Thursday, June 10, 2010
The Lost Boys (1987)
Beneath the Santa Cruz Boardwalk
"When we come upon the sexual
in a place, context, or simply a
mode we don’t expect, the sexual
always frightens”—Samuel R. Delany
I didn’t care who I was—I wanted to be the other guy. I got bored with myself—sick and tired of me. I wanted to be somebody new. At least—for a couple of squirts or two.
After I went over to the Dark Side—what else was there to do? Everything was SSDD—Same Shit, Different Day. Who needs that? I wanted the Night. I wanted to be Free. I didn't wanna be me, ya know what I mean?
I wanted to go back in time—back before the Apocalypto Disco. And be some guy who wasn't me. Some young AWOL stud who hated and despised me—just as much as I hated and despised myself.
I didn't blame my brother—or the Lost Boyz.
I blame the Apocalypto Disco. And the Dance of the Living Dead—for takin’ it all away from me. All those nights beneath the Santa Cruz Boardwalk—when I got to forget who I was. And become—the Night.
All that’s gone now—here we are beneath the LA ruins. Deep in Warner Brothers Studio Bunker—resurrected just in time by Cecil B. DeMille. My Nexus Clone Master—the Director of my Hollywood Come-Back. Just call me a male Norma Desmond clone. My lovely Hollywood android come-back. Thanks to Cecile B. DeMille and his droid cinematographers.
My Aboveground Filmography—it stunk. I'm into my Underground come-back now. Thumbing thru all the Nexus notebooks—picking the pics of the guyz I wanna be.
It's easy with Anime surgeons like Fujiwara—they're good at digital face-lifts. I picked a cute Lautner face the other day—back when he was a young hunky werewolf kid in "New Moon." I had 'em clone his wolfboy physique too, because I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel it—all the way. You know what I mean?
Compared with the way it used to be—they can get it pretty close. I can still smell the surf at night again and the seawater waves lapping at my bare feet. I can feel the fog comin’ in again—with my sharp fangs comin’ out. Down there—beneath the Santa Cruz Boardwalk. I can still taste it—the young guyz down there. The stoned surfers, the young nude AWOL Marines...
Nobuzane Fujiwara—the Japanese Anime Surgeon. He’d brought me back to life—after the Sleep of Death. My Brothers of the Night and me—we’d gone into deep sleep when it happened. After WWIII and the Apocalypto Disco—descended on the whole fuckin' world.
The androids were the only survivors—they were immune to the radioactive fog. They grew test-tube babies like me to bring us back—for them it was just the same old DNA song & dance routine. You gotta pay to play—that's the name of the game. We paid with our souls—to come back again.
Androids and Nexus clones—like Cecil DeMille XIV. They specialized in Hollywood come-backs and reruns—the market for underground entertainment was lucrative and strong. Androids and clones got bored too—they craved movies just like the humans did.
Thanks to Fujiwara and his Fast Track Anime Team—it was just a high-tech skip & a neo-film noir jump from the old Hollywood to the New. They plugged me in—from then on it was EKG lights, camera, action!!!
I still get a buzz—when I go Theta. For some reason I make the screens pulse like crazy—and the needles scribble all over that seismic earthquake graph. I dunno why—it must be my Family Jewels. They said I had a well-endowed genital geneology going way back in time. How far back I asked them? They said about twelve inches...
Fujiwara hooks up my brain—the electrodes wired deep into my crummy cerebrum. That’s when the lizard brain kicks in—down there in my stealthy brain stem. It slithers and quivers—it hisses and speaks with that old East of Eden forked tongue. It makes me do—bad things. You know, like Lautner in "New Moon."
I've got enough eidetic memory—crammed inside my cranium to last a lifetime. Imagery is how I think—everything begins with a wet-dream image. When they start movin' on the back of my eyelids—that’s when the fun begins. They’ve got a life of their own—they cream me rather than the other way around.
When the Labyrinth portal opens up—I let myself fall thru. They dial up this BlackHole just for me—back I go into Time. The past is the past—the past is dead and gone. But my memories are still in there—they’re still alive. That’s what they want—to feel what I feel. To know it—what I know now. To be me—who I am down here. And they want—what I want. Tonight I'm Lautner the Wolfboy—and it's the Full Moon.
