Recreating (and advancing) pk’s censored domains: Macroinformation.org &
Knatz.com / Personal / Stories / Themes / Stupid Stories /
A memory just floated into my head with a fresh twinge of embarrassment, hadn’t been there in a long time, I’m gonna tell it real quick, get rid of it, forever.
When I was in college I was terrible fag bait, I got hit on all the time, the hitters were persistent, they’d come into my room, uninvited, reach under the bed clothes while I was still groggy, finally get discouraged, and leave. I never screamed, I never called the cops, I just didn’t cooperate. Oh, they offered me money, pointed out how broke I was: the guy swallows your cum, you buy a Brooks Brothers suit, and forget about it. Sorry, no: I didn’t cooperate.
That remained true till I was nearing thirty and was married. Then the hits became more rare. Then decades passed before there was another one. Once I reached sixty, don’t ask me how, it became zero: though maybe more than ever women make sure I see that they’re catching my eye. I’m never sure whether they flirting or disapproving of me, complaining as loud as they dare, summoning the mob to tar and feather me, but I see them responding, to me more than to others.
I’m embarrassed by one memory where perhaps I did cooperate, at least a little:
I’m drinking in the West End Tavern. That alone is stupid enough, isn’t it? Some guy is bending my ear. It’s mutually established that music is important to us. This guy directs the boys’ choir at St. John’s Cathedral. We both know and love Bach. But there’s another signal right there: boys’ choir. I’m trying to tell him about jazz, about Bud Powell; he keeps steering the conversation back to boys. Jeez, how can all these churches, all these cathedrals, so cooperate in divying the population up into classes of victim: virgins, wives, boys … Schools carry on for the holy pimp: university dorms very much so.
This guy keeps buying me drinks, I’m getting drunker and drunker. Understand: we’re in NY. NYC, the ‘Apple. Drinking is legal at 18. The bars don’t have to close until 4 AM, they can open again at 6 AM. More pimping, more than one kind of pimping.
Understand further: I chose to hang out in offbeat places, bohemian places: alcohol and jazz or queers and beers places. I hung out in the Village: not to be among the queers, but to be different: liberal; hip, avant-garde even.
If the virgin gets raped while minding her own business, that’s one thing. If the virgin is letting every lech fill her up with champagne till 4 AM, and she winds up with somebody’s hand in her blouse, somebody’s face up her skirt, somebody’s jisom in her coo, she begins to have had something to do with it: other than to be female in the first place: already a very compromising thing to be (as Brecht so wittily joked). Anyway, I’m letting this choir master breathe all over me for the sake of an ever-more saturated skin full of booze. 4 AM arrives, we have to leave. My darling little Yamaha YL1, 100 cc twin, is on its stand directly in front of the West End, west side of Broadway, mid 114th block: shiny chrome, bright blue, obscene damn little adorable thing the more I think of it.
Guy asks for a ride, “Hop on, where to?” and he aims me somewhere around Riverside Drive and 110th, Cathedral Parkway: my wife and I reside on Riverside at 116th. Now the guy’s got his arms around my waist, on my bike. I’m drunk as a skunk. Riverside Drive is all mystic curves, winking pre-dawn silver, from street lights and moist pavement. This guy is now hitting on me at a yard a second, imploring in my ear. I slide him up to his corner, hard-angled like a hockey player, this guy now terrified on the back of the 100. He gets off, finally accepting that he’s not going to get anything, glad enough just to be still alive.
Except stupid pk, drunk pk, insane-showoff pk, isn’t quite finished. “Just tell me one thing: You invite me to your bed, I don’t have a clue: what do you guys do?”
“Come to bed”, he says, “I’ll show you.”
“Uh uh”, and I roar off. Damn child bugger.
Whoops, careless diction: not “roar off”; the YL1 is a tiny bike. It’s got unbelieveable acceleration, power (for such a small bike), in a tiny band of screaming REVs. When I say “roar” maybe I mean “scream.” I scream off, the little twin in a falsetto of industrial strength mosquito swarm. Eyeee: Vroom.
Also careless, though a true quote: I did tell the guy that I had no idea what homosexuals did. That’s not quite true: as I’ve already hinted, I’d heard about fags blowing each other. And I guess I’d heard of them fucking in the wrong door: the garbage hole. Still, common speech is commonly far from precise.
Now I don’t remember exactly: maybe it was 111th I dropped him off at. Maybe I had to climb the little access road that goes up and down like a mountain goat along Riverside Drive between the apartment buildings and the drive itself: I was somehow going south; I needed to go north, back up to 116th. At Riverside and Cathedral I lay the bike over to U-turn. I’m heeled as hard as it will go, my left side, port side, peg is getting bounced back off the pavement, I have the accelerator cranked all the way open, the Yam is shrieking, 4:05 or 4:10 in the AM, a full throttle makes the bike want to leap forward, straight; the hard heel make the bike try to turn in its own shadow, counterclockwise, back north.
Uh oh. Would I have calculated better with slightly less to drink? I realize too late that in the contradiction between heel and accelerate the straight ahead vector is going to win over the heel and spin vector. There’s a stanchion in the road, a guide-traffic-leftward sign, concrete and steel and reflective paint. Crunch, I broadside it with my right forearm. Ouch. But I’m committed to the insane mania of completing this U-ey on the side wall of the tire. The bike can easily turn almost in its own shadow, but not at full throttle.
Northward I scream, home, park, to bed. My poor wife will have to get up and go to work in another hour; I’ll sleep all day, then read some more Shakespeare. No reason to, no one understands a word I say. But I can’t get off the merry-go-round: any more than I could slack off that U-ey to avoid breaking my bones.
How did my arm survive that impact? It did. No bruise, no lasting pain. Maybe I should have got back to inspect the stanchion.
