Authors: Benjamin Weissman
Headless (11 page)
2.
I’m a wilderness girl meaning I like to drop trou in the trees rather than walk into the lodge to remove my gear. I am also a highly sexual person. I tire my boyfriend out. Me, several times a day. He, once or twice. I was on the USC Race Team in college. We were terrible but we loved partying in the mountains. God, I love my computer. I just wanted to say that. It’s so cute, more obedient than any puppy dog. I take it to bed with me; it blinks when it’s sleeping, and says,
Goodnight, Pumpkin.
So anyway, here’s what happened to me and it’s 100 percent true so prepare yourself for something a little sexy. I’m skiing, okay, and I had to pee real bad. So I cruised over to Fresno Bowl, a place where I’ve done Number Ones before without any interruption. So there I am, my purple pants down at my ankles, squatting and peeing, picturing a deep yellow hole in the snow, admiring a trio of lady bugs, when suddenly, surprise! this hunky stud boy appeared in a red jacket with a white cross. O fuck, ski patrol. Bust-ed. I’m not known for being a fan of young meat; I’m not a cradle robber, but there he was, a clean shaven, creamy dreamy blue-eyed delight. I said, Hi. And he said, You’re peeing. I said, Excuse me? I always do that even though I knew what he said. It’s a bad habit that drives my sisters crazy, but I can’t help it anyway. So he says again, You’re peeing, and then he says, Your ass sure looks sweet. And I said, You want some? And he says, Fuck yeah. So I stand up and stop peeing, and he screams, No, I mean, I want some of your water, why don’t you piss on me? So I’m like, whoa, can’t believe my ears; I always wanted to piss on my boyfriend and have him drench me in a golden shower but of course he’s not into water sports because he’s such a conservative loser. I’ve got to break up with him before 2005. All right, come over here, I tell him, what’s your name? He side-steps over, clicks out of his skis, and says, John, but my friends call me Bumpy. I say, Wow, what a cool name. He goes, Yeah. Then he pulls down his pants. Wicked-looking cock you got there, I tell him, mind if I munch? Hell, I don’t mind, he says, as long as you piss on me at some point, or else I’ll clip your pass … just kidding. I lift up his cock and there are the droopiest testicles I’ve ever seen in my life. Like halfway to his knees. Balls like I’ve never seen. Are you part octopus? I asked, as I began licking the search-and-rescue expert. No, I’m Irish, he said; and then he said, Squeeze the fucker, just grip the freak with all your might and then bite it. So I did that for a while, and then he screams, Oh, mother of God, and blasts the works down my throat … whatever, fucking on the snow would’ve been tricky. He tasted like a broccoli. Kind of like oceanic wheat grass. Then he lies down and says, Spray me, baby. So I redrop trou and tinkle out what remains in my bladder, right in his mouth. Oh yeah, he says, World Cup tequila, give me more. I grab his ears and grind my pelvis into his mouth. Then I start riding his nose, first slowly to make sure he’s into it, and when I hear him groan in a positive manner and mumble something, I crank the volume full blast and totally go off on his face and clitpound the poor boy. He hangs with me to the bitter end. I’m not fast. A cloud descends on us and it begins to snow. I get off his face and huge snowflakes float from the sky and land on his wet face. You look like a glazed donut, I say. Dusted with sugar, he says. Then I lie on my back and watch the big flakes fall slo-mo, very psychedelic. He stands over me and goes for it right in my face, a torrent of hot yellow, 98.6 degrees, at least 30 seconds worth. I close my eyes, the spray is insane. When he’s done he offers me a handkerchief. How sweet. I decline, lick my lips, unzip my chest pocket, pull out a doob, and fire it up. One puff by Bumpy bleeds it down to a roach. Our minds are baked, our hearts … hmm. I stood up, lightheaded. Time to make some turns. We got back on our skis. All right, X-Screams, he said, how do you like them? They’re killer, I say, how do you like your Bandits? Sweet, he said, lifting up the tail of his right ski. Cool, we kind of said together, like we were totally in sync, me, blushing like a freak. I take off. Snow so fine. He follows. Tear it up, Little Ripper, he yells. No one’s ever called me that.
