The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 11

     The Story The Authors

This was typical behavior for the young Allen Ginsberg -- joining in on "male-bonding" conversationswith just a bit too much enthusiasm in a naive attempt to disguise the latent homosexuality which was scratching frantically at the inside of his closet-door, yowling its lispy feline yowl to be let out.
Too afraid and unsure over coming out of the closet however, he would have settle for continuing to give himself hand jobs while fantasizing about Liberace. His favorite was the fantasy where Liberace blurted out "I wish my brother George was here" during bed busting sex with Allen, and to Allen's delight George actually showed up to make it a 3 flamer menage a trois orgy. Rudolph the red assed flamer
It was hard staying in the closet and keeping his dark secret to himself. The everyday world was full of incidents that Allen had to watch what he said or did to avoid spilling the beans. He had come closest to revealing his homosexuality last Thansgiving. His Grandmother had asked "Do you like stuffing?" Allen, unthinking, had replied "Oooooh yeah...I love butt stuffing!" he realized too late what she was really talking about, and scrambled to cover his error. " know...the uh...stuffing you... scoop out from... the birds opposed Top or something..." His Grandma's shocked look had faded, as Allen's quick cover had apparently worked. Still, he had to constantly be on his guard to make sure a situation like that never arose again. Still, he hoped to someday have the courage to out himself and move to San Francisco, where he'd heard they seperate the men from the boys with crowbars and their football team is excellent at coming from behind. "Ah", he thought with a smile creeping over his face, "Someday...." U.S.A. (United Stuffers of Assholes)
So he had gone on as he had always gone on, dating nice Jewish girls who puzzled over his seemingly dim and watery libido but never puzzled too much -- he was, after all, a poet, and a handsome young poet at that, and an extraodrinaryily good listener. "He just seems to understand," they would tell their friends over eggcreams at the Schrafts where they gathered in dozeny gaggles to discuss their current boyfriends, faces glowing with youth and health and that brutal winter of 1947. "There's something kinda funny about him, I dunno what it is... But he's such a nice boy. Such a sweet man. And those poems..."
This emotionally sugarglazed side of his character contrasted so sharply with Allen's other life, all those late nights sitting in the Times Square automat with Huncke and Kerouac and pudgy published Homes and the rest of them, yabbering on and goofball-endlessly on about books and poems and the secrets of the Orient; the twenty-odd ethical-aesthetic cancers eating away at the tinny heart of America, and the Grendelly beast lording over New York City like a nucleus from atop a thronelike heap of its own oily black dung; the A-bomb and the H-bomb and the Russians and the sutras and the translucent ghosts of martyred IWW flunkies which had at that time been doubling and plagueing the old tired streets of Brooklyn and Queens to the extent of being about to be declared a public health hazard what with their unreadable Byzantine tracts and pamphlets half-matter/half-antimatter clogging the gutters and clothing the winterbare sycamores like some mangy secondary foliage of cheap aphotosynthetic newsprint which shed not itself but only its letters and Martian alphabets into the wind whereby they were scattered into the myriad textbooks of grammar schools and Hebrew schools and afterschool CCD classes, confusing all the growing young minds to such extents that the poor things ultimately never really trusted their own eyes again... And then Burroughs would come lurching in like the product of the woody knock-kneed union between a scarecrow and a revenant, and Allen's heart would begin to flutter in its holding-tank like a swarm of Monarch butterflies picked up for drunk-driving somewhere in the Sonoran desert and left to rot and breed and fume and rot in some Mexican ghost-jail for all time... Let me out, it groaned to him... He swallowed, tossed back the dregs of his coffee with an evident mixture of guilt and nervousness, and lit a cigarette.
"Back in Lowell," Kerouac was saying...

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