convalescing

I am going away for a while. I am visiting some other cities, on the coast. Just going to hang out and write a bit, maybe buy you some presents.

Please be tender when you cut me down

The most beautiful line ever.

From Viewpoints on Asphyxiophilia...

PLEASE BE TENDER WHEN YOU CUT ME DOWN

by Knud Romer Joergensen, Copyright 1995

An elderly, naked man, hands and genitals tied up, hanged. Autoerotic fatalities entered medical literature, when the german doctor Bernt took a special interest in this case in his paper on suicides (1821). But he reached the wrong conclusion and mistook it for a suicide with an insane twist. It took another century before attention was paid to the sexual aspects of such death scenarios. Again, it was a german forensic, Ziemke, who in 1926 finally identified and consistently described these cases as accidental deaths caused by strangulation as a means to sexual arousal.

1. The upright hangman

In the times of public executions it was common knowledge that hangings occasionally provoked erection and ejaculation. This reflex is probably caused by the snapping of the spine, but it could easily be misinterpreted as a sign of sexual pleasure. An engraving by Duumlrer shows a torture chamber filled with skeletons in chains, a hanged man ejaculating, and another being whipped. There are a number of references in 18th century literature. The most prominent is found in Marquis de Sade's "Justine" (1791), where Thirhse helps Roland achieve an orgasm by hanging him briefly. Afterwards, he exclaims: "Oh, Thirhse! Oh, these feelings are undescribable! They exceed everything!"

Orgasm in French is called le petit mort or the little death.

From WHEN ALL IS SAID AND DONE LIFE KILLS YOUR ASS:

My goal is to get off and escape without passing out and dying, all the while cutting the edge closer, chasing the fear and aiding the "suspension of disbelief". Sometimes my imagination beats my body there, and it's a quick, intense orgasm, but sometimes it's more laborious, requiring great effort, to achieve the drenched, exhausted, depleted, soul satisfying satiation I'm after.

Doing yourself is about selfishness. It's about control over timing, sensation, fantasy, intensity, all without apology or guilt. It's about needs and fears. The need to take our physical body where we found pleasure as youths (with or without the unhealthy psychological baggage). The fear of inability to articulate our desires to a partner. The fear of their physical (in)ability to comply (God, if tops could only read minds!). The fear of being judged and then rejected. It's about chasing emotions, sensations, fantasies, intensities, taboo's, and creating a context that allows suspension of disbelief long enough to orgasm.

Getting close to panic and death excites me. At ages 5, 7, & 12, I experienced near drownings and became fascinated with pre-panic breath deprivation. My mother was a religious zealot, and when she caught me masturbating at an early age, told me "God kills masturbators". Self gratification equals death. Well, during my early teens I negotiated with God nightly, "I promise this will be the last time I beat off if you'll just will let me live...no, really". It's easy to see why death stole my imagination. If you fear something enough, and tease it often without penalty, you may become an expert at chasing it. I'm talented with mechanical devices and possess self-control, which allows me to cut the edge close while lowering my actual risk factor. As Dirty Harry said "a man's got to know his limitations". Do I want to die? No. I want to live so I can keep pursuing the pleasures I get from stalking death's intensity. I'm as insane as any other danger seeker, from an Evil Kinevil wanna-be, to a cop, fireman, or soldier, but my motives are easier to understand, self-gratification.

When death seems inevitable, quickly approaching, when we know escape has been taken away, no stopping the inevitable machinations of our demise, we reject resignation. We fight with commitment and unsuspected strength, for in that fight we find our reward. We are never more awake, more alert, more alive than in the battle with death. Panic awakens us to all that is life. In panic, we bloom, there is no monotony or routine. "Embrace fear" is our mantra. Each time we win the combat, emptiness invades our soul, we wait, anxiously anticipating the next battle. If we're defeated, and die, we have no regrets, we've reaped the rewards of our bravery, and we've savored the extreme passions and intensities of our being. Recriminations, justifications and speculations will be left to those who have chosen a safer, more sedate existence. They are not "wrong" for their choice, nor are we for ours.

Life is not safe! Life is not benevolent! life is not consensual! There is only living what stretches out before us, honoring our chosen moral integrity, for in the end, when all is said and done, "life kills your ass".

"cutting the edge close." Love that.

"death stole my imagination."

"in panic, we bloom"

Autoerotic Asphyxiation

I have been researching autoerotic asphyxiation for this movie I want to make which will be a lot better than that Ken Park bullshit. Since it conflicts with community standards here I had to download it and it was the most worthless piece of bittorrent bullshit.

As this website explains, autoerotic asphyxiation is one of the most bizzare of the paraphilias. The practice involves a precise collusion of suffocation and erotic stimulation, the point being that the brain freaks out in a spectacular fireworks of pleasure when confronted with both a lack of oxygen and an orgasm. Unfortunately, with the practice of self-hanging, much can go wrong and then your parents our your wife walks in and finds you dead with your pants around your ankles, a half-eaten lemon at your side, and maybe a ball-gag lolling on the floor.