I had the hots back then for AWOL rough trade—the kind of desperate guy who's hot and on the run. There were lots of young studs like that—comin’ out of San Diego. I could smell ‘em—for blocks away. Underneath the boardwalk—late at night. That’s where I took‘em—before I drained them dry.
They needed it—I needed them. I’d take ‘em to a party—my bro and the Lost Boyz would show up. The hair on the back of the kid's neck—it'd stand up erect. You could feel them all covered with oozin' creepy goosebumps—all prickly and especially that big nervous Prick all skanky and veiny down there. That’s where the vampire bats swarmed to town—then the cute rough trade would end up AWOL forever.
There was this one cute sailorboy—an 18-year old dumb farmboy type from Indiana. He was so exquisitely dumb and sexy—how dumb? As dumb as a doorknob—as dumb as yours truly. After imbibing too many runny pints of cute young dummies.
Talk about de-evolution—too many Pinheads make Johnny a dull boy. I couldn’t help it though—the dumber they were the more I wanted ‘em. I was into sullen adolescent animality. They weren't stupid tho.
They knew a faggy headhunter when they saw one. They sensed a favished carnivore—it was almost like super-sensitive young male telepathy. They knew I was cruising for live meat. But I hypnotized them like a snake—with my slit-eyes and forked wrap-around tongue.
He was so dumb—he didn’t know what was up & what was down. I despised his type—that's why I groveled at their feet. I craved sullen oblivion—something subhuman would be just fine. He was so neo-Neanderthal—that he didn’t even have a forehead. His head sloped back—streamlined like his Marine buzzcut.
I fell in love with him—I kept him away from the usual bloodsucker mob. I wanted him all to myself—I got him a room at the Biltmore Hotel. Not far from the ocean—and the boardwalk at night. He drooled like a moron—when I did him. I got the tip of my tongue—all the way up inside his erect nostrils. How they quivered when he breathed hard—with me manhandling the family jewels way down below.
We only went out at night—because he was such a gorgeous gimp with a limp. I didn’t need any competition—I knew all the bloodsuckers down there would want him bad. They were always after new stuff—and new stuff was always comin’ into town. But this one was special—no wonder he limped.
He limped—because I was gettin' him off all the time. Everybody knew that—when they saw us together. The poor jealous queens—if they could only see the awful truth. All those obscene hickies down there. They were a sheer giveaway—all because of my snotty, greedy lips. I got him off so much—he was turning into a Pinhead. It was all going down there to his other Head—the one he did all his thinking with.
He had lots of it—rude, lewd Animal Intelligence. Around him—it was easy to devolve into a blithering primate, naked ape child idiot like me. I can imagine it happening—to poor Fay Wray. Tied up nude to a stake—outside the walls of Skull Island City. King Kong comin’ thru the jungle palm trees to get her—takin’ his own dirty time to delicately smell her frightened, quivering pouty pussy.
That’s the way he was—kinda like Fay Wray. He had this huge King Kong penis—this enormous Mighty Joe Young prick. He was just as shocked and virgin as Fay Wray—when I got my lips on him the first time. Down there below the Santa Cruz boardwalk—with his shorts down past his knees.
Once you’ve gone Naked Ape, man—there’s no fuckin' turnin’ back. Robert Mapplethorpe was right—all ya gotta do is pull a pillow case over their head. And then they won’t be so embarrassed—when you get down & do the dirty down-low all night long...
I could feel my IQ slippin’ down that slippery slope really bad—once my SAT's and Intelligence Quotient was really up there where it used to be. I was Genius material.
I was ingenious about gettin' what I wanted. Me and this AWOL cute young Marine were together for a month—no wonder my IQ ended up in the fuckin' Bargain Basement. I was so in love with him and addicted to it—I was suckin' the warm runny snot right outta his erect pug-nosed quivering nostrils.
He got worried and paranoid that I was gonna devour him some night—turn him inside-out with my super-suction lips in one last big "Pop!!! Goes the Cute Weasel!!!"
So he ran away one fateful Saturday night—and fled back to the safety of his Marine boot camp just to get away from me. He ended up in the goddamn fuckin' brig—for a long time all by himself. But anything was better than—living with a famished vampire bloodsucker desperate like me.
I really can’t blame him—I got much too addicted to his fine young muy macho Marine meat. It was all I could think about—fightin’ with him all the time. Wantin’ to become it—even more than he did when he went spaz.
He was just simply Awful—awfully fine!!!
Posted by pugetopolis at 12:10 AM