chelsea, ad nauseum
can sit in Brooklyn and watch saucer-eyed tourists gawk at various sights as the husbands grind their pelvises into their wives blubber-loaded asses to get a better view of the tourists on the street reciprocating their dumbfounded gazes. After they leave the building, they take their kids and walk around Chelsea trying to find the places where they film Sex and the City, and gape openly at faggots marching hand-in-hand on their way to another get together of the circle of men; a bucket of Crisco in the center of a joined, moaning, sweating, hairy-assed, disease-ridden hoax, where you can’t leave until everyone’s blown his load on the next guys back and then licked-up the excess running down his ass-crack while he shivers with homosexual delight at having been buggered and licked clean like a gay lion cub. After the circle breaks-up it’s time for drinks and amyl nitrate, and a cursory towel-down of caked saliva and semen residue. After the mess is cleaned up, they put back on their yarmulkes and go to McDonalds where they order happy meals with strawberry shakes, and take turns blowing each other in the john. Then it’s off to Barbed Wire on 26th street where the real fags get real faggy, and gay. For openers, the photo booth and the arcade games all have paper towel dispensers, and there’s more under the bar every second seat. There’s so much ejaculate flying through the place on any given night, that if you were to walk in circles next to all the booths for a couple of hours, you would walk out of the place looking like The Thing. A mucus-covered, undulating hulks of no discernable shape or purpose, another satisfied gay man covered in the glue of life, the substance you must give out to enter the kingdom of heaven. When your balls begin to tingle and your stinking breath comes in short, irregular gasps, Saint Peter is sitting on your shoulders front-ways sticking his dick in your mouth. They then can go home to doze fitfully while dreaming of washboard abs, and hushed, lisping voices telling them what they’d like to do to them in dank goat closets with the lights off and a jar of elbow grease. As they sleep, their butt-holes are being pried apart by speculums, as rancid, burnt butter falls in ropy swaths from the orifice awaiting the next fisting, or some other type of forced, unholy ram with a veined, rubber molded, pistol gripped man-toy.