What the fuck is up with this website? It catalogs the random online memorial websites of adolescents who have died and includes a lot of boys who have died of autoerotic asphyxiation.

The website links to the personal memorial sites for these boys. Like Jason below...I grabbed that photo of him with that Confederate flag off of the site his mother made for him. Jason was like, fourteen years old.

His mom gives us all some advice on what to watch out for:

Jason had gotten so he didnt want me to go in his room to put his clothes away the last few months he was alive, maybe a year. But I did anyway, but he would say "This is my room mom" and I thought that was just a teenage thing. I never went through his things, I had no reason to, I thought I knew everything he did, there weren't secrets I thought. But after he died, in a drawer in a dresser where he kept toys and baseball gloves, things like that, I found some things in his bottom drawer. T shirts with the bottom cut off, the bottom made into loops and some nylon ropes knotted into nooses. He was collecting military things and had bought a gas mask, I thought nothing of that, but now know he could have used it to shut off his oxygen, i dont know if he did, but he could have. So parents can look for ropes and soft things tied into knots and nooses. Jason didnt use plastic bags but that's another thing some kids use, or towels to pad the rope so marks wont show in their necks. Also the bloodshot eyes, maybe coming out of their room after a "nap" and being groggy acting, or marks on their necks, or wearing high collars. I didnt notice these last things, in fact there weren't obvious clues with Jason, just the things in his room in that drawer. Oh we had an extension rod on our shower, one evening when he was in the shower that fell, it never did before, now looking back he may have been pulling down on it. And he was wanting to stay home alot more lately, again, I thought because of his age, he had always wanted to go with me everywhere, he still did mostly but there were those times he wanted to stay home alone.

I like Stephen T. Connelly's the best. He was like 17 when he died and his parents put up this great website for him that includes a Dave Matthews Band song playing over and over again.




































Stephen was a cute kid. I think there is a weird sort of fucked up collusion that occurs in the mind (that has to deal with both death and orgasm) in thinking of this normal, banal kid choking himself to death in his own closet.

These two dudes are just a couple of other randoms who hung themselves.

Bad Habit

I have this bad habit wherein I am fascinated by my own blood. When I have a bloody nose or a cut I stand over a sink or something and watch it drip until it clots on its own.

Tell them anyway / and you can make it up / as yooooouuu GOOOOOO!!!!! / I'm already gone now / You were outside just waiting

I just woke up. I'm sober again.

9 pm

We're in the middle of a spring chill. The heat just came on, setting the row of radiators in my apartment to clank and thump. Pouring rain all day, horizontal when it got windy.

After a happy hour for work at which I consumed two beers quickly, I came home, had another, and fell asleep while watching Midnight Cowboy.

I've been suffering from an annoying spring cold this week. As a result, I've been taking Lemsip before going to bed, which is this amazing powder you mix up in hot water to create a lovely and relaxing hot drink that makes you feel better when you are sick and immediately knocks you out. I smuggle these back from Britain whenever I go. The drink contains paracetemol which is a wonderful drug. Tastes so much better when you know it's come across the Atlantic.

The curious affect of the drink on me is like that of a fairy tale as I sleep...allegorical dreams flood my brainpan.

One dream stayed with me strongly all week long. I had this dream on Wednesday morning, just before waking.

First, some background. About two years ago I dated a boy, we'll call him The Coop Critic because that's the name Marcus Aurelius and I know him by. The Coop Critic was beautiful and smart and dashing but young. I fell in love with him and we dated for about a year and a half, and it was filled with mostly disappointments but in many ways was the most successful relationship of my life. I was finally with someone who I considered my equal. But he was kind of a jerk...no real surprises there...he was only 21, 22 when we dated. You can't ask much of people at that age. He had this hipster swagger and was fun at parties but lousy at emotions.

Anyway, I'm still a bit bitter. Usually you cut this person out of your life or they move to NYC to play dress-up and you never see them again and so do not notice that you are actually bitter. But with the Coop Critic (that's coop as in cooperative, by the way, because he is a green grocer at a local coop grocery store) I see him around and we try to be nice to each other but really I'm a bit bitter. I dream of cutting him down in public, of humiliating him, of hurting him.

About a year and a half ago he began dating this other guy, we'll call him Rush. We'll call him Rush because like Rush Limbaugh, our Rush is addicted to prescription medication. Rush is like me...same age, same body type. We look alike. But Rush is socially inept, pathological, insane, addicted to pills, often employed, and generally detested by polite society. Rightly so. The joke within our circles is that the Coop Critic definetely traded down. Their words, not mine.

So that's the background. And here's the dream...I am alone in a two-story farmhouse. It is a summer night, hot, breezy. You would say the atmosphere is pregnant. Charged with sexuality. Heat lightning. I am looking at myself in mirrors scattered around the rooms and just kind of wandering around. An erection presses against the front of my pants. There is nothing to do but wait for the storm to arrive.

