c. 2023 by Saintorr
The raging queen felt the urge to stifle his own screams; to stop his swearing and shaking; to quell the mad impulse to throw furniture, break glass, and beat his own head against the walls and floors. His desire to be still overcame everything else. Was foam seeping from the corners of his lips as he stared thirty feet down the hospital corridor toward the shiny metal doors leading to the operating room? There, he could see the bright light leaking out from the cracks in between the doors and through the porthole-shaped windows, there is where his Mother lay dying on the operating table.
His rage came from being separated from her, for they were joined at the hip. The silent blackbots had escorted him from the operating room when he began to complain and misbehave about what he perceived as her lack of quality treatment. He loved her as his own sweet self. And he hated her for confusing him his whole life with her strange Mother/lover way of being. She often talked to him in double entendres or seduced him with warmth and understanding one moment, only to dismiss him coldly the next. This yo-yo effect had taken its toll through the years. He lacked confidence in most things. When he walked down the street he constantly feared being bumped into by strangers, especially women. Smiling at strangers was utterly impossible. He constantly adjusted his responses to appear how he perceived people wanted him to be, or he simply shut down. His self was a floating, disconnected thing, a ghost, prone to angry mood swings, paralyzing depression, or numb indifference. The only thing that got him out of bed in the morning was the thought that he would be with his Mother; she would greet him with toast and coffee set so nicely on that plastic red gingham tablecloth. It had to be years old. Wait, was that the very same one they’d used when he was a baby in a high chair? He wondered if she’d replaced it through the years? He could ask her if she ever regained consciousness. He suddenly hated himself for thinking such a petty thought. Damn, my Mother is dying and here I am planning on asking her how many times she’s replaced a damn tablecloth in our kitchen! I am such a fucked up faggot. Besides, he thought wryly, she wouldn’t give him a straight answer, she was incapable of being honest or open. At an early age, she had learned to distrust herself and other people to survive. Her Father was a raging alcoholic who regularly abused her Mother and her siblings; throw some incest into the mix, add in a dash of bipolar disorder, and voila’ there you have it! An adult child in a woman’s body masquerading as a Mother; actually more of a stunted child than a woman.
His cooling rage was now segueing into confusion. He needed to turn off his emotions, to stop the downward spiral, he needed to surrender the whole insane, Goddamn thing. Healthy, supportive actions however weren’t a part of his nature. He’d had so many bad shrinks in the past he instinctively distrusted them all. Then there was his mild flirtation with the 12-step groups, but being around abstinent NAZIS didn’t bring peace or comfort. At his last Sexual Compulsives Anonymous meeting there was a handsome young man, who came on strong and insisted on exchanging numbers. The next day the cunt called him up to sell real estate. Bitches. He felt himself allergic to any kind of work and was quite happy to lie in the sun all day; then at night, watch movies and drink blood red wine, or rich, dark, Porter beer. A gummy or two made his high complete. He’d fallen off every imaginable wagon so many times in his various recovery programs, the word recovery was little more than a wry, empty mantra of comfort. The closest thing he had to a sponsor was his Buddhist friend Rick who lectured him on the imaginary world of Shambhala where everyone lived in harmony. It seemed rather curious to him that Chögyam Trungpa, the founder of Shambhala died of a bad liver from drinking too much. As far as a lover, he had none. The longest relationship he’d had was with Elizabeth with her honey-colored hair. Back in the day, she had been a teenage prostitute replete with a black pimp who’d guided her to turn tricks in only the best New York hotels. In the beginning of their relationship, she’d found a squalid but cool railroad apartment in the East Village. But in a short time, things began to go south. After revealing her working girl history, she offered him an ultimatum, “Get rid of the men or get out”. He’d gotten out. But even to this day, missed her.
Now, all he had was his Mother. She was the only balm in his life—besides the anonymous men. And he kept looping back to her for tenderness and feeling; for some kind of heart connection though now he was in his fifties. Yes, they were joined at the hip, though something wasn’t quite right about their love, like a door that wouldn’t close properly, or crooked floors within a sinking crooked, haunted house.
He calmed himself. Observing the empty halls, he realized the blackbots were nowhere to be seen. He approached the porthole windows on the double doors to the operating room. His eyes flinched from the sterile glare of the hideous white lighting. There inside, his Mother lay covered with a sheet up to her neck. There were no doctors. The cold, sterile steel table was illuminated by a ring of super bright lights making the room more of a movie set than an operating room. She lay there, motionless, like a regal, laid-out, beautiful Queen, with some of her wounds screaming from just under the edge of the sheet, gaping crimson holes sparkling like wet rubies or heavily lipsticked mouths.
Finally, the Blackbots appeared and motioned him into the Animal Transplant room, which adjoined the Operating Room. He entered and walked along row after row of cages of the largest white lab rats he’d ever seen. They were about the size of large to mid-sized dogs or swine. Some were sleeping, some copulating, some were feeding, and a few were fighting. One was chasing itself and then catching and chewing on its own tale, mad from the confinement. The room smelled of cedar chips and rat shit. Closest to the Operating Room door was a single large cage in which the bodies of two rats lay, unmoving and bandaged, either asleep or anesthetized, breathing through tubes with IVs connected to them.
