Old Enough My Wants Won't Kill Me

by Patrick Patterson-Carrol

I want someone to start a rumor that I am gay. I want that someone to be me. I want it to only be half true. I want to welcome it nonetheless. I want the evidence to be my arrest for “lewd and lascivious” behavior in public-- for sodomy. I want the subsequent mugshots and blurred pictures of "me" having sex with a pre-op transsexual in an alley plastered all over the internets. I want my sexuality to be everyone's business. I want to be the ass of jokes. I want to have defenders and detractors. I want them battling fiercely in internet flame wars. I want to pit LG against BT.

I want the rumors of my homosexuality to make me an internet celebrity; validate me as a writer. I want my obsession with transsexuals to manifest itself almost completely in my writing. I want all of my stories about chicks with dicks: meeting them, fondling their fake tits while making out with them, having sex with them, being abused and robbed by them, &c. published on every "trangressive" webzine, blogspot and wordpress on the interwebs. I want to be known as a poor man's William T. Vollmann, criticized for my awful prose and pseudo-intellectualism yet lauded for my tranny fetishes. I want GLAAD to loathe me and everything I stand for.

I want to be a cult phenomenon. I want a Wikipedia page that features prominently my mugshots. I want my bio to refer incessantly to the fact that I was raised by a single mother. I want a list of quotes because I want people to be able to quote me with ease. I want these quotes to be: “I don’t consider myself gay because those ‘men’ I have sex with are women in every sense save biological,” “Know any good opium dens around here? (to a cop while being arrested for sodomy)” and “I am a human being. I have feelings too.” I want to be listed in the following categories: internet celebrities, British-born Americans, LGBT writers, con-artists, transgressive writers, Scientologists, debtors, people born in 1983. I want to be courted and coveted by major publishers. I want a book deal with Random House. I want my first novel-- about an American nobody who marries a Thai lady-boy (who is also a nobody)-- to bomb.

I want to make appearances in steamy indie and art-house flicks; every scene an unsimulated sex act with a very androgynous woman or a busty chick with a cock ravaged by female hormone treatments. I want close-ups of my big manly sack slapping against her shriveled nuts as we fuck doggie style or in the reverse spoon. I want to blur the lines between art and porn even more. I want a condom endorsement deal. I want to be invited to swanky parties filled with writers, musicians, actors, and porn stars. I want to drink the most expensive brandies and whiskies.

I want pop artists to be obsessed with my image. I want one of those pop artists to be a sexy Latina. I want to meet her at one of those swanky parties. I want her to be chubby and have a decent rack. I want her to be wearing a strapless sequined shirt and a short skirt that reveals her semi-muscular legs. I want her to exclaim, “It’s you! Your cock is in one of my pieces!” I want to laugh at this greeting and engage her further in witty banter. I want her to get the impression that I am an asshole, but gradually warm up to the idea of letting me finger fuck her surreptitiously in a dining booth at Metro Diner. I want this to happen once we’re “tore-up-from-the-floor-up” drunk and we’ve decided that we’re fleetingly compatible.

I want it to be 4 A.M. when we stumble out of the diner. I want a taxicab waiting for us. I want to make out with her in the taxi. I want to hold her hair back while she vomits the night’s shame all over the floorboard of the cab. I want us to be only a block or two from my apartment when this happens because I want to not have to pay for her mess. I want to grab her and pull her out of the taxi at the red light. I want to have comfortable shoes on because everyone knows that she won’t. I want to run through the alley that leads to the back door of my apartment. I want her to be in tow-- holding tight to hand-- barefoot, her high heels lost on the wet concrete behind us, the street lights gleaming against them.

I want her to feign anger at me once we cross the threshold. I want her to tell me how expensive those heels were. I want to shut her up with my serpentine tongue. I want her choke on her laughter. I want her to dramatically reveal her tits, one at a time, while humming something stupid like “Happy Birthday Mr. President.” I want her to jiggle them at me. I want to grab at them and drool. I want her to command me to lie on the bed. I want to obey her. I want her to hover over me and shake those goliaths in my face. I want to almost swallow my tongue in efforts to motorboat them. I want her to rub her crotch against mine. I want to revel in the sound of cotton panties grinding against jeans. I want this to excite me to erection. I want to pant and moan. I want to wriggle and squirm. I want to squeal like a child. I want to burst gloriously in my jeans. I want to never see her again. I want to repeat this event with other women until I fall in love.

I want to edit my own Wikipedia page; remove myself from the LGBT writer category. I want the tranny fetish to be a thing of my youth, forever embodied in one fictive work with a too clever title. I want someone to start a rumor that the original rumor of my homosexuality was greatly misrepresented. I want that someone to be someone pretending to be me. I want the new rumor to be that I engineered the original rumor in an attempt at notoriety that I hoped would translate into getting the sexual attention of women. I want it to be thoroughly noted that it worked.

 I write. I act. The strangest place I've ever masturbated was in the closet of a place I used to rent. Sometimes I'd stand, sometimes I'd sit on the floor with a copy of Maxim or Buttman or whatever happened to be laying around. I left a lot of semen in the carpet. I blog here: http://iiialliterative.blogspot.com/.