Eric wants to know about teaching English. He has a lot of questions about his new career and can sense that am a minefield of answers. He is correct, but he is also a white boy with a ponytail and I don’t feel like educating another one of those right now.
We’re sitting on the floor of the Malaga airport, right in the way of everyone crossing Arrivals. He squats flat-footed and I’m sat atop my rucksack, chatting because I can, because my bus is a ways out, and because I must keep my mind active or risk prompt collapse from jetlag.
“This airport is evil. See the benches?” I gesture so Eric can see. “They put the bars on there to prevent sleepers. You gotta sleep underneath on the granite. I like it though, you can put your luggage there as a sort of guard wall. Block the masturbators.”
Eric is astounded that I have said “masturbators” aloud. He is from the East Coast of the United States and he moves pianos for a living. His ears are gauged, like mine. I assumed he would understand these things for some reason, a rookie mistake. “Masturbators? In the airport?”
“Oh, they’re everywhere, airports included,” I nod with affliction. “But that time I was out in the open, on the ground behind a cement column. The masturbator was facing me, sat on the bench. I woke up to him there watching me sleep. There was an airport worker down the way, saw the whole thing. Didn’t do shit though.”
“Wow,” says Aaron. “I don’t think I know any girls that’s happened to.”
“You do, dude. I promise.”
It’s possible Bators are more common in Europe where freedom is an actual thing you can feel and live, not like in the states where it’s a mythical idea like World Peace or Equal Rights. The Bator is an unfortunate by-product of the knowledge that one may do as one pleases without threat or fear of punitive consequence, paired with the painful dilemma of being a horny old fuck.
To be fair, now, there is certainly something about a good vista that just makes a person want to ejaculate. I’ve definitely rubbed a couple out on the tops of mountains before. That shit gets me hard. I’d bet money a lot of these dudes are just extreme nature enthusiasts (don’t worry, I don’t have any money.) I don’t need to hurl myself on a bench and crank it while watching a stranger sleep, but maybe it just depends on the particular stranger or whether or not I’ve taken my meds that day.
I tell Piano Guy about my full working list of Bators — the Guy On The Cliff, Shirtless Park Guy, the Guy On The Lookout Bench, the Guy Downhill Looking Up, the Lurker In The Meadow, Sleeping Bag Guy and the assorted collection of Brazen Beach Fellows. Piano Guy, having gotten exactly 0% of the information he had been hoping to extract from me, has heard enough. “Wow,” he says, “that’s terrible. I’ll keep an eye out so I can do a quick getaway if it ever happens to me.”
“Yeah, it won’t.” I get to my feet and heave my pack back on. Fucking white guys with ponytails don’t know shit about life.
spit them out, these wasted days and wet-green nights rising up from your esophagus to greet against anyone’s will your
lovers and your sisters and your friends and your parents make them
worry for you but never too much just enough to catch a whiff of the smoldering
human brains on stone tiled floors where
cold gets in so easy feel it creeping up the carnage contaminated by the time
it grabs your feet and legs to drag you under
i’m okay, i’m okay — you’re shoveling shouting reaching out to grab hold of whatever’s in reach
creamy rose pink with green sparkles dribbles thick makes you feel
safe watching feel the grip slip this is how we
fight our wars with pink with glitter with ooze like
crying all that bile from your eyes the sticky
worms running playground drills up and down your throat
red rover, red rover, why don’t you come over?
red used to scare you always creeping in or up
more often out
that drip drip down your shaking knees that
seeping out the gashes in your stomach like a watermelon past its prime now just remember– don’t eat the seeds, you can’t afford for anything to grow inside you, and neither can the anything– that environment is uninhabitable
for living things
send some more pics of your
stumpy pink dick while you
hold it at the base with your
unwashed sheets and empty
walls in the background and
the the tv tuned to some
sports channel that
shit gets me so
wet i just
only REAL MEN please
a REAL men:
-UniversidAd De La kAlLe
-into “butt stuff”
-can survive on pussy alone
-30min underwater breath-hold minimum
-can ask questions
-NOT allergic to shellfish
-SOMETIMES wears thongs
-ability to pivot right AND left
-does NOT use a pillow
-allergic to yogurt OK
I knew the moment I saw the pillow that it would be an ace buy. just the look of the thing: the way it sat fatly atop a pile of its brothers, that stretchy-silk elastofabric bulging in the form of a heart, the faint shape of the beans inside pressing at it like little limbless fetuses captured in a space net. it was a relic of the fluorescent future, the most sickly shade of sugar-sweet lab-developed pink I’d seen for at least days (it was February.) the thing was surely one of the stupidest objects ere produced by living humans, marketed en masse to the European world. I saw it, hated it, carried it blushing to the counter and purchased it immediately. six bucks, stitched by wee little hands someplace in Thailand, without a doubt worth every cent.
it is supposedly a travel pillow.
I still have the one I had as a kid, back in storage at my mom’s place. sounds like an odd thing to keep just for the purpose of sentimentality, doesn’t it? here, let me make it more perplexing — that thing was terribly ugly, I mean just a downright displeasing thing to behold in every sense of the word. I do not mean that it became ugly over time — though it did contract a stain or two over the years — but that it began ugly, was designed ugly, born ugly. it had that same silky elasticane fabric stretched over a mountain of tiny styrofoam balls (just occurred to me how bad those things must be for the planet — also, real question: are they just old broken-down styrofoam that we couldn’t get rid of in its smallest possible form?) the pillow had this ugly, nondescript shape like a poorly executed image stretch, a useless thing to even try and describe. it was light brown, to make things worse, with pastel-pink polkadots, and a black elastic strap on the back for affixing it to a headrest in a car or on an airplane, intended for one of those living dildo-knackers who actually purchase styrofoam-stuffed luxury squish travel pillows and USE THEM IN PUBLIC.
I know what you’re thinking, and you are correct: I have two.
but let me just tell you this much: mine are never used in public.
(update: this is still unfinished so check back)