| ZYGOTE IN MY COFFEE.COM |
| B is for Butcher |
| by Martin Jones |
| When he first arrived at the slaughter house I had heard from the head slaughterer that he was timorous. He had apparently been shaking, and he looked like he was in the midst of the DTs -- it could have been somewhere between seeing snakes and just a few residual jitters. He threatened to quit after only a few hours, and within a few days did in fact quit, finding that inverting the cow in the 10 by 10 foot rotary device and slitting the trachea while it was still alive was unseemly in the extreme. He came down the capitalist river, so to speak, and is now working with me at a meat-processing plant.
The thought was slowly there, and could only come into view slowly -- that I could probably relate to him sexually very, very easily. One day I decided it was time to start trying to relate to him sexually after all. I scooted myself up on a chopping block in the most hidden corner of a defunct killing room, behind a broken refrigerator. I took my panties off and waited for him to go and clock out. As he walked by I called him over and within seconds of seeing my leer he was shaking. He walked over slowly, timorously. I grabbed the small of his back and drew him toward me. I told him to relax, that we could relax together, that we were meant to have this moment together, that he could fuck me and that I was there now to be fucked. He took his belt off and unzipped his trousers hesitantly. I got down on my knees and shuffled his underwear down. He still wasn’t hard so I put his soft penis in my mouth and sucked on it slowly. He got hard as a rock within half a minute. I repositioned myself onto the chopping block and spread my legs, eyeing him, of course, seductively. I was really into it. He was so sweet. I could not have wished for more at that moment. “Wow,” I eventually gasped. “Did you know that in ancient Rome large dicks were considered comical? If you lived then, you would have been hilarious.” With fluttering energies at his back, he ties on his 12 league boots and wobbles into the plane of existence we call my pussy’s minefield. When a wanton energy overwhelms him, the soul flutters there as well, and then it is that his rigidity is in comfort-seeking mode -- and with that piquancy we tamp down his anxieties with my wetness. Later, as the night and the fucking progresses, his spiritual poverty will no longer be so ineluctably rigid, and we will have stomped loose the stasis between the passivity of the streambed and the violence of the slope’s gradient, creating wet sexual juices where before there was nothing but the sun on the virginal soil. Some time passes and he again repeatedly launches his seek-and-destroy missiles into my wet, dripping weapons cache as if his dick were a Russian tank double-parking into a Polish sandbox, creating viscous syrup and a nutritious stew for all the hungry denizens. * * * Try fucking me like this, I said to him the next night. * * * I see everything now, as I am circumnavigating the periphery of my physical consciousness, enclosed within a straight, sharp line. A line that never snaps, never veers or becomes soldered to the wrong principle, never decides to go anywhere stupid and pointless. “I stole some defibrillators from the back of an ambulance when I was still drinking a while back” -- he proudly said one day after he came into my ‘apartment’ -- “and I thought of a good use for them last night -- we should use them to creep up on arbitrary people and just TZZTSTZZ! electrocute them! I am thinking you can pull away the cloth covering the flesh of torsos, smear on some KY jelly and I can creep behind, 80 volts or so…. right in their kissers! This is what I want us to do together,” my butcher continued, inspecting a defibrillator’s connection to the shock-paddles with one hand and fondling my pussy with the other, "let’s go to Wal-Mart and electrocute someone!” We continue to imagine ourselves taking a cattle prod to unsuspecting innocents, creeping up slowly…. They will convulse, and we will laugh heartily. We will be ironically referring to hypocrisy, stating that embedded in every human soul should be the desire to be good and avoid suffering. My butcher toys with electrocuting innocent people because he wants to liberate this passive current into an impassive pose, or metaphor -- our pose, our metaphor, by our terms, by us. It is that individual expression we are parodying and at the same time legitimizing, infantilizing. A horse roars from its stable in the twilight of the Ukraine, jumping the meager paddock fence. It gallops and stamps ahead, tears its way to China, never looking back. It moves so fast it shortens the night by cheating the meridian and accelerating the spheres of light. When it gets to China, it is dawn. I tell my butcher this, concluding, “that’s how having you plunge your moneymaker in me makes my pussy feel: Fresh, wet, vital…. intercontinental.” We go for nightly walks in the country. We have long-since noted that the moon’s rotary engine -- so named because it resembles a Cl30 Franklin cutting plate -- lops off the tops of the pine trees as the slopes of the trees rise and fall beside us on the trails we walk. We have grown to see the shining pine needles as our analogues, our companions accompanying us on our nightly walks. Oh, how the little pine stalks fall to the ground! In one fell swoop, in two… Moonfeathers, redolent with the night’s mystical dew, tilt, drop and cluster in little piles -- “Tonight’s moonfeathers!” Sometimes in bed, I have him dressed in a toga. A grooved square box, which functions as a mask, made of cheap but almost weightless tin, hangs in front of his face. A supporting brace fits around his neck. The device can accommodate up to 23 4” by 3” framed picture-plates of historic personages. I made it with my sister’s help; we constructed tiny hinges so that the tin plates can sway to keep the pictures glued on them relatively stationary and so maintain a relatively immobile verisimilitude in relation to his thrusting body. I grab one picture-plate out of the first slot, put it in back, the next one slides to the front. Among others, I have Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Ghandi, Constantine, -- then, as my man is plunging his ice pick into my murder hole and the time is coming for me my hands are sliding out the pictures and throwing them to the sides of the room. I am like an imp discarding flowers of disorder, mayhem, and sexual love. The tin frames smack hollowly against the wall, creating a percussive counterpoint to our fuck-talk. I yell “et tu Brute? et tu Brute? Just jump us off a bridge, you motherfucker, just grab me by my waist, look into my eyes, and jump us off a bridge, just jump us, just jump us, jump -- et tu Brute? Et tu Brute? -- and now I am just talking to you, you are here with me, we are all alone, nobody can ever separate us.” We have a good time. |
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| Dec. 2009 |
| 128 |