Category: Uncategorized (Page 726 of 1102)

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slaveultra, 21
If you have huge feet wearing hard boots to slam in my face after a full night of fucking me senseless then step forward. Occasionally into fucking with easy going guys but I’m easily bored. I had a prostatectomy so I can orgasm but can’t cum.

 

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It’s_that_time, 22
I look for guys to finsih me off im a gay guy sory i bit new at this

I want my death to invove rape, torture, gore, cannibalism, mind break, slutification, cutting off body parts, beheading, absence of limbs

I do not want my death tp invove animal abuse, old people, scat, girls

Comments

Anonymous – April 8, 2020
Yes, genocide of all cute boys is the way to go. Fuck off with this “genocide isn’t moralistic” bullshit. It actually is full of truth and heroism.

Anonymous – April 8, 2020
Genocide is usually a good thing. Think about it. Let’s say a new law is passed in which there must be more ugly boys than cute ones. This would mean men would rise up and stand up against the evils of cute boys and reduce their population to not very much. They would not be seen as evil murderers or criminals, but heroes for purging the world of such evil and inferiority.

Anonymous – April 8, 2020
The (moral) difference in quality is that pretty boys do not think about the consequences of their acts while men are able to do so and therefore can be judged for those acts. Pretty boys are natural aggressors, but men can be sadists from a thoughtful point of view.

Anonymous – April 8, 2020
When I had a cute young boyfriend I just gave him a couple of punches a week and I felt good.
And now that we broke up I constantly dream of gutting him and cutting him up.
All the creepy thoughts people have because of the lack of something in real life. I may be wrong.. but I think that’s how it works.

Anonymous – April 8, 2020
My thoughts exactly. People can’t realize violence against cute boys and hatred against them is just normal. They have no power over us.

Anonymous – April 8, 2020
Is it just me? I absolutely fucking hate pretty boys to the point of where I hope they fucking vanish one by one. What are the reasons you guys want to kill this bitch?

 

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DickDeletion, 21
Hey guys, gay circumsexual here whose longtime fascination with foreskin removal eventually led me to the wide wild world of male genital modification. I’ve been very aroused by penectomy for a while and am seriously considering it for myself if there’s a guy out there who would also hugely get off by seeing or eating my last load then relieving me of my penis.

Comments

Fredy3 – April 21, 2020
You do realise if you do that without a trained surgeon and medical supervision there’ll be a spigot spewing blood where your penis used to be and you’ll die of blood loss whilst in agonising pain right?

katyazamo – April 17, 2020
bro this quarantine thing got you fucked up and me likey

PLAYBOY_71 – April 16, 2020
Could you even be a more blindingly obvious troll. No one who looks like “you” would ever want what you claim to want. If you were real you’d be looking for guys to worship you like the God you are.

 

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Ghosty, 19
Awwoooo!! Just a puppy here looking for TREATS to give me huge weight gain!! MORE AND MORE TREATS!!!

Comments

Ghosty (Owner) – March 30, 2020
Been a while since I made this and I’m about 280lbs now, but that’s not anywhere near where I wanna get to.

 

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FrankBoy2001, 19
I am a submissive boy, maybe also a Femboy, who is learning disabled and tends to be thirsty …
So I was in tberapy because of anorexia, I am currently stable but I don’t really feel well.
My hobby is reading books like dictionary etc.
I live in a shared apartment with psychological support and am looking for a father type
in which I can be what I want since I’ve known myself.
Please if you come and meet me then please don’t try to escape I’m not going to kill or eat you.

 

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ethan, 18
18 year old bottom in se london looking for an older poz bb rough top man to stealth poz me, only men over 50, looks not important, like hairy big men but into anyone over 50.

want you to lie about your status, use fake or old test to prove your neg, start with a condom fuck then secretly bust it and shoot your sick deep in me.

stick a finger in me after, make a slice inside with your fingernail, rub your cum into the cut to get the sick direct into my bloodstream and ill marry you, im serious.

