daughter to be as intelligent and fully realized a human being as possible.’
‘Yes,’ my mother dared to open her mouth, ‘males are creeps.’
But as soon as her husband walked away from her, my mother, I hated those words, reverted to her usual inability to accept the truth. For the truth, being complex, always hurts. She whined to her mother, because she always turned to her mother, what her husband had said.
At the moment my mother was whining, daddy was smelling my cunt. ‘I’ve reached my best moment now!’ he explained. Now I was sure what he was referring to. ‘This is the moment of truth!!! … I’m going off off off jacking it off!!! … my hands’re gonna be broken from this one!!! … I don’t even recognize my own body!!! … and it doesn’t matter!!! … I know you’re mine!!! … I made you!!! … I’m making you!!! … I swore I’d live for pleasure!!! … My tongue is fucking enormous!!! … feel it!!! … it’s reaching down to my waist!!! … you’re seeing your actual father in his moment of truth!!! … God almighty!!! … nothing matters!!! … you’re my God!!! … my daughter: I worship you!!! … I beg you to do it, show I can please you!!! … now look at it, it’s big, in my corkscrewing hand!!! … kiss it!!!’
My father explained again, ‘I am fucking God and I made God!!! … Holy Shit!!! … all I have to do is look at God and God is happy cause I’ve made God come!!!
‘God is in heaven I’m in heaven I’ve died the whole world in heaven!!! … I’m coming all over your face!!!’
I licked up his sperm.
My grandmother, unlike my mother, wasn’t a dope. She didn’t do dope. When mommy whimpered to her that her husband (whom she loved more than anything on earth), that this husband was keeping me in a private prison and privately whipping me, grandma replied that this couldn’t be good for my welfare. This couldn’t be for the sake of my welfare. My father couldn’t be whipping me for my good. So he must be acting for his own good, because there is always Good. No one was sure what that might be.
My mother’s mother was a dominating old bitch. With her shaking flesh she wobbled via taxi over to my father. ‘Bud,’ she asked him. ‘What’s this shit about you not letting my granddaughter fuck for money? I mean, get married?’ Grandma always got her terms mixed up. ‘Do you want your daughter to be a freak? After all, she carries our name.’
‘I don’t have enough money to let her marry, Florrie. Marriage’s too expensive a business.’
‘I’ll finance it,’ grandma replied.
‘If you finance her fucking for money,’ said my father whose IQ was 166, ‘I’ll let her do it.’ My father knew his mother-in-law was the cheapest thing on earth, even cheaper than himself.
‘I’ll finance it.’ Then grandmama huffed and huffed on to the uppitty hotel she called her home, but by the time she had walked into her grey red and black clown study, she had forgotten everything because she didn’t have any middle-term memory.
For the moment my father and I were free to fuck each other everywhere, in every bathroom in town.
When daddy wasn’t with me, he lived in a brothel. A sex-show was the brothel’s front. Since the sex show actors had only fake sex, this sex show’s legality acted a cover for the rest of the filth which went on.
The desperate voyeurs who sought their sexual gratification in the masturbatory contemplation of a remote object of fantastic desire and an array of attendant secret fetishisms; the exploitation of sex for commercial and assorted equally venial reasons; the way in which patrons of this seedy burlesque house fell prey to its psychotically disturbed perverts; the degradation of the performers who not only put their flesh and minds on parade in the tradition of the Miss America beauty pageant but also were forced to watch this deterioration, this deterioration of themselves, so that they, like the other objects, were simply objects of scorn to the ‘fans’ … Their buyers … This sex show had nothing to do with pornographic voyeurism. None but the most callous of males was unconcerned enough to be voyeuristic. Most humans felt totally disgusted by and repudiated both what they saw, what they felt, and the whole system of values behind the sex show and the pornographic magazines and especially novels sold outside the ‘theatre’. In other words, the primal urge of sex had become a revolting phenomenon.
Here language was degraded. As daddy plumbed and plummetted away from the institute of marriage more and more downward deeply into the demimonde of public fake sex, his speech turned from the usual neutral and acceptable journalese most normal humans use as a stylus mediocris into … His language went through an indoctrination of nothingness, for sexuality had no more value in his world, until his language no longer had sense. Lack of meaning appeared as linguistic degradation.
This is what daddy said to me while he was fucking me: ‘Tradicional estilo de p … argentino. Q … es e. mas j … de t … los e … dentro d. la c … es m … indicado p … entablar g … amistades o t … tertulias a … es m … similar a. estilo t …: se c … la c … con l. palma de la m … y s. apoyan l … cinco d … se s … y s. baja l. mano, l … de e … manera y. el c … se h … hombre. origen e. profundamente r … y s. han h … interesantes t … en l … jeroglificos e … y m … Es e. mas r … para d … de l … comidas p … no c … la de …’ He had become a Puerto Rican.
One night I dreamed my mother had a lover. She realized how powerful and addictive fucking is. Then I was free to be.
I told my father my dream. Even though he despised her, he cared so much for me, he determined to find her a lover.
He picked up a young anarchist. Since this slut had problems with vermin, fleas and crabs, the slut needed money to delouse himself so he could be a successful slut. He was too poor to buy any medicine. The parasites were so numerous at night he often dreamed that he was attacking a young girl. His right hand became a claw and tore at her face. Worms reared out of the skinned female visage. The anarchist, waking, wanted only to stick razors into himself. My father explained to the boy that it’ld give his wife only pleasure to take a lover.
The anarchist agreed to fuck my mother.
My mother, being weak, was so desperate to talk to anyone she let the anarchist fuck her. Then she became a nymphomaniac. My mother took one drink and fucked everyone in sight.
One account of the degeneration of language. Slut.
My father went to Greece. One night he was sitting on his yacht off the coast of the island of Ithaca, from where Ulysses had set off on his own to find out the truth. At night the water, the sky and the few buildings of the nearest town were many different colors of black. There was only black. My father saw a shadow on the other side of his yacht, took out his pistol, and shot. The shadow fell, dead, down to the deck. In the law court, my father declared that he hadn’t recognized the young man who he had killed.
The blood lying over the waters was light. The fishing boats stank.
Pleasure gathered only in freedom. According to the law court, my father had murdered. My mother and I were unable to do anything. We wrote letters, pleading daddy was insane. Mommy thought he was insane. I was so scared I came from an insane family, I stopped writing. I had to. Insanity, in my blood, was poisoning me. I was going to spend my adult life screaming to the moon.
The family wealth succeeded in getting daddy six months in the looney bin on a lunacy charge. Then daddy, desperate to find out what had happened to me, escaped from the madhouse.
He