He understood then that they had transplanted pieces of these rats into his Mother. Rat lungs or rat livers. Since the early 2020s, the poor, the uninsured, and immigrants had been given organ donations from animals. Only the rich could afford the luxury of human transplants. Drugs had made animal transplants function almost as well as human ones. Occasionally there were side effects; an intense longing for cheese or a running wheel LOL.
The blackbots gently motioned for him to enter the adjoining door to the Operating Room where his Mother lay, conscious but groggy. Instead of her usual soft golden brown ash blond-tipped coif, her hair was stiff like wire and straw-like, almost bleach-burned white, like a wiry wig they placed on naked mannequins in the windows of JCPenney in downtown Milwaukee, circa 1960. And at the very top of her head was a shaved and bandaged bald spot that looked like a yarmulke skull cap. “Oh Jesus,” he thought “they couldn’t, not her brain! The thought was too horrible to imagine.
He never thought of her as white trash. He had never pictured her in that class anyway. But now she looked different. She was uber white trash, white trash nightmare; white trash Mad Lab-Rat experiment gone bad. And still, as he stared at her, he loved her more. His dick was growing hard.
He flashed on his earliest Mother-sex memories. Forbidden and repressed, his body longing to break through the taboo veil of longing for her body. Around the age of 4 or 5, he experienced her Mothering as a sort of suffocation; squeezing his little puppy body closer and closer into her until her coarse pubic hair was biting into his stomach, hands, and arms like needles and he couldn’t breathe from the pressure of her. Then that sound–that gurgling sound as she came on him, wrapped around him in a dream, holding him, smothering him, suffocating him.
Now he fought the urge to lie on top of her again. That she was groggy, still drugged and helpless from the anesthesia made him get very hard now. He saw himself in a fantasy, jumping on top of the cold hard steel table mounting her, penetrating her, pumping and pounding her with those hot super silver surgical lights burning over them like suns. He flashed on another memory of how she used to lie prostrate for hours under her sunlamp, loose towel covering her breasts, small damp cotton wads over her eyes. Sometimes she would do her “leg-up” exercises at the same time. Her six-pack was the most fabulous and the first he could ever recall seeing on any human body. How he longed to massage those gorgeous Venus stomach muscles of hers, now. Caress, then penetrate. He longed to feel what her cunt felt like. He wanted to enter her hole again and see what it felt like to be touching the place where he came from; that place where he’d emerged from some fifty-odd years ago. To shoot his cum into her mound—to explode inside her old woman’s beauty was all he needed to reach supreme Tantric enlightenment!
It was mad but he saw his fucking her as being some kind of catalyst for his life energy to change. An exorcism to fling out all the demons and darkness that haunted him day to day. She would transform him through her excitement. There would be no screams but only half-murmured whispers of hot pleasure and little girl-nothing words cooing from her lips like small Vermont birds singing in the green lush summer. As he fucked her and fucked her, her juices would reanimate and flow again inside her body electrified by his pounding waves; a steady and unstoppable stream of power giving them both new life. As she began to open her eyes his fantasy ended. She tried to reach for the large bandage that covered part of her chest and trailed her fingers down toward a large exposed wound further down on her torso.
“The doctor said, it took two…two to fix me” she slurred softly “that’s wha—“
“Shhh Mom—quiet now—just rest. The nurse will be in soon. Just rest now.”
He felt what it was like to be her then; to have your mind slowly slipping away until you reached periods where you had no idea who or where you were. Then came that crazy searching through the fog. But here and now, she was recovering. The transplanted pieces of live rats were renewing her life, with super rat chi and energy.
Suddenly he was his Mother at 5 or 6, a tomboy loving to play with her model wooden airplane in the backyard of the house on a street in Sterling, IL. It’s post-Depression and many family meals are still corn mush. But there’s something wrong. This little tomboy is crying; she’s bruised and bleeding. It’s from that damn Monster, that’s who did this to her. That fucking cunt, piece of shit. It’s the Old Man, Father McBeth (for she never called him Dad). He’d come home all boozed up; he been yelling and screaming like some crazy train and he’d thrown her down on the worn living room carpet floor like a rag doll. He’d been fumbling with his zipper and trying to stick his thing in her, stick it in between her legs. Her brothers and sisters were screaming bloody murder and grabbing at him, pulling him off her. They were like so many flies buzzing around a buffalo. Father McBeth, that big ragged whisky drunk, bearing his weight down on her soft scruffy virgin tomboy body—squeezing and squeezing the rage into her like some poisoned kind of vise squeezes the heart out of a chicken till it emerges engorged with blood up to its neck and out through its beak. Then you chop off the head and let it go running, and running; shooting and spurting its hot chicken blood like jizz into the cold white perfect Illinois snow.
He understood now those stories she told him. He understood her lack of boundaries. Her stories of growing up during the Depression in the 20s and 30s in that small house in Sterling, Illinois with a Dad who was a boozer and six brothers and sisters and mush every day and never enough to eat and one day her brother Ward (the most handsome of all) was mowing the neighbor’s lawn and it rained and he got wet and caught a chill and had a nervous breakdown and died. Sad stories. Sad stories from a beautiful old Queen. Sad but so rich, the memories passed on and on for future generations to be horrified, tainted and amazed by. Memories imbued into him; and they in turn, needing the healing, the release from the rage, and the release from living, back to the twilight world of dreams half-remembered and mercifully forgotten, moments after that first-morning cup of coffee.