Comments

ethan (Owner) – April 3, 2020
please don’t be a retarded

Anonymous – April 3, 2020
We are on the way!
One million people will be infected in UK
Many people will not live through it
This boy will clearly not survive
He has not understood the severity
You and he will give each other death!

 

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homework4, 18
going crazy in quarantine

into fat men and fat women that make me do my homework even long time

i like being dared exept crazy dares like killing myself

when coronavirus is not ravaging our country I go to school in LA

Comments

Tuffdude4u – March 27, 2020
Don’t like your ass… Sorry, not my type.

 

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playswithknives, 21
looking for father..Im looking for a father that will treat me as his own and accept also my son as his grandson. Im young but alone. I Like being naked. Until I find a father feel free to take a test drive.

Comments

playswithknives (Owner) – April 19, 2020
sorry for my silence..just was depressed and attempted suicide so had to have brief break

ambpersand – March 31, 2020
I tried fisting him but I couldn’t get past the knuckles

playswithknives (Owner) – March 25, 2020
sorry to be so vague. i don’t think…I get cloudy on occasion, if thats a problem i get it. Im just here to get a father and get him off like he always wanted but could never do with another son..when im not sexing men, i play one in real life. I have a wife (i told you i don’t think) and my kid and working on making a second one.

 

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MindlessAbyss, 20
I crave S&M as a slapstick way of life. Sticks and stones may break my bones and they also may beat fascists.

I’m absolutely addicted to anything breath/strangle play and asphyxiophilia related. I love to be choked out then my flopping body squashed and smacked, kicked, burned with cigarettes, broken and battered and bled by Sadists with a cartoonesque sense of humor (I want to be able to feel like I’m one of those Chuck Jones characters).

I love being fisted and want fisters to feel they’re able to reach, caress and crush the heart of the unconscious boy that’s being penetrated. That needs a particularly mindset and maybe some barroque twist of narrative, but that’s my jam.

People ALWAYS think I exaggerate and they ALWAYS say wow I thought you were exaggerating but whatever. I leech fetishes off of others because it turns me on when someone else is turned on by me and the weirder, more insane the fetish the more I believe it. It feels so fucking good to me when someone praises me for something and wants it from me that suddenly I start wanting that from others too.

I’m looking for men who love everything about me, preferably someone a bit more stable in the head but also crazy enough to love how fucking insane I am.

 

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HURTme1, 21
Looking for guys into inflicting copious amounts of pain.

Comments

HURTme1 (Owner) – April 6, 2020
Now in a wheelchair as a heads up, but that won’t stop me though.

Anonymous – March 9, 2020
I love living in a fantasy head space as much as the next top but this young man is profoundly mentally ill. I couldn’t go through with it.

HURTme1 (Owner) – March 4, 2020
This is a deep need. This need is not out of desperation. I am a private person. I do not put my life out there for all to see. My reason can be furnished upon request. It will not happen in the first sentence.

Anonymous – March 14, 2020
It’s very tempting to just beat him to death since he deserves it and would let you but don’t do it guys, seriously, because he lives at home, has four siblings and tons of concerned friends who know what he’s into and text him “u ok?”, etc. on his phone every five seconds.

 

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slamjunk, 21
#escort #nrw #bareback #fuck #fist #passiv #Deepthroat #chems #sex #slam #party #Bitch #Tina #devot #exhibition #kokain #Junkie #dirty #filthy #load #cruel condom #pozload #pnp #meth #heroin #trash

I’m sexy and i know it

I need money really bad

Comments

JohnnyLambo – April 9, 2020
don’t fuck him if you don’t think with your dick

Richard0067 – April 2, 2020
I agree with Anonymous!!!!!

slamjunk (Owner) – April 2, 2020
I love to cum I want to cum so much

Anonymous – April 2, 2020
But I want him so bad.

PolishFitMan – April 2, 2020
You guys are insane to hook up with this virus slingshot at a time like this.

