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jack_babalonIt's true, I'm a wicked liar and nothing gives me more satisfaction than plucking a full moon from behind your ear before you realize that you're a silver dollar short of reality. But you have to believe me when I tell you that it was within a whore house in Sicily, when an old sex worker taught me the secret of immortality. It was simple really and worked as follows - whenever someone masturbates to you for that time that they do so you do not age.
This, she insisted, was why the Good Lord ensured masturbation was a sin. Jealousy played a good part of it, the other was there was no telling what shenanigans a race of ageless primates spending eternity wanking off to each other would get into.
Now it could have been the hash oil she lubed my cock with before going down on me or it could be the voices in my head that speak for people when people are silent, but I really thought she was on to something. Later, curled up in a ball in the backseat of a maniac cab driver who was being chased by his dealer, I contemplated how I could best go about stealing me a few minutes of immortality. By the time I got out of jail the next morning I had the answer. A career in the arts. My only other option was porn and I just don't have the physique to pull it off. Maybe in the 70s, sure, when a potbellied sasquatch could get some love, but in the Clinton 90s... fuggadaboutit.
No, I would have to gussy up in what I called 'Avatar Drag', create a persona worthy of those attentions that would steal me a few precious minutes, seconds even, from impending death. A nimble Jack leaping over the candlesticks of reason and possibility dazzling many a lady (and not a few gentlemen) along the way.
Yet as I greet the mirror in the hangover morning the lines in my face, the fat that melts slower from the chin, the dark bags hanging under the eyes and the receding stubble of my hairline it becomes perfectly clear that somewhere, somehow my plan backfired. That Jack remains as spry as ever, the years of absurd misadventures have not dimmed the stars burning in his gaze nor slowed his steps any towards the next one. While, in the meantime, I can only sit here and rob from his confessions to feed the page as the days meet the body the way the waves meet the mountain.
I'm a wicked liar, it's true and no doubt a long time has passed since anyone stopped the clock with thoughts of me. Still I persist, with grand dreams and clumsy art fueling visions of a brief immortality.
This, she insisted, was why the Good Lord ensured masturbation was a sin. Jealousy played a good part of it, the other was there was no telling what shenanigans a race of ageless primates spending eternity wanking off to each other would get into.
Now it could have been the hash oil she lubed my cock with before going down on me or it could be the voices in my head that speak for people when people are silent, but I really thought she was on to something. Later, curled up in a ball in the backseat of a maniac cab driver who was being chased by his dealer, I contemplated how I could best go about stealing me a few minutes of immortality. By the time I got out of jail the next morning I had the answer. A career in the arts. My only other option was porn and I just don't have the physique to pull it off. Maybe in the 70s, sure, when a potbellied sasquatch could get some love, but in the Clinton 90s... fuggadaboutit.
No, I would have to gussy up in what I called 'Avatar Drag', create a persona worthy of those attentions that would steal me a few precious minutes, seconds even, from impending death. A nimble Jack leaping over the candlesticks of reason and possibility dazzling many a lady (and not a few gentlemen) along the way.
Yet as I greet the mirror in the hangover morning the lines in my face, the fat that melts slower from the chin, the dark bags hanging under the eyes and the receding stubble of my hairline it becomes perfectly clear that somewhere, somehow my plan backfired. That Jack remains as spry as ever, the years of absurd misadventures have not dimmed the stars burning in his gaze nor slowed his steps any towards the next one. While, in the meantime, I can only sit here and rob from his confessions to feed the page as the days meet the body the way the waves meet the mountain.
I'm a wicked liar, it's true and no doubt a long time has passed since anyone stopped the clock with thoughts of me. Still I persist, with grand dreams and clumsy art fueling visions of a brief immortality.