WOKE UP WITH A PISS-BONER and kind of enjoyed the pressure. I slept another two hours before waking once more to find I had soiled my briefs. I was embarrassed because that sort of thing doesn't happen to real men. Real men don't wear briefs, they wear skivvies. And they stain them. They ruin them while having fun. Bravado sends them off into the sticky night and they make stories. They wander home and then pass out. And once they do, they have rancid dreams. Their male fantasies project off the inner walls of their gin-soaked minds and they shit and piss and come in their skivvies. They don't wake up at nine in the morning with a hard-on and a full bag. They don't think it feels nice. They don't wet the bed. They mark it.
That's what I felt like sometimes.
I felt like some ragged beast, captured and gelded, scent glands excised. I'd been declawed. They castrated me and dropped me back into the dark forest, my groin shaved and manhood maimed.
I felt as if I'd been tracked and tagged. And once they found me, they discovered me to be inept and incapable of life. They removed my balls to benefit someone else. And I roamed the bush, disgraced and confused, unable to find a patch of sunlight to stretch out before, to bake in. When I reunited with my brethren, I was queer to them and I was ostracized. The females were disturbed because I was like them. I was subjugated by the new lords. I couldn't believe I'd let them do it to me. I couldn't believe I had a master.
I was soft, freakish, and hairless, without verve or vigor. But they tricked me, I'd think. But I was just a larvae, just a tadpole, just a cub, I'd say.
I couldn't rebuild myself. My codes, my plans, scrambled and incinerated by devious watchmen. And I couldn't run, for when they gelded me they rid me of my ancestral knowledge, my dirt instinct. I didn't know the forest anymore and the rangers could always locate me. I had know place to hide.
There was no comfort on my harsh, shadow planet. But I continued to run for the horizon. I fled the pen, slicing my little fingers across the torn chicken wire. I would run against wind that would peel my skin back and expose me to the night. I would run lamely and the dawn would refuse to drop. I shouldn't have let them get inside me. Real beasts don't give themselves up.
The Flamenco Moon and Fourth of July in North Hollywood:
by Aurelia Lorca