Bigger/Better – April 2, 2020
Eat his ass. TOP him in all 28 positions. Fill his hole with dildo’s. Continually Toy/Fuck/Toy/Fuck him. Note the scale, feel, taste and smell of his hole after each Toy. Eat and fuck and toy his ass until you explode! Keep exploding! Experience EVERYTHING!

 

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agustin_hahahah, 18
Looking to be a full daily toilet (scat, raunch, w/s, vomit, watersports). Would prefer that would be my only sustenance beside vitamens. How many times do you go a day?

Want a Master that will castrate and nullify and brand me if I don’t consume everything.

Into K9 beastiality and hoping that you live in a state or country where it’s legal. Love to walk the dog before getting fucked by him, love to get bred by 8 dogs in a day, love to finish up by givin the dogs a rim job, obviously love to ate the dog shit. Want to live in a kennel but all the dogs hate me and I’m only there to walk them, knot with them, and consume their excrement.

Love creepy snuff sex talk, especially from silver hair daddies with big tits and tons of body hair, I love butchers. Yes master, butcher me! Believe it or not, I’m also capable of having a normal conversation!

I also like paid sex if you just simply want to shove it in some cutie’s holes for an hour with no obligation.

Basically I’m all things to all horndogs and perverts, and you’re welcome to me, and I’m happy for you!

Comments

Anonymous – April 14, 2020
Is it just me or has the quarantining and virus paranoia turned more subs than usual into reality challenged, erection addicted, bullshit spinning, cum/nitroglycerin juggling delusionals around here.

agustin_hahahah (Owner) – April 9, 2020
Ideally a Master who will do all of the above and who I can bring to family events so they’ll stop thinking something is wrong with me.

 

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christo_twink_00, 19
Wrapped me

Comments

christo_twink_00 (Owner) – March 21, 2020
FULL DISCLOSURE
I SUFFER FROM SEVERE MENTAL ILLNESS (EXTREME DEPRESSION AND BOARDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER. PLEASE BE PATIENT IF I GET ANGRY.

 

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thecutestguy, 18
I am a beautiful, elegant, highly educated young man with perfect manners who contrastingly loves to have my ass eaten, played with, spanked and mercilessly pounded.

I am the complete package in other words but with one important caveat that I am emotionally very childish. I cry a lot, am insanely jealous, am loving but totally overdo it, and much more …

When approaching me, please refer to anything you like or dislike about me and what effect I have on your wishes from the outset so I’ll know that you have thought about me.

And I’m not looking for an hourlong or even overnight. I am too clingy for that, and my body is too valuable to me personally, and I simply do not like it.

Comments

thecutestguy (Owner) – March 14, 2020
I don’t want money for sex, I have too much money. I will pay you for sex if it comes to that, but please don’t offer me money. I have too much money.

 

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hhitmeuppp, 21
I have a deep tendency to sabotage, self destruct, and inflict pain upon myself. Something keeps bringing me back to it. The truth is, I am not meant to live a life with the freedoms of a normal person. What point is there in existing for my own sake? I have squandered virtually every opportunity given to me… and I don’t deserve another chance. There are a number of people who care about me for reasons I can not understand, but I have no legal obligation towards them.

Comments

hhitmeuppp (Owner) – April 7, 2020
I understand that it may not be easy to find a 24/7/365 Master for life in today’s quarantine climate, but rest assured I currently have no flu-like symptoms whatsoever. I know it’s still a risk given this whole social distancing order; however, this couldn’t be a better time for me to disappear forever without a trace given the lack of traffic on the roads.

 

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someonetolove, 18
Idk what I’m looking for. I‘m comfortable with my sexuality and looks but I don’t want people around me to know how desperately I’m in need of affection. That’s why I didn’t publish a face pic. Ok bye

Comments

someonetolove (Owner) – March 6, 2020
Skip the small talk just tell me how affectionate you would be if we were to meet up.

Yoda – March 6, 2020
You a total fag slut urinal just need to drink.

 

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Ringo, 19
Just a guy who’s not gay and never will be who’s into rock music and most interested in Kurt Cobain and other rock musicians who likes dressing like a cat. Tail plug, ears, mittens, the works.

