Four Stories by Benjamin Weissman

BOMB 44 Summer 1993
044 Summer 1993

Discover MFA Programs in Art and Writing

Twins

This page is written from the never before attempted first-person-twin (feminine) point of view. We this, we that, blinking, breathing, blushing—twin plurality talking directly to you, O hot honorable reader, who we hope finds our words a cerebral stimulus. Our thoughts are spontaneous and unrehearsed. Guys have sex fantasies about us because we’re twins, and we model lingerie. Since we were created in the same package guys believe that they’re entitled to the double set. We say no good, not moral, we believe in YOU KNOW WHO above the apartment, cloud, planets (we never use his name in vain, so lets just call him HIM—the inspiration for everything from a hymnal to the Himalayas, affectionate exaggerations of our breasts). Guy-swaggering is a cover up for the yawning need for giant spoonfuls of reassurance, mommy stuff, and little rubby-rubs on the head. We strip and the boy-bull stops breathing. What is inside us exactly besides cells, organs, and gunk? Since we were born with perfect exteriors guys want to get inside us and rummage around, explore our little caves (mouth, ear, vagina, anus, ouch) not very echoey. Our jeeps each have a bumper sticker that says, I (heart) MY VAGINA. We shaved them into the most petite little stingers so our labby lips are bare like a new born babe’s. Just because we model bustiers and teddies everyone thinks that we are sex experts. Shatter that myth. We’re sexual fumblers. A guy will say harder or faster and we do it too hard or too fast or not hard or fast enough and when he says suck or jerk we always lick too softly or hold it wrong or stab the urethra with our nails. When referring to more than one urethra you say urethrae. When the guy says, flip over girls, (okay, so we do fuck the same guys) we usually kick him in the head with our high heels. We apologize, but there’s no recovery. It’s like, who brought in the bad comedians? Their head hurts, they want to go home. Since you asked, our favorite movie is Shoah. Eight hours long, the tickets were $20.00 each, it took us two days to watch. We got a terrible feeling looking at the popcorn machine. Cooking, confinement, bursting kernels. Very morbid. We bought a large, but out of respect for the dead we didn’t eat any. Popcorn used to be our favorite food. Now we throw up whenever we see forested landscapes. When we see beauty we want to know what’s hidden. When the war ended, the clergy removed portraits of Hitler and put up the almighty HIM, but the walls had discolored, the frames were smaller and no one could forget the previous face. Women can be Nazis too, but it’s men who cut off heads, gloat, and experiment on flesh. A woman’s offensive is economic, non-violent. We isolate the enemy, boycott businesses, distribute literature. We fight with our minds. It’s strange what you have to do to a penis, the same thing all the time. Jerk and suck. We want something less piston-like, less abrupt. Maybe we’re lesbians. Maybe we’re not. Our favorite sexual position is 69ing each other while the guy is loving us doggie, that way we can see the guy’s balls going clang clang like hairy tea bags. And if his iguana comes out we can kiss it before escorting it back in.

My Battle

Even though the family is normal, one senses, upon closer inspection, genetic oddities. A non-religious associate of mine, (technically a Christian, not by practice, but if it came down to an origin inspection, Christianity is the block of cement his feet would step into)—this associate, for some unknown reason … by the way, thank you for bearing with me, the commas help me communicate and organize my thoughts … . This Christian gentlemen is well versed in Judaism. Why? I think because he likes to fuck Jewish girls. He’s been with several tiny dark intellectual/sex animals. One licked out his shitter and sent him to the moon. Bulldogs, he calls them, affectionately. He claims his interest in the Jewish—does that word stick out?—religion has to do with the rigorous concepts of the ancient Hebrews. He also asserts, slightly off the subject, that I take advantage of being Jewish, whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean. He once said to me, there’s something strange about the way your sisters look, they’re all so hairy, their noses, so big, so hooked, and what’s going on with their teeth? The question left me speechless, giggling, and hurt. It never occurred to me that they were ugly (I’ve considered fucking all of them at one point or the other, but not in an uncomfortable losing sleep way), though my mother once told me all their breasts looked like bananas, a remark that is impossible to shake off, and one that forever screws up, at least for me, the whole glad to see me, banana in pants joke. Bananas growing out of a woman’s chest is deeply disturbing. My family doesn’t believe in shrinks. The Christian associate went on to say that I, a dinged up, unattractive man in his thirties, was much prettier than they were, that some chromosomes must have gotten jumbled. That’s an objective point of view, one every analysis needs. The way I see it, we all have enormous feet and tiny hands. Peculiar dot patterns in the eyes. Brown, red, black, and blond hair on the same body. Bewildering moles. And as mentioned above, they have exaggerated horse teeth. The teeth might be the feature that makes them all seem (dogs with their mouths open), like they’re always smiling. My teeth are small, therefore I have no difficulty keeping my lips naturally together (in a frown). They’re a stuffed up, nasal-y pack. Oh how that word, nasal, resembles Nazi. The open mouth is necessary just to take in air. But the real truth is that they are all militant smilers. Happiness actualizers. Their collective eyeball reads, Cause pleasure. I remove myself from this description not for objectivity’s sake—a writer’s most sacred position—but to coincide with my family’s systematic removal of me, the one and only boy, the so called runt of the litter. I have been erased by my very own family. There are photographs of my sisters all over my parents’ house, in every imaginable configuration, but there are none of me. The same is true at their respective dwellings—in hallways, on mantels, suspended by refrigerator magnets, all adorned with snapshots, none of me. It’s as if I was never born. All I have to say is this: I like it that way.

