Don’t give me that condescending look. Okay, sure, maybe I was stupid enough to place myself in idiotic circumstances which hastened my death – yes, bitch, I’m dead – but I refuse to be pitied.
No, fucking, no. And don’t you fucking dare admonish against my vulgar diction and the manner in which cunts, cum, fuck, piss, damn, bastard, & bitch spew from my lips like unintended spittle. I’m dead, there’s not much use for pleasantries and feigned, polite countenances. So, fuck your preconceptions and hypocritical judgment, I’m going to do and say exactly as I please – something I wish I’d practiced more in my mortal life.
So let’s just arrive at the damn point: Sex murdered me.
I possessed so much potential; there was great hope I’d grow to engineer a life of infinite success. Grades remained high. Tests were passed with flying colors. In school, I always placed first in my class: first chair in clarinet and winner of my third grade, school-wide reading contest – bitch I was intellectually fabulous.
While I wasn’t overly social, I did retain a group of girlfriends. In looking at old photos, all were much more frumpy and fat than what I’d remembered. But through my ability to communicate with women along with my aptitude for algebra, there was great hope in a dexterity of the mind flanking both hemispheres.
Boys, though I was one, remained an alien species and I never seemed to meet one who shared my appreciation for frilly things such as smocking on Barbie dresses, Louise May Alcott, festoons of sunflowers, and perennially graceful Sky Dancers.
Yes, cuntface, I’m fucking gay. I’m gay, a coquettish whoreski slut, and I’m dead. But don’t you throw your stones at me, Murano, not when you’re built on glass.
I held lofty expectations for myself. Competitiveness fueled a desire for power, wealth, and other stereotypical trappings of success.
Then I discovered my sexuality.
After my first orgasm, like some mad heroin addict, I found myself obsessed with sex. Sexual thoughts grew into a full-time job and my desire for success waned in its shadow. My thorax shat out all determination and drive, leaving an emptiness that only a dick could fill. Additionally, after discovering my thirst for semen, I self-diagnosed my drive and determination as merely a tool my mind designed to overcome feelings of shame caused by my homosexuality. After twerking out the closet, I felt no need to compensate any longer.
I sent my drive with Felicia.
After the first release of oxytocin in my brain, (a neurohypophysical hormone your body releases during sex – heroin mimics this effect, explaining why both substances are highly addicting), ANYWAY, after the first release of oxytocin, I decided I could do nothing except be gay; a rapturous conflagration of fagdom, one blowjob at a time.
In my blind obsession, I grew into a body dysmorphic nymphomaniac. Sex reinforced my insecurities and working out led to more sex. Drugs also led to more sex, so let’s not forget I permanently rode the roller coaster of uppers and downers.
Stop right fucking there and take a moment. Don’t write me off as some clichéd cautionary tale – though ostensibly that would be the case. Alas, I didn’t die from a fucking drug overdose or AIDS. I’m dead, I’m not fucking stupid.
I probably should mention I did juggle a fairly successful copy-writing career while maintaining my sex addiction. It takes a few brain cells or two to accomplish this.
So while I’m not a complete blundering buffoon, I did do something stupid.
I died at the hands of a serial killer.
Now that I’m dead, I’m not sure where I am. I mean, I know I’m on Earth, walking as a lonely ghost in solitude. But is this listless ennui hell, purgatory, or was our interpretation of heaven fucking wayyyy off?
It’s strange, I’m here, completely lucid yet, and sorry to shunt a juxtaposition at you, I feel completely catatonic, as if I’m suffering a Xanax haze. While I have no corporal body to speak of, I still feel I look the same, but who’s to know? While I can observe and walk the mortal world, I cannot interact and there sure as hell aren’t any other ghosts (is that what I’ve fucking become?) out there to confirm this.
The lack of interaction is the worst part. I can’t even fucking haunt anybody. And there are some spiteful bitches I’d love to give a good fright.
What really sucks is I have to watch the sick bastard who killed me play with my carcass. No, the fetid stench and quick decay doesn’t seem to faze his fetish for carrion. It fucking makes me want to vomit, only I can’t, because before I died I pretty much starved myself of any food to discharge from my gut.
We’ll get back to my carcass, don’t worry. But first I want to address another tedious truth about death. While you walk the earth and observe its stories, language is rendered completely unrecognizable. Watching my circuit friends carry on their lives, I can only assume I understand their stories – it’s kind of like watching the television on mute or a foreign film.
Yes, I’m fucking stuck watching a foreign film without subtitles for all eternity – it seems.
But I certainly chose some shitty friendships. Even my veritable best friends, Joey, John, and Brady, didn’t attend my funeral.