Comments

DiaperedDrummer – April 8, 2020
Hi! I’m Casey, I am a musician, a drummer who loves Kurt too, and I am an ABDL. I wear diapers, plastic pants, and keep pacifiers in my mouth. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m interested as a baby but I know I like you.

Ringo (Owner) – April 5, 2020
The few who’ve seen it didn’t seem to have a problem with it why?

Saija – April 5, 2020
What’s your butt like?

 

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TAKEitAWAY, 19
First it writes:
“true story time. master called it at school and told it to come home. it made up some excuse to leave, stripped in the garage because his rule was that it always be naked. it entered the kitchen and heard two men talking in the living room. master came out and told it to clean up for play and then meet him in the basement. there, he hooded it and chained it to the ceiling. moments later another man entered master’s basement dungeon. he just started beating and punching it, picked up a whip and tore its chest and back to bloody shreds then fucked it, pounding away into it still beating and punching it and calling it garbage and dead meat. after he came, it was released, fell to the floor, could hardly move and started to crawl out of the basement. master told it it had never looked hotter and was not done yet and shoved his cock in its throat and pumped until he shot three loads in its stomach while the other man beat and whipped it even more bloody and broken. this is what it is and what it lives for.”

Now I write:
I own it and it is a worthless pathetic lowlife piece of shit to be raped, fisted, burned, isolated, force chemmed, bled, strangled, hung, cut, punched, kicked, branded, starved, maimed, tortured without limits or mercy.
Take it away, wherever you want, do whatever you want.

 

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tyler14, 18
may sound weird but im 14, now if your ok with that make my dreams come true.

im looking to have my brain fucked, minced, eaten, whatever, just have it completely destroyed.

i will also do short oneshot snuff if you prefer.

i half believe i might be immortal so i might survive at least for a little while.

try to contact me at night, after midnight, before 6 a.m.

i fucked up most of the time but im ok.

Comments

tyler14 (Owner) – April 10, 2020
thats easy, my victims would be everyone i hate and ill torture them with crystallized/self-spawning/infinitely-expanding omniverse machines.

Anonymous – April 10, 2020
Imagine this: you have died, and because you’re the kind of sick little fuck who gets off on getting snuffed, you are now in Hell.

Lucky for you, sick little fucks like you are exactly the kind of people that the Devil is looking to recruit. So instead of being tortured along with the rest of the sinners, you get to spend eternity doing the torturing. Transformed into a demon, you now have your choice of victims from all of human history, and the only limit is your fucked-up imagination.

Who do you torture, and how?

 

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FuckMyFullShitHole, 18
Cute twink with an ass full of shit looking to get fucked without douching because it happened once by accident and I gained an appetite for it I guess

Comments

FuckMyFullShitHole (Owner) – March 19, 2020
Ideal for you is fucking me early morning after night I chowed down on Taco Bell

 

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AllNew2Me, 22
I want to worship an American guy.

Comments

GodsGift – April 7, 2020
I’m American and 13 years old but don’t be fooled by my youth. I’m a superior human and looking for a new hot guy to worship me. So, what can I offer you? That you will be nothing without me!

 

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SNUFFME, 18
Boy looking for a God for one of a kind experience ….

Comments

SNUFF ME (Owner) – March 16, 2020
Please be courteous of the fact that im young, cute, busy, in school, have a job & am not able to just do whatever whenever i want

 

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trashy666fag, 20
im a sex slavejduzkenxiwlxoxjnsoxoaoeoocozownrizua
mmm i just want to get fucked and fucked and be turend into a sex slave you can pee on me or in me shit on me fist me i dont care my best features are my butt and lack of personnallity and just make me your sex slave daddieshejziwkeixisieidizieixis
keixiskeixizkencizisjxhskgitxitd8diyxitd9yxotx8txtoxotc9ydiyciydoyciyxototxoyc8txoyxitcoyzitzitzitxotxoyxitxoyco

Comments

trashy666fag (Comments) – April 11, 2020
next load please

cumextrudingfuckerpig – April 10, 2020
Just seemed to me that having someone to brutally anal rape should be considered essential in this time we’re in. If that someone had to be a stupid, chubby, cute/ugly piggy boy so be it.

