million little Henry Millers with hard pricks and a mean prose
style; Pulitzer prizewinning assholes using cash. Looking for
experience, which is what they call pussy afterward when
they’re back in their posh apartments trying to ju stify
themselves. Experience is us, the ones they stick it in.
Experience is when they put down the money, then they turn
you around like yo u ’re a chicken they’re roasting; they stick it
in any hole they can find just to try it or because they’re blind
drunk and it ain’t painted red so they can’t find it; you get to be
lab mice for them; they stick the famous Steel Rod into any
Fleshy Hole they can find and they Ram the Rod In when they
can manage it which thank God often enough they can’t. The
prose gets real purple then. Y ou can’t put it down to
impotence though because they get laid and they had wom en
and they fucked a lot; they just never seem to get over the
miracle that it’s them in a big man’s body doing all the
damage; Look, ma, it’s me. Volum e Tw elve. They don’t act
like human beings and they’re pretty proud o f it so there’s no
point in pretending they are; though you want to— pretend.
Y o u ’d like to think they could feel something— sad; or
remorse; or something ju st simple, a minute o f recognition.
It’s interesting that yo u ’re so dangerous to them but you
fucking can’t hurt them; how can you be dangerous if you
can’t do harm; I’d like to be able to level them, but you can’t
touch them except to be fucked by them; they get to do it and
then they get to say what it is they’re doing— yo u ’re what
they’re afraid o f but the fear just keeps them coming, it doesn’t
shake them loose or get them o ff you; it’s more like the glue
that keeps them on you; sticky stuff, how afraid the pricks are.
I mean, m aybe they’re not afraid. It sounds so stupid to say
they are, so banal, like making them human anyw ay, like
giving them the insides you wish they had. So what do you
say; they’re just so fucking filled with hate they can’t do
anything else or feel anything else or write anything else? I
mean, do they ever look at the fucking moon? I think all the
sperm they’re spilling is going to have an effect; something’s
going to grow. It’s like they’re planting a whole next
generation o f themselves by sympathetic magic; not that
they’re fucking to have babies; it’s more like they’re rubbing
and heaving and pushing and banging and shoving and
ejaculating like some kind o f voodoo rite so all the sperm will
grow into more them, more boys with more books about how
they got themselves into dirt and got out alive. It’s a thrilling
story, says the dirt they got themselves into. It’s bitterness,
being their filth; they don’t even remember right, you’re not
distinct enough, an amoeba’s more distinct, more individuated; they go home and make it up after they did it for real and
suddenly they ain’t parasites, they’re heroes— big dicks in the