3.
When my sorority planned a ski trip I had no idea I was in for such a rowdy carnal encounter. I told my girlfriends, I don’t swallow sperm. They looked at me like I was insane. There’s pressure from every side. The world insists that I rejoice in it, that I swallow the gross glop, smack my lips, and ask for another helping. But anyway, what’s a Gondola? The Puffs, that’s the name of our group, they said. You’re lucky we’re letting you come along, stupid prude. I swear … I like guys, I just don’t think it’s cool if they cum in your mouth. Why should I have to swallow something that isn’t really nutritious? My objection is I don’t like squishy foods, old bananas, custards, or any type of thick, room temp beverages. But I hear sperm is good for your complexion, so that’s what I’ll do. I’ll massage it into my skin if I have to. I hate this entire flow of words but I might as well continue. What happened to me is … I was riding up the Gondola (is that Italian for something?) with five big men. Out of the blue, no provocation from me, they all pull their cocks out and start masturbating. I was just looking out the window, minding my own business, but then I got this sudden curiosity, maybe I won’t hate it. Maybe spode tastes good. I eat a lot of fast foods. I like lots of salt on my popcorn, maybe boy jizz is really salty like that, and since five guys are masturbating in this Gondola contraption, I might as well have a European adventure at this Mammoth Resort, and sample; plus I’m on vacation and a wild experience is something I promised myself this weekend. I just kind of kneeled in the center and let it all happen. One guy named Bob said he was ready to
shoot.
I said, Don’t use that terminology, please, violent guys are a turnoff. He apologized and said, Quick cash. That’s better, I said. Then another guy who introduced himself as Robert stood up and said, Fry that thing. Bob came on my shoulder and Robert in my hair. Fabulous. Then the other Bob, who had the queerest method of doing himself, like he was trying to jimmy open a broken door, dripped out a morsel and said, Crawl home. I just looked at him like, What is your problem? Two more remained. Rick screamed, Oh my shit hell, and came on one of the Bobs who started unpleasantly cussing, and someone named Bill tapped his massive tool on my brow. He had a twisty vein that looked like an access road on a wrinkled map—I jerked him out the window. He shouted, Nobody knows me. Translucent sperm-ropes swirled down to earth. Boy, did he seem sad. Our ride was over; the lovely sky boat docked at the top of the mountain. All that sperm and not one droplet crossed my lips. We got out of the Gondola a little dazed, but psyched and ready to rock, or at least they were. I was frightened. The young Gondolier handed me my skis with the little roosters on the tips. What do I do now? Everything appeared so treacherous. How am I going to get down the mountain? Where are my girlfriends? Maybe one of those ski patrolmen will help me. I snowplowed toward something called Climax.
4.
I am one horny fucking ski patrolman without a squeeze to call my own. Me and the boys work hard like pack mules and then we sit around all day and do nothing. It’s like the Marines but without the war. We fight snow. The morning after a storm we load up the cannon and fire away. Avalanche safety. Snow’s not our enemy. We love it. We’re on the same side, the side of weather, chaos, and the radical snowpack. Anyway, one day the summit shack was crammed with 10 of us and the subject of orgies came up. I stepped outside to get some air. I’ve participated in a few orgies in college and I didn’t like them. What people don’t realize is the person you most want in your mouth is always taken. Secondly, some pants shitter you’d never want within a mile of you is creeping up from behind, wanting a piece of you, and thirdly, it can get a little gamey when Joe Yuck sticks his gnarly arm pit or reeking foot in your face. Okay, so maybe I’m a little prissy, but I know what I want and I know who I am (I wear these 5 lb. lead hoop earrings that can take your eye out if we’re dancing too rough). One day I was doodling away on my Patrolzine—a kind of private newsletter called
Sierra Serenade,