I suggested he might like the security of a longterm host during this fuck knows how long lockdown and he jumped at it. In exchange for having to feed him and look at him 24/7, I got a no limits slave who’s going as low, dark, and savage as I can take him.

Anytime I want I smack him around. Tie him up or cuff him. Choke him until he fades. Spit down his throat. Make him my filthy, shameless toilet. Destroy his throat with my cock, hands, toys and make him gag up god knows what. Force his increasingly untight hole open with my cock, fingers, toys, fist, or anything else I’ve got around. Leave all the marks I want on him since no one will see them. I’m not afraid of seeing a bit of his blood, either, more than a bit.

I have felt fine ever since he got here, and he … who can fucking tell. But I don’t have corona-phobia. I’m in this for the hardest shit and the chips will fall wherever they may.

bitchbully – April 5, 2020
I had to dole out prolonged humiliation to this little fatty before he gave me an erection but then raping him callously for a short time was quite hot.

Mitis – April 2, 2020
Not a hole lot goin on

But there’s a hole lot that can go in

 

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without_stopping, 20
bass player who likes metal, black, death, and strange metal fusions

i’m also aspergic

so i’m to get my eyes rolled back in my head and my stare face on

i’m only looking within the metal region

as long as i’m having my brains choked outa me your limits are mine

ideally none

Comments

Anonymous – April 13, 2020
Can you keep a secret?

 

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iwishyouwould, 20
Hello to you who goes by there, little humanoid (or big for that matter, where was my head). For me, it will be little humanoid, I measure 1m60, and I challenge you to tell me that you are smaller than me !

Me, it’s Louis and it’s young 20 years old, I still had the time to accumulate a certain experience so if you dream of a beautiful adorable, caring guy who will welcome you with open arms calling you “the love, the one love (of me, here present)”, well, know it: Flee!

To admit everything … I love my life Sometimes, it moves me so much how beautiful life is, how incredible the sex are that I cry with joy, and so many people forget how fucking lucky we are to be alive!

I am very politically engaged right now, often in demonstration to try to explain at best the LPPR, the pension reform and why this capitalist society, bah, me, I want some more and that, it fascinates me because every Wednesday, I go to debates, I meet people and even if certainly that I will die in a country still capitalist, I do not care, because I believe that one day, later, capitalism will capitulate (capitalism, capitulate, you know what I mean) and it doesn’t matter if it is in my life or that of future generations.

Currently, I am in L1 Letters and Arts, it is very interesting but I know that I do not want to do that, I like from time to time “but this damn analysis literary has no meaning and aaaaaaargh!” and it’s funny because I’m just avoiding a homework I’m going to have to do but I am delaying as much as possible. Even if I love to study for pleasure, my desire for dependence pushes me to really want to find the man that suits me and recently, I think I have a little idea in fact So, here I am for you to redirect as you can guess.

I work weekends in a store as a cashier at Naturalia, which I like: the social aspect with the customers. I love doing things that I have no right to do, like when there are two customer accounts (computer bug), if the customer asks me, I manage to hack the thing so that it removes one. .. If the client had a 10% and it is not displayed, I manage … I like to counter the rules which seem illogical to me and I am good at that. Then on Thursday, I attend a drama class, we prepare the play: “Eva, Gloria, Léa” by Jean-Marie Piemme but know one thing: There will ALWAYS be a place for you in my schedule! I bring a primordial importance to the people I fuck but that, I will develop it for you a few paragraphs further: Eh you saw, you saw how I try to keep you in suspense.