Tips from the Sensual Man

Do not lay on top of your mate like a dead stone. To avoid squashing distribute bulk on to your elbows. This allows both parties ample pelvic movement. Caress entire body. Start at the toes and work your way up to the head area. Lick between each individual toe. Partners like that. Lick your way up the thighs, but don’t leave a snail trail. Break up your journey with dry terse kisses. Approach the anus with caution. Kiss and grip the butt cheeks but do not under any circumstances pull the cheeks apart and root. At the right moment, it can be highly erotic for your partner to be on their stomach, legs spread, and have their anus lightly licked. You will see that the anus is shut tight and doesn’t appear to want any company. Not so. With your tongue you can say, “Hey you shy eye socket, no one’s going to hurt you,” and soon enough it will relax, and the rusty door will creak open. Do not poke. During intercourse, be creative and peruse outside the anus with a lone finger and tenderly insert it into the hole itself. The sensual man does not put it in deeper than an inch. Don’t twist, wiggle, or rotate. The point of having a finger inside the anus is to massage the anal wall. Think of an underwater bass player. Handling a woman’s breast is very tricky. Do not squeeze. Lick them with the tip of your tongue, but do not make a mess. A bosom is not food. Do not slobber. Don’t spend too much time on one breast. Alternate, left and right. Under no circumstance should you chew, gnaw, or suckle. Remember you are not nursing. Next is breathing, kissing, and licking ears. Be aware of your saliva. Breathe through your nose even when your mouth is open. You don’t want to huff out a blast of sour exhaust. Kissing. Do not flop your fat wet cow tongue into partner’s mouth. Form tongue into a point and probe with subtle curiosity, similar to how an insect would investigate with its feelers. Do not swab the teeth, gums, or throat. Apply the pointed tongue principle to the ears. The ear is sensitive. A whispered word or slurp can sound like a satanic explosion. Licking the nostril induces a repulsive aquatic sensation. If you feel you are reaching orgasm too soon take a deep breath and think about the horrors of the world: slaughter, train derailments, worms eating out donkeys’ eyes, or mundane things like gas and electric bills, laundry, bank, phone, mom, or think of something neutral like solar energy. You must breathe or you will die. After ejaculation, do not immediately dismount, remain in position for 60 seconds. Allow the pot roast time to cool. Remain silent. Do not say wow, thank you, or I’m sorry. Not even, I love you, which can have a disastrous effect. Allow the miracle of time to work its magic. No television. No bathroom, even if you have to (easily taken as a hostile gesture). Lie there like you are in a trance. Sighing is good. Caress partner’s belly. Kiss belly. Kiss face area. Follow these tried and true methods and you’ll be a superlative and sought after lover.

Honey Creep

Two Blue Jays, or two asshole birds with lots of blue feathers, harass my cat. It’s my cat in the sense that I feed it, but I never pet it, nor do I speak to it, or console it in any way, so we really have no relationship. It pushes me around with its meows: meow let me in, meow out, meow food. It’s a grating sound, so I move quickly. The cat’s got me right where it wants me, opening doors, serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Sometimes it brushes up against my leg. It tickles and I hate it. Ridiculous to interpret that as love. It does the same thing to the fence. Sometimes it rubs my hand while I’m spooning out putrid, veiny din-din. The cat’s name is officially Bones, but now I call it Honey-creep. I found the cat in front of my door; it was hideous. It scared me. I brought it to a vet. It weighed in at four pounds. That’s ounces away from a dead cat. So I saved it. I guess there’s pleasure in that. Now the cat is huge. She’s always drenched in her own special saliva from hours of compulsive auto-licking. She eats her own fur and then pukes it up. I knew this jerk who named his cat Stella so he could stand on the porch and yell Stella like in “Street Car Named Desire.” The guy that I know is a bad man. He’s not like Stanley K, who had barbaric sexual charm. This guy I know refers to sex as doinking. He says, I doinked her. But, I must honestly say, his scumminess amuses me. Who would have thought that the word doink could be substituted for fuck. Certainly not me. Okay, I’m a weak piece of shit, and I’ll prove how true this is, or I’ll prove how protective and caring I am with Honey-creep and grab some rocks and work on damaging the tiny brains of these menacing feather flapping Jays that the world declares as a charm. At this moment the cat lies on her back in her dishelved fur, looking like a drunken Shelly Winters, and does not respond to the birds’ attacks. They are trying to pierce her with their weapon faces. Honey-creep is the Toast Master General. Flies eat her food and occasionally lay their vermin pearls. The Bluejays make this loud yak-yak sound. They dive bomb, flap their wings in a menacing way, and go through the motions of gouging her with their beaks. They tap on the bark of a tree like a thug punching his fist. I’m thinking of killing them or at least stunning them into passive converts. I fear all animals, no matter how tiny, even though I might be a large mammal myself. Animals know how to sting, bite, and protect themselves. They’re ingeniously skilled. They all instinctually know how to kill for food. I don’t know how to do that. I might have a temper and dream of violence but in reality I am thoroughly helpless and shy. I’m nervous. I twirl my hair all day long. I accomplish nothing. I won’t last long.

Benjamin Weissman’s fiction and writings about art, books, and theatre have appeared in Artforum, LA Weekly, Santa Monica Review, and the Voice Literary Supplement. Dear Dead Person, a collection of stories, is due out next year from Serpent’s Tail/High Risk. His drawings were recently shown at Galerie Krinzinger, in Vienna.

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BOMB 44, Summer 1993

Featuring interviews with Sally Gall & April Gornik, Roseanne Cash, Walter Mosley, Sally Potter, Luciano Perna, Melanie Rae Thon, Sadie Benning, David Baerwald, Pae White, Bruce Wagner, Darrel Larson, and Buzz Spector.

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044 Summer 1993