Faggot Jody

“Faggot Jody.” A short story by Crunch.

5:49am was not 10:31pm and Faggot Jody knew that when he rolled his frame towards that awful blue light coming from his alarm clock and he thought to himself once and then again aloud: “Why suffer this shit if the alarm don’t never go off?” and with that Faggot Jody flipped the face of the clock and that blue light down, the sun had not yet begun to dance on the top of Faggot Jody’s bookshelves, nor had it begun to lead the normal procession of dawn and doom into the room but he still knew where things were and could make out how to get them and without even looking Faggot Jody reached for the pills on his nightstand while people yelled outside – some womyn and her daughter arguing about some man that someone was dating – Faggot Jody didn’t really care so he didn’t listen too close, only close enough to know something to gossip about once decent folk were up. “Horse pills” he thought as he swallowed, “I wonder how many punks they died trying to down these shits” he continued, “ . . . bigger than any dick I’ve ever given the pleasure of my lips.” he concluded dramatically and found some music to put on, it was just early enough, in his mind, to listen to Diana Ross without headphones and so Ms. Ross played and Faggot Jody thought about the sun and it’s coming and he thought on outside and how nice it is and his mind found a memory of walking from the store earlier that week and got mad thinking on how wicked folks is and the stoop conversations that went like

“Look at that punk, he think he a woman with his ole’ sissy ass.”

“It don’t make sense to be like that, waste of a man. His mama got to be mad she got some AIDS havin person for a chile”

or the ones that made him scared for his safety. Faggot Jody laid flat in the space of the bed where his dead lover had been and thought on the rumblings in his stomach, where they came from and how hunger felt different ever since he was hipped to the fact that he had caught the virus, hunger felt deeper, burned more, rearranged the inside parts till they felt on fire, wetness formed in his eyes and before Eugene would be there to wipe the tears away and smile, he had held him and told him not to worry about nothing, not the big, not the storms, not the kids screaming “Faggot Jody” at the tops of their beings as Jody switched down the boulevard, not nothing, and Eugene loved him down- Jody knew that to be true- down to the last anything. Gene was a blunt man, straight and blunt like the sex that dangled between his legs, he never measured things to wide nor did he say nothing but what was true for him and Jody knew that, Jody thought on the hospital halls, florescent lights, night setting and weakening pulses- the night Gene could no longer fight and Jody sat somewhere inside himself tending to spaces that needed help and order and he took a pull from his joint, let tears come, dry and come again for hours till the room was lit and the voices of those taunting children could be heard throughout as they walked off to the killing factories, their freedom cries rang rough against Jody’s tears. At some point, he found the mirror and let that image take hold, he studied himself – the parts loved and unloved- standing like womyn perched behind red curtains looking onto silence. Jody rubbed himself once across the chest and then slowly over stomach, to his growing sex and grabbed it. It moved and he sighed, again he tightened his grip and thought about cumming and decided against it, found a pen, and wrote a spell to himself. The room was warm by the time he looked up – familiar shades got trapped in his eyes and Jody stood again, walked around the room once and thought “it’s time I shower.”

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