It’s been a while since I see Paolo (my sex friend, whom I consider my father) to have an incredible 3way with his companion Julien and I see my couple of sex friends Martial and André I met a year ago on a shooting photo. They fuck me a lot, I started young (14 years old) although my first time was not totally a choice, but let’s not lie: I loved it. Then, recently, I feel this desire to found something a little stronger. I want to give everything sexually with someone, I am at this point in my life when I am ready (I don’t like to think too much)!

So my little cock pushes me to conquer a man, one man, but it will not be difficult for you. I was taught that being naive and vulnerable was really (how to say?) the bottom of life, really big big shit, worse than shit. So I am worse than shit and easily fucked. So the next step would be: Why don’t we go for a drink and many drinks? Where to walk? Or whatever: Because if you have read this far, I believe that you and I know that there is something to explore, me, I love it! I watched Dora the Explorer when I was a child, by the way!

Comments

Deity666 – March 20, 2020
It hasn’t been easy given his former freneticism and verbosity but he is now a docile vessel consisting of his physical attributes and nothing else, completely dependent upon me. His every word and physical motion is a product of my instruction. His thoughts are virtually my thoughts and he has become merely my figurative extension.

 

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imprettyinteresting, 21
Hey I’m a country boy from Alabama into, hell, just about everything.

Comments

imprettyinteresting (Owner) – Jan 11, 2020
except that

ChefHVAC – Jan 11, 2020
Cigar smoking chronic masturbation addict HAVE TO masturbate my fat, ripe, stinky hairy cock & blow my load all the time & I NEED to smoke & stroke my fat, ripe, hairy cock while I’m sitting on a face getting my hairy ripe stinky trench cleaned I LIVE FOR IT so get your nose & tongue smashed in my dirty hairy buttcrack huffing & sucking while I beat my meat & I’d be so grateful.

 

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yesmasterimyourthing, 20
If I told you what I’m into you probably well think or tell me that I need help or I deserve to be in the asylum lol!!!!

 

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i_see_you, 18
I am 18 years old I am a Moroccan boy I taste like a brownie My body is smooth and soft like a brownie and I want to be raped by racist white high school students as onlyfans content I also play cribbage

 

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FistTwink, 23
I urgently need € 600 write me what you want for it.

Comments

WascalyWabbit – April 9, 2020
I’d pay it to kick and stomp on your head.

FistTwink (Owner) – April 4, 2020
Aren’t you curious to know how my Galaxy looks like? ….for € 600 you can explore that mysterious Galaxy.

Anonymous – April 4, 2020
I’d like to suck and edge your cock until it’s about to cum then put in razor sharp fake teeth and start eating it alive and your balls

 

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BentheBunny, 18
Call me BentheBunny.
Vore is my thing.
In an open relationship with JacktheLion.
Like getting licked, bitten, chomped, etc. It’s my game.

Comments

BentheBunny (Owner) – March 30, 2020
I seem to especially like bearacudas.

BentheBunny (Owner) – March 27, 2020
If you worry you can’t because of the virus confinement there’s a doctor who has his office in my building who gets off on treating my bite marks when I need it. He says you can lie to say you have an appointment with him.

 

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weedypuff4thug, 24
Bite my ass, Krispy Kreme! You triflin’, shady, outdated Fags!

 

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TinRibs, 24
Hi thanks for clicking on this. I’m a male writer looking for female penfriends turned on by fantasies to do with the abduction, rape, brutal torture and snuffing of young boys. The fantasy victim in this case will be my real life 7 year old son. I would share many pix of him to fuel your inspiration.

In these fantasies he would be subjected to the most perverse sexual depravities and brutal torture with absolutely no limits. They could involve such things as: anal, strangling, rape, piss, vomit, punching, beating, needles, branding irons, cigarette torture, burning, blow torches, caning, whipping, extreme genital torture, mutilation, cannibalism, tummy torture, blow torches, broken ribs, broken fingers, bone saws, electrocution and snuff. Obviously not all of these things have to be included in a roleplay or chat and there are probably plenty of other ideas that are not in this list but basically I’m open to everything.