Joey did return to my apartment after learning of my death, which I initially found sweet and intimate. I’d just returned back from a visit to my rotting body, when I noticed him resting on my couch, slouched in depression, his head weighted down into his palms.
When I sat down to comfort him, I witnessed my paraphernalia and needles splayed across the glass coffee table. Then I realized Joey hadn’t returned to my apartment for some private ceremony to grieve my bereavement. Nope, the motherfucking scamp just used his access as my friend to steal the remainder of my drugs.
With nothing else to do, I still find a curiosity in watching my ‘friends’ carry on their lives. In this unrestricted access as a ghostly voyeur, I only confirm the superficiality of our relationships.
John, whom I’d spent countless hours jovially dancing through our MDMA highs, turned out to be a very crestfallen soul. Besides his intoxicated forays into monthly circuit parties, John remained a reclusive hermit, scared to address the world beyond gay nightlife.
Joey is just a drug addict and a man whom collects debts to preserve a false image of success.
Brady, however, turned out to be an interesting Renaissance man with a thirst for knowledge and desire to change the world. His love of circuit parties simply reflected his zest for life and affection for dance. He loves to read, a pastime I also engaged in. Wish I’d fucking asked him more about himself or at least that he would have realized I still would have found him interesting if our conversations consisted of more than pills undulating to sexual positions.
But none of us exposed our true layers to each other and simply agreed upon a friendship that appeared perfect on Instagram – as phony as the filters and hashtags assigned to each photo. Therefore, none of us inspired each other anymore beyond the dance floor. Who could I share my hopes and dreams with?
No, after high school, I closed myself off from the world, finding connection through sex – but not as a tool to connect on a human level. My passion resided in primal trysts anonymously scheduled through applications like Grindr.
Which is where my killer ordered me up like fine caviar.
His photo lured me initially, but his blunt, sexual discourse really boiled my blood. His blue eyes reflected the Aegean Sea, resting on a perfectly chiseled, square face. Dark hair flowed eloquent and disheveled atop his head and his beige skin accentuated ripped muscles on his abdomen. I asked for a dick pic and received an 8-incher, something a bona-skank is never disappointed with.
I couldn’t wait to fuck him.
When I arrived at his mansion, another turn on, I felt no tingling of fear or trepidation, well at least nothing more than the excitement in knowing my ass was about to be penetrated.
A man of few words, but deep, telling eyes, he led me through a central hallway, down a flight of stairs to a dark sex room. I saw a sex swing hanging in the center of the room and confidently jumped on, hoping to retain my role as a bossy bottom.
My killer chuckled quietly, politely, before strapping my wrists and ankles in the swing. At this point I was a little alarmed, not alarmed for my life or safety, but more self-conscious at my ability to swing a new fetish successfully without appearing virginal.
“Have you ever been fisted?” my killer asked me in a coquettish tone. He was so dreamy, I would have acquiesced to his shitting on my chest.
Just kidding, you gullible cunt. I’m a dead gay boy, not a pervert.
But I did let him fist me.
It began with his index and middle finger. Then he slipped in his ring and pinky. Next thing I knew shoved his hand up my rectum. I feigned pleasure – that shit fucking hurt.
But it wasn’t enough for him, he attempted to enter four fingers from his other hand. At this, I demurred. No ass is made for two fists.
But he refused to accept my objection. His eyes widened with incendiary passion. He shoved both arms up, practically swimming the 100 meter breast stroke in my anus. I kicked and squealed like a pig being slaughtered, which seemed to egg him on. He entered deeper.
Then the real pain started.
The sick fucking Judas began to claw my intestines, rending and tearing me from the inside. Pain shot through every existing nerve in my body like billions of penicillin needles.
He pulled out his arm, now covered in fecal-stained blood and smiled, licking each finger as he watched me exsanguinate. I continued to bleed out for an hour as he masturbated and returned to his sanguine swim lessons.
Twenty-seven good years of hope drained out with each scarlet drop.
To be honest, what I miss most is my family. I cut off ties with them to spare them the embarrassment of my new, fast-lane lifestyle. I knew I’d always return once I matured and was ready to make them proud. But the first pill and party quickly melts to five years later.
I still don’t know if I believe in a Heaven and Hell – but if I am anywhere, this certainly must be hell. Sartre had it wrong, hell is NOT other people. Hell is being barred off from other people, destined to walk the earth completely alone as life continues on without you. What’s the point of twerking if no one’s there to lust after your rippling fat?
It’s even worse for the individuals who die at the hands of serial killers. Yesterday, the grisly rapscallion removed my beautiful skin , no doubt to make some Ed Gein furniture piece. What a disrespect – to ruin a body so sacrosanct and perfectly fit. It’s heretical, especially if he’s a gay man. But I can do nothing except observe, living the remainder of eternity with only regret.