It’s a little weird to recall this story now, with “news” full of stories about coming out being encouraged.
My insanely Catholic old roomie defended his homophobe habits by declaring that the fags aren’t just fags themselves: they’ll recruit others, corrupt children.
True? I don’t know. I do know that civilization is not a place in which anything can be rationally discussed: not while Macbeth supervises the bookkeeping, not while the professors judge Galileo: not while the Temple judges its own guilt in the crucifixion. Fortune 500 media will never allow true facts to emerge: and absolutely never true explanations.
My stories, especially ones like this, cannot be understood apart from full disclosure on the society, the culture, the genome. Minimally your have to acknowledge my school stories: among my Hierarchy vs. Conviviality Stories. I don’t remember whether the above happened just before I’d founded FLEX (1970), or just after. It was 1971 when my committee interrupted my orals, prevented my thesis from being made intelligible; but they’d been interrupting and preventing since 1962: and the school system as a whole had since the earliest McCarthy days: 1950 or so.
In other words, this story, however humiliating to myself, is also an indictment of all of us. The kleptocrats stand around agitating for promotion while Jesus is on the cross: white people saying they own Indian land by Right, by due, de jure as well as de facto.
Big Brick Whore House on the Hudson
First time I ever heard of Bard College I hear it referred to as the Little Red Whorehouse on the Hudson. Dorm policy was supposed to be liberal there in the mid-1950s: meaning they didn’t make you remain a virgin against your will. At Columbia in 1956 no females were allowed in the dorm areas, that is, above the first floor: with two exceptions: 1) the maids, 2) the entering freshman’s mother: for entering day only. Fine. Sounds like were still Puritans. Except: compare life off campus:
My buddies and I lived in the dorms freshman and sophomore years. Then we moved to our own apartments, did our own cooking, failed to do our own cleaning, ate in restaurants instead of the cafeteria … We could have eaten in the cafeteria the last meal of senior year, but we didn’t: we’d moved into the “real” world. Girls came to visit, girls came to spend the night, girls never left. One girl I insulted for two years straight, told her to “Leave me the hell alone, Get Out!” I screamed. She never did. I graduated, moved away, she was still there.
OK, what I’m building toward is this: senior year our neightbors where Barnard girls, Julliard girls, living in a clump, just like us. The doors were always open among our several apartments. On any given night half the sleepers in the beds of my apartment were females from other apartments: half their role would have been answered by my roomates. We shuffled. Nice. Jeez, were some of those Julliard girls stacked! Cute tushes, everything. Now here’s the point. Sometimes I was in my bed (with Naomi); sometimes I was next door in Ginny’s bed, not sure of her name, Alan’s roommate one summer. And Ginny told me, “Gee, you make love just like a woman.”
Gasp! What? She swore it was a compliment! That’s when I was first told that the women’s dorms at Vassar, Smith, Barnard … were full of every kind of female/female goings on. 1959, 1960 those gals never slept alone, never slept without an orgasm or two first.
Two years earlier the girls might as well have joined a nunnery; upper class, uh uh.
Did the institutions, Columbia, Barnard know what their charges were doing? Did the institutions have a clue how far from loco parentis they were? Hell, by the time Susie is twenty-one lots of her actual parents are no long in loco …
Of course there are always exceptions. My freshman roommate Bill’s every action said he was a virgin: then, and thereafter. Senior year I was again Bill’s roommate. He was the only guy in the apartment with a private room where the door was kept shut. (When I last visited him, in his natal home, 1983, I bet he was still a virgin. If he’s still alive, 75 now, same bet still holds. I’d once have wagered that he’d marry in his late forties, just like his father. No: Bill was a dud Catholic. In other words, a girl determined to remain unentered could live in the whoryest house in Babylon and still have an intact hymen: and so could a boy. Most people group; some people prickle as individuals come hell or high water. Hell, I too had some nights alone in bed, whatever the body count under that roof. I’ve had plenty since then too, not always by choice.
Reaching Under the Bedclothes
It was the college that put me in an all-male dorm, the rooms lined up like jail cells. All sorts of people lived on Morningside Heights. All sorts filled the neighborhood residence hotels: hundreds of fags, hundreds of lesbians, old women, winos. If a predator walked down the hall of one of those hotels trying doors, he might find some open: but he wouldn’t know, unless he too was a regular on that floor, which room had the blond, which room the old woman … (One incredibly ugly guy told of lying on his bed in his hotel fondling himself when the maid (incredibly old and ugly) let herself in, saw him spread open, and fucked his brains out.) See? It’s the university which segregates: so you know that it’s all sardines in this net, all tuna in that.
The FBI looking for an excuse to arrest me (having already tackled and manacled me) asked what I though of Columbine. I answered (see School Shooting) I’d told London University when they asked me the same question, offering to publish my answer: putting kids in school is like holding fish in a barrel: the mass murderer knows just where to look. Wild in the forest there could be no Columbine. Ah, said the FBI, we’ve just proved he’s a mass murderer!
As Orwell showed us, it doesn’t matter how many fingers O’Brien is holding up: Winston still can’t know what answer to give. Testimony and truth aren’t necessarily the same. So many verdicts are so much fiction in a lying court.
2016 09 12 Here fixing a typo or two I think of a string of things to add. Now just turned 78 I know a couple of things I didn’t know a few years ago when I wrote the above. One movie, Hell, showed a fag orgy: so now I have seen what can be dome. Part of it I would have guessed; part not. Then again an hour ago I’m watching a doc on the Hollywood costume designer Orry-Kelly: Women He’s Undressed. And a muscular stack of grinning fags are shown: in an erotic totem stack. Actually that then reminded me of a movie about Cole Porter: ivy queers menacing every cove of Central Park.
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