by Thomas S. Roche
(8/2/00)

Deathrocker and Sex Boy float like avenging angels or haunted death spirits. They wander through the legal/illegal smoke and smart-drug B.O. of the Orphanage, the club where they hang. (The Club). The Orphanage: The Orphanage is littered with spirits, orphans, junkies, water-nymphs, download losers, upload pricks, former Catholics, urban soldiers of fortune, punkrockers, gothrockers, fallen new-agers, fashion victims of poorly-executed Exile-on-Main-Street chic, and other assorted rejects. Basically the club fills up each weekend night with anybody fucked up enough to waste their time there. Lingerie-boys dance in indiscrete abandon suspended above the dance floor in cages, wearing manacles. Strap-on girls writhe on platforms to either side, flashing trendy blue-black modern-primitive tattoos at the edges of rolled-up sleeves on tattered Fruit of the Loom T-shirts copped from their fathers or, maybe, their boyfriends. The club is filled with machine-gun drum machine mixed with guitar feedback and samples from the Black Mass played backwards, the Ave Maria, Russian Orthodox services, obscure William Burroughs albums, and Pavarotti. The flowers of evil scatter their petals on the winds of the approaching apocalypse.

Deathrocker cocks her head, tosses her hair, feigning indifference.

"There's Fuck," she says.

Sex Boy's snappy retort: "Fuck?"

"Yeah, Fuck. You know."

"I thought that poser spent his time at the Gallery. Or the fucking Institute."

The Gallery is the Gallery of despair, perhaps the only club in town, maybe anywhere, with a more pretentious clientele than the Orphanage. The Institute is strictly for kids as far as Sex Boy is concerned.

"She," sneers Deathrocker. "Fuck hangs here now," she says. "She got kicked out of the Gallery. They told her never to come back. Something about a bouncer and a twenty-dollar blowjob."

"Fuckin' A, twenty dollars. That's a lot to pay for a blowjob. I thought Fuck was a he."

"She," says Deathrocker. "Look at those tits."

Look he does, oh yes. It is certainly something to behold. This is the good part, keep your hands out of your lap. Fuck wears a tight spandex dress stretched across shoulders and tits and flat belly and bulging crotch, boneframe angled and dangerous. She has knife-edged eyelashes, razorblade earrings, thick blackberry lips in an eternal pout. Bleachwhite hair scatters like Niagara Falls over her broad unblemished white shoulders. Her tits are big and silicone-firm. Her long legs stretch into heaven or hell (depending on your particular wish). The legs are unstockinged, bare, beautiful. Fuck wears high-heeled deathrock boots, the buckles recycled from chalices used by the Pope when he had his little breakdown and said the Black Mass in public a few years ago -- you remember. No one seems to know, in the stories they tell about Fuck, whether Fuck is a he-fuck or a she-fuck. But rumor has it that under that tight spandex Fuck harbors the yin and the yang, the princely pestle and the bearded clam, the pride and the prejudice, John Thomas and Pussy Galore, both of 'em in eternal syncronized interaction. It's called "G.O.D." on the street, short for Genetically Operative Doctoring, but that term is, according to the Faustus and Pangloss article in last week's New England Journal of Medicine, no longer considered scientifically accurate. Living tissue splice is now the preferred medical term for the technique. But it's still theoretical, never even tested in the chop-shop labs in Amsterdam. The operation is strictly the thing of urban legend, even if you hear stories all the time in the drag bars and whorehouses.

The chick responsible for spreading most of the Fuck stories is a burned out designer drug techno-child whom no one trusts anyway. But she claims to have sucked Fuck's cock, down on her knees in the little girl's room, and fingerfucked her pussy at the same time. That's enough to get my hormones flowing, I dunno about yours. Everyone knows it's unlikely that Fuck's the androgyne the stories say Fuck is. But from the looks of those tits and the bulge in the front of that dress, it might be true, and some of us prefer to dream. Wonder about it for the next couple pages, OK?

"I'm taking Fuck home tonight," says Deathrocker. Right into Sex Boy's ear.

Sex Boy laughs. "Taking Fuck home. You think you're taking Fuck home. Gonna fuck 'im?"

"What else," shrugs Deathrocker. "Wanna join in?"

"I don't waste my time on cheap-perfume posers."

Deathrocker doesn't respond. She slides away toward Fuck.

