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women. The cocksuckers and the . . . not. The not
are
women who just couldn’t be bothered to do that unpleasant thing to their husbands — as they are, invariably, married. Well, what’s the problem? I would even argue that there is still an identity politics — but it has nothing to do with object choice. It has to do with whether or not you are a cocksucker. I know you’ve sucked the odd cock. And I know you’re not fond of it. But it’s not like you’d go on about it, scrunch up your eyes — that’s what June Allyson would do, scrunch up her eyes, become girlish and revulsed: “Ew! How could anyone
do
that?” I don’t know how to tell you, June — thanks a lot for the sentiment, but there’s nothing quite like managing to get a thick one down your throat. And if you can’t grovel — I mean, really get down and grovel — in front of a dick, then you haven’t lived, and you don’t know nuthin’, baby.
    Now, that doesn’t mean I devalue clits. But if we’re talking about genital ugliness here, who wins the prize? In the last analysis, the wrinkles of a scrotum and the folds of labia are in a dead heat. You’re bound to be repulsed by one or the other — but to be repulsed by both? There’s something seriously wrong with you.
    I think it has to do with humility and the human condition, because it’s all about ugliness. This is what I don’t understand, and what makes me feel really old. Ugliness used to be the big secret for anybody who liked to whore around. Nowadays no one is allowed to be ugly, so we’ve forgotten how to get off on it. But people left to their own devices are drawn to ugliness. Not because they’re settling, or because they can’t get that special cute one, but just because ugly is fucking sexy, and grovelling in front of it is sexy. And that’s what it’s all about. It’s where sex and death come together, if you want to get philosophical. But at this moment, frankly, I don’t.
    But back to the ushers that used to swarm around my father. They weren’t ugly, but they knew that what they had between their legs was ugly. And they knew that he wanted it. As I’ve said, why wouldn’t he? He was human. But they also knew he hated himself for it. My mother was one of the June Allysons, one of the face scrunchers. “Put that away, that’s ugly.” I’m sure she said that to my father. I know it must have happened in the dark for them to beget three kids — they probably drilled a hole in a sheet like the Mormons and the Jews and the you-know-who-we-aren’t-allowed-to-mention. Yes, I’m going to say that —
I’m going to say that
. I mean, who is actually listening? Everybody and nobody, as I understand it — whatever that means. I know how careful everyone is, but I don’t feel like being that fucking paranoid.
    Just think about this tortured man. He knows the kind of ugliness he wants, and he goes to work, and those ushers swarm around him. . . . If you want to know the truth, he fired Francisco. Why? Because Francisco came on to him, and he was afraid he might give in to the temptation. That’s what happened. And then two weeks later Francisco was reporting him to the police. I know all this because my mother told us. I mean, she didn’t tell us in so many words. But she told us in enough words that we would grow up being seriously conflicted about our father.
    But Jesus, I couldn’t hate him. I knew I was supposed to; I knew she wanted me to hate him, but I didn’t. If I thought my father had ever forced anybody to do anything sexual with him, I would never defend him, not for one second — I would want to rip his guts out. He was just one of those tortured guys. And there were so many of them who never did anything except on the sly, in the dark, with someone else who wanted it, someone who wanted