it has quite a following—and up walked Lars Stubenklonk. I go, Hey, are you circumcised? And he goes, Hell no, are you? I say, That’s a big negative, Foreskin Brother, Christ prefers his flock uncut. We chortle together, and then I say, You want to pose for me tonight? Ten-four, Oil Can, see you … when? I say, Midnight, and you better be in leather. Fast forward to 11:45 P.M. I stuff my backpack with art supplies and a small bottle of sherry. We’re climbing Huevos Grande, a bigass full moon lighting the way. When we reach the saddle I drop my pack and say, Hey Lars, pull out your cock, that’s an order. He unzips and releases a killer slab. I bend him over a snowy boulder, plow his cinderblocks, and then the pig farmer returns the favor. Damn. Then we pack up our gear and continue our steep stroll. With Lars two steps ahead of me, I say, Fart in my face, you dumb ox. After a brief pause he releases the most profound intestinal horn recital my mind has ever translated into English. A fine aromatic concoction of meat, gasoline, and old socks. In a word, Yum. When we summit our favorite chute, I say, Bend over and show me your smelly crevasse, which he does, and I pound the cheese out of him, then I pull out my sumie brush and watercolors and paint for a while. I do a very loose rendering of my fist in his ice cave and then a sentimental sketch from memory of my old lace-up boots from childhood with the man in the moon in the background and then a snowman with a cock so big that it goes up to his nose. Then Lars and I click into our skis, do figure-8s down Huevos. He and I are going to Valdez for the championships. We’re going to bring home that trophy and make America proud.
A mother tells her son that murderers take great pleasure in hiding out near public restrooms, especially late at night, and that if he, her precious son, isn’t careful he could end up six feet under, or worse. What’s worse, Mom? Worse is when your body isn’t recovered. You’re in limbo. You’re dead in theory, but technically you’re still alive. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not sure, but you never get a funeral. And that’s a shame. When a child disappears it is most troubling for the surviving family, the
loved ones
—in your case, your father and myself, and if you had a sister or a brother (thank God you don’t), they would also experience undue emotional pain. The parents would be placed in a situation of
not knowing.
There’s a technical term for that. I think it’s called
hell in a crock pot
or
no closure for the little witch
or
grief dangles from faulty cables.
Needless to say, both your father and I would then be treated like suspects, and for good reason. No motive for killing is stronger than parent to child, with the exception of child to parent. It’s often a contest. Who will strike first? Who will bury whom? People, which is another way of saying strangers (the blur of slime you see everywhere you go), and police (because it’s their job), and friends (pseudo intimates; we all know how stretched and inaccurate that term is) with a sick sense of humor (because they like to torture those closest to them) will call us night and day, under the pretense of caring,
just checking in to make sure everyone is okay,
they will say, but in fact it’s all a very sophisticated method of psychological torture. Mother, the boy asks, and, Shut up, let me finish, the mother continues, These people bring cold cuts and cakes to your house. They think you’ll be hungry. But you’re sick to your stomach with sorrow. Two seconds later these friends are ripping into the ham and roast beef. They’re spreading mayonnaise on their earlobes. They’ll say they’re famished as fragments of meat shoot out of their mouth and whistle past your ears. Occasionally a chunk of ivory gristle lands on you. They apologize and then fire another piece of brown matter in your direction, secretly hating you for all the attention you’re getting. They think you’re milking the situation. The boy yawns. Cover your mouth when you do that, the mother says, and, don’t use a public bathroom unless you go in with five or six friends—two should be on guard and vigilant, eyes constantly moving, on the lookout for suspicious men—or if there’s an armed guard in front of the boys room, that’s fine, but make sure he’s authentic, check his badge, act like you come from an important family; there’s a lot of fake law-enforcement types floating around who prey on children such as yourself. If my name comes up, refer to me as
Mother,
say it with a slight British accent if you can. Remember that game we used to play? I am a limey prig. Do that. Most sex offenders are intimidated by these sorts of things. You’re our only son. We mustn’t lose you. Not after all the money we’ve invested in you and all the love we’ve ladled out on your precious head. Other parents have two or three kids. Losing one isn’t nearly as bad. They get over it. They dote on the others. The siblings carry the bulk of the guilt like soldiers who witness the death of a close buddy—why them not me, a simple thought carried and turned over every day for their entire existence. If we lose you we’ll go mad. I shouldn’t speak for your father. I know
I
will. Now go to school.