the dropper like a Chinese flower. . . he push home the heroin and the boy who jacked off fifty years ago shine immaculate through the ravaged flesh, fill the outhouse with the sweet nutty smell of young male lust. . . How many years threaded on a needle of blood? Hands slack on lap he sit looking out the winter dawn with the cancelled eyes of junk. The old queer squirm on a limestone bench in Chapultepec Park as Indian adolescents walk by, arms around each other’s necks and ribs, straining his dying flesh to occupy young buttocks and thighs, tight balls and spurting cocks.
Mark and Johnny sit facing each other in a vibrating chair, Johnny impaled on Mark’s cock.
‘‘All set, Johnny?”
“Turn it on.”
Mark flips the switch and the chair vibrate. . . . Mark tilt his head looking up at Johnny, his face remote, eyes cool and mocking on Johnny’s face. . . . Johnny scream and whimper. . . . His face disintegrates as if melted from within. . . . Johnny scream like a mandrake, black out as his sperm spurt, slump against Mark’s body an angel on the nod. Mark pat Johnny’s shoulder absently. . . . Room like gymnasium. . . . The floor is foam rubber, covered in white silk …. One wall is glass. . . . The rising sun fills the room with pink light. Johnny is led in, hands tied, between Mary and Mark. Johnny sees the gallows and sags with a great “Ohhhhhhhhhhh!” his chin pulling down towards his cock, his legs bending at the knees. Sperm spurts, arching almost vertical in front of his face. Mark and Mary are suddenly impatient and hot. . . . They push Johnny forward onto the