There is a knock on the door.

I open the door and Rush is standing there.

Rush is wearing a white hoodie that is baggy. I can barely see his face, but the attractive features of his face emerge from the shadows of the hoodie.

At first I was shocked and annoyed and a little scared...for Rush can be a scary guy. I know he hates me. No one ever quite knows what he's going to do next. He has a habit of starting at you morbidly from across the room at a party. But here he is at my door.

He looks at me and tells me he's horny. I am looking down at him and he's wearing trackie pants like he's a fucking chav or something. He says he's been horny for me and he really wants to do it with me. He'll do anything I want as long as I don't tell the Coop Critic.

It flashes in my mind.

I don't really want to have sex with this monster.

But I want to hurt Brian.

The collusion of the two causes my erection to pulse.

Revenge is such a turn-on.

I bring him into my house and we make out. I feel his hardbody against mine. I kiss the hard line of his jaw and the stubble.

He pushes his erection against mind through our clothes and moans.

I am not going to be fucking him, but I am going to be fucking over the Coop Critic.

I woke up on the verge of coming, light streaming in the windows, time to hobble to work. I would love to fuck you Rush to hurt him...

Is my sociopathology so unique? Oh you guys are reading this and thinking what a horrible man I am but I know deep down such dreams are universal.

D and The Secret: rough draft of a section

A few weeks later The Secret told D he wanted someone old enough to have forgotten being seventeen.

-----------

D had not quite forgotten everything. He remembered the sunsets the sulphur stacks produced in rings. Singles for Southport. The other boys emerged from their mews. Southport sunsets lasted as long as a North Pole. Sun and cider deranged them on the funfair's promenade. Glass lightbulbs burned sodiums in D's eyes, halved. Out to his left was the black hypothermia of the sea, silvering like a wet mirror.

He savved one- and two-pence coins all week to escape his family on the weekends. He sold little bird nests. Dipped his fingers into payphones. Dredged the bottom of his mother's purse.

Dad watched him from his green chair. His eyes looked like they could shoot poison darts if you stepped wrongly on the patterend lino. Could barely lift a hand. His flannels grew into his flesh like a tree will grow around obstructions.

He was shown once a fence post that had grown around a barbed wire fence. The action both proved the triumphalism of the tree as well as incorporated the barbed wire. The wire became a part of the tree, its interior. If you got to know it, fell in love with it, eventually you would have to reckon with the barbed wire.

Dad had few hobbies. He trainspotted. Erected fences for fun. Shot wild horses out of the trees. Mom trimmed his eyebrows in his sleep...

psychosociopath

I realized this morning that I am a big fat sociopathic insane person or even a functioning schizophrenic and that my pathetic attempts to write were merely 'cover' so that I could say that my campaigns to fuck people over were merely in the name of ART. BUT really I just like sinking my teeeth into the flesh of innocent men and then shaking my head around violently until a hunk of jambon or shoulder muscle comes tearing off and then I run to the doghouse and rub my bloody muzzle in it.

Now that I have stopped writing and probably will never write again I'm just a bald-faced liar and a freak. You better watch out because I will make you fall in love with me and then we'll bareback and I'll put my cigarette out on your heart you worthless mortal.

Still though, I think I am an ubermensch.

Coda

Coda coda coda.

Things are draining out of me. So humid and wet out today the whole world was a poultice. My brain is squeezing itself dry which is painful. I am licking the secretions from my knuckles, which are white from clenching. I vomitted up another pellet. This time tinted red-brown, robin red-breast, baby fox color, pipestone. Twigs that upon closer inspection were splintered bones, sucked clean of marrow. I peeled apart the pellet when it had dried and placed it on a clean white papertowel. Inside was a receipt from Chipotle, and written on the back of the receipt were these lines from Autobiography of Red:

Then he met Herakles and the kingdom of his life all shifted down a few notches.

They were two superior eels

at the bottom of the tank and they recognized each other like italics.

...

Geryon was amazed at himself. He saw Herakles just about every day now.

The instant of nature

forming between them drained every drop from the walls of his life

leaving behind just ghosts

rustling like an old map...

...

Herakles lies like a piece of torn silk in the heat of the blue saying,

Geryon please...

I turned off the light and jerked off very quickly and then tried to sleep but I was grinding my teeth and thinking of cigarettes.

I woke up and turned on the light and just now I rolled my right thigh into the puddle of cum and had no idea what it was. I wiped the wetness from my thigh and brought it to my lips. As soon as it touched my lips I immediately thought of B. I would lick the cum off of his belly after sex, or he would deposit little pearls on my thigh as I roughly fucked him and he whispered out his peals like morse code against my shoulder in little bite marks.

I can't remember a good time, specifically, just a smear of something across the windshield that could have been at one point a lightning bug but you are driving to fast to have cupped it in your hands. We are fighting north of Sault Saint Marie. We are running out of gas. A meteor shower is happening in front of us, where the straight road ends at the edge of Canadian darkness.