the orphan boy all alone. I was the wind rushing through the churchyard—from twenty miles out to sea. I wasn’t Pip the lonely kid from nowhere—feeling sorry for myself and wanting to hug somebody close. And there he suddenly was—moody Magwitch the convict boy on the run. Desperate for love—even more desperate than me.

The howling wind made liars of everything and everybody—even the dearly departed dead down in their graves. Lost in the lairs of that other dark sea—the dark underground Styxian Sea of you and me. Nothing comes back—after shipwrecks and Titanic luxury liners sink down into its depths. I grabbed hold of Magwitch tightly—like he was my lifeline throwing himself out to save me.

Magwitch stuck his big thick tongue—halfway down my throat. He pulled my hair—and yanked it back. Banging my head against the gravestone—of some long dead and gone grand dame of Dis. When I whispered in his ear—“Beat me, burn me, f*ck m to death. That’s when he got serious—and I felt shooting stars and comets coming outta me.

If only David Lean was there—it would have made a pretty good opening shot for a movie. The churchyard scene—with its quick appearance of Abel Magwitch. And me plunging into the mix of things—getting ravaged beneath the disapproving steeple and spire of shame. Worse than Lawrence of Arabia—getting screwed by the Caliph of Baghdad
What a magnificent film noir sleazy flick it would’ve made—with manly Magwitch of the moody moors, the male marshes of macho manliness, the ravishing river racing madly deep inside me and the cumly, white-capped sea foaming on Magwitch’s big pouty puffy lips?

Doesn’t the name “Magwitch”—simply say it all? Doesn’t it remind one of something supernatural and witchlike—as natural as the wind in the dead tree branches overlooking the ghostly graveyard with its living dead? Me dead to the world—squeezed by Magwitch’s muscular strong arms. The arms of a savage rapist doing what he did best—but ending up so delicately whimpering my name?

The same with Miss Havisham—surely I’ll end up like her some day. Having my own little Pity Parties for myself in my ancient dark old mansion—lamenting the gone days of wine and roses lost like runny pearls before swine.

My porcine snout still alert and quivering—still feeling so cute and piggly-wiggly even though my blue rinse reveals all. Surely it would take David Lean and Charles Dickens—years of work together on some magnificent Midnight Show film script. To show what really happened—in that scary, moody scene of Chapter One in “Gay Expectations.” Magwitch and me—getting down in the churchyard. Or Chapter Twenty-Two there in London—with me camping it up with Alec Guinness and Jude Law?

Sometimes when I’m watching some classic like “Great Expectations” (1946)—I’ll relax and take a toke from my boyfriend’s hookah. The movie will go on as usual—but I’ll end up living out some campy scene in some alternate movie inside my mind.

Rarely does it happen—that such a movie would be better than the one I’m actually watching. And the chances are one in a million—that my “Gay Expectations” fantasy would be equal or better than something Charles Dickens would write. I’d hesitate even more than I’m hesitating now—jotting down this failed Sat Night Live fantasy of mine for others to read.

Except that Magwitch has just come home—from working out at Gold’s Gym. And he’s stretched out on the sofa—sipping a nice cold beer looking up at the ceiling.

With his bulging arms curled up around his thick muscular neck—exposing his nice sweaty hairy armpits for my indecent liberties. His otherworldly male pheromones—far exceeding any gay expectations I could ever conjure up.

“Magwitch, oh Magwitch,” I tell him over & over again. Just like I did that first time—with him banging his head against the tombstone. Raising the dead—with his huge boner. He couldn’t help it—losing it that way. And neither could I, my dear—neither could I…