Goth girls and B&T dance club whores crowd around Fuck, aching for a feel. Fuck remains distant, aloof, untroubled, untouched. No one at the Orphanage will grace that multiply-endowed form tonight. Then catch sight of Deathrocker, dancing, swaying through waves of blue-grey smoke, smelling of cloves and whiskey. The crowd dissipates.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Deathrocker."

"Fuck." Fuck pouts at Deathrocker, shoulders back. Her nipples poke through tight spandex. Fuck does not offer to shake hands. Instead, the two wordlessly head for the dance floor.

The two become ghosts in the strobe lights. They engage in a dance floor grope session, rubbing against each other and whimpering. Sex Boy haunts them from the shadows, watching. Stretch jeans stretched more than previously.

Deathrocker and Fuck make their way to the front of the dance floor. A Circle forms quickly, ghoulgirls and wraithboys watching the show. Whispers travel through the crowd. Deathrocker, anonymous black-clad bitch, is putting the moves on Fuck, the coveted thing of many sexes.

Deathrocker gets down on her knees in front of Fuck. The dance is an excuse for Deathrocker to mimic cunnilingus/fellatio with this creature of Hindu divinity. Sex Boy watches from beneath the strobe lights, touching himself surreptitiously.

Fuck gives Deathrocker a significant wink, then turns, stalking in those heels through crowd of silent deathrockers who part for her like the Red Sea for Moses. Deathrocker kneels there bewildered, thinking about it. She follows Fuck out the door. Sex Boy is not far behind.

Fuck is waiting outside. The trio climb into Sex Boy's rusty sixties Cadillac, and Sex Boy gets the top down and hammers the car into gear. Fuck and Deathrocker play the tongue game in eighty mile winds up Third. Fuck gets her hand up Deathrocker's skirt and slipping the middle finger in there.

The apartment is not far away, and the triumvirate don't waste any fucking time making a pot of coffee.

The three of them get down on the stained black futon. Fuck's black dress comes down hard around his/her tits. Her nipples are pierced with 14-gauge rings. Sex Boy's always had a thing for pierced nips. He gets his hand on the left one, and his mouth on the right. He nibbles at the silver ring as Deathrocker slides to her knees and gets Fuck's skirt up over her spread thighs, around her waist. Deathrocker gropes for the hard shaft of Fuck's living-tissue manmeat, which pops out helpfully in eight-inch thick-headed splendor.

Sex Boy, french-kissing Fuck, reaches down and wraps his fingers around the base. He guides the cock into his girlfriend's waiting mouth. She sucks it down hungrily.

Deathrocker pulls at Fuck's tight white panties until they come off over her ankles. Sex Boy and Deathrocker reach Fuck's crotch at the same time with their fingertips, groping to discover what generations of two-week trendies have tossed and turned in their beds at night wondering about.

They gasp, as one, as they feel the softness of Fuck's cunt giving way to their probing. Sex Boy prevails. He bats Deathrocker's hand aside and slips two fingers inside. The cunt is wet and ready. Sex Boy slides his tongue deeper into an eager Fuck's mouth.

Deathrocker swallows Fuck's cock again and again, then sucks on the balls. Her tongue snakes down to flicker across erect one-inch clitoris just below. Sex Boy has his fingers working overtime inside Fuck's cunt. Deathrocker reaches out, smears her fingers with lube from the 16-oz pump dispenser on the nightstand, and goes to work on Fuck's ass.

Fuck's ass gives way eagerly, clean and slick, more eager and open even than the cunt. Deathrocker gives it two fingers. Sex Boy's tongue has become a whirlwind, a horny thunderbolt, Fuck whimpering in unholy abandon as she/he takes it multiple times and feels the two pairs of hands working their dark magic upon his/her high-tech body. Fuck begins to recite the Lord's Prayer. The threesome explodes in a whirlwind of sex and sensation -- fade to black.

Faint stream of light through the window, first thing in the morning.

Sex Boy has cut his tongue on one of Fuck's razorblade earrings. He gets up, puts his jeans on, brushes his teeth, takes a piss, washes the blood off his lips.

It is not quite morning.

As dawn breaks through the windows in streams of apocalyptic brilliance, Fuck's flesh begins to decay.

Sex Boy thoughtfully reaches up and pulls the blinds closed.

He bends over the stereo. With the flick of one switch, three disks begin to play simultaneously. Skinny Puppy, Diamanda Galas, the ubiquitous Pavarotti.

It's a wake-up call to the not-yet-dead.

Cock bulging against stretch jeans.

Sex Boy unzips and starts for the futon.