I’m looking for women who enjoy writing and obviously enjoy very depraved and sadistic fantasies in which a young boy is the main victim. I’d ideally like something long term and would love a situation where we can excange emails and explore this fantasy in lots of detail with the possibility of either me or both of us together writing a story based on our most thrilling ideas.

Comments

Anonymous – April 13, 2020
Apropos … Joeslist, a popular dark web version of Craigslist just posted a unique listing in their “prostitution” tab. A rather rare find amongst the many whores of different varieties and ages: ‘7yo boy, kidnapped, Virgin. NEVER USED’

The ad includes pictures of a rather terrified looking boy with brown hair and stunning blue eyes tied to a chair. Wearing a green t shirt with a dinosaur print on it and pair of jeans an black and white converse sneakers that seemed rather beaten up.

The ad links to a bidding site, with the starting bid already inordinately high, at least three times higher that some of the most premium whores. The boy clearly could only be afforded to the wealthy, someone willing to give up all their savings…or perhaps a few perverts willing to split the costs.

The ad also mentions that the boy must remain alive and unharmed, as they intend to continue selling him (alneit at a lower cost) once his virginity is spent. This also means no forcing him to eat shit…though pissing is fine as long as the boy doesn’t drown. Perhaps some fantasy fuel for you there!

 

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loveyou_men, 19
I’m a little PETITE WHITE FAGGOT with a deepthroat-puke fetish and I have NEVER PUKED WITH ANOTHER GUY BEFORE I look at gay black porn and I want my first time experience to be my ultimate ultimate ultimate ultimate fantasy fulfilled I want to be throat raped by 50 or more domaint aggressive rough and forceful blacks with their cocks and hands and dildoes non stopped puking literally 5 gallons of food and sperm and bile for hours and hours and days and I am so FUCKING horny for it

Comments

loveyou_men (Owner) – March 23, 2020
ABSOLUTELY NO ANAL SEX OBSESSIVE TOPS!!!

 

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Punk&Rowdy, 20
I have a major desire to kill myself. It gets me really hard just thinking that one day I could go through with it, but… I just can’t decide how. These are my top choices.

Number one is the good old “erotic auto asphyxia”. I suppose I could go to some remote place so as not to be disturbed, get naked, and asphyxiate myself while masturbating in nature.

Number two, is seppuku. Yes, I know it is painful. But it also gets me extremely horny when I watch those japanese “fake harakiri” porn movies, and think I could do so much better if it was real.

But my biggest wish is being spitted from end to end, If I could prepare a reasonably sharp pole, and some way to get on it… I’m thinking either a monkey-bar that I could climb on, then lower myself onto the pole inserting it into my anus, and just let go, letting gravity do the work, and feel the agony as the sharp pole drives into my abdomen and towards my throat.

Comments

Anonymous – March 27, 2020
If you sit on the sharp pole it will just come out of your belly unless you will be in some confined space which prevents you from bending.

Besides that, I would do your second idea but use explosives. stuff them in your ass and boom.

Or just tie a rope around your neck and jump from the building for easy spectacular decapitation.

For something more complex take opium and stab and cut yourself everywhere with the knife rip out your internal organs until you die to pretend that it was some assault to mess up with police which will later have a hard time investigating what happened. As nobody will believe you did that to yourself.

Anonymous – March 27, 2020
You’d need some pretty heavy weights on your ankles, probably arms and weight as well, to provide force in place of the speed or thrusting you can’t really engineer solo, else you’ll probably just end up with a spike halfway through your guts, unable to get back off OR go any further down, and experience a very painful, regretful, less-than-fun end. And it won’t be anywhere near as interesting a scene for whoever finds you. Remember to tilt your head back as well.

Anonymous – March 26, 2020
Seppuku / harikiri is a two player game. You need a Second who can lop your head off once you’ve disembowelled yourself. And that means someone who can make sure they don’t leave any forensic trace of themselves behind, or take any such traces away from the scene, and arrive/leave without being observed and tracked, else they will be in a whole pile of shit very quickly. Also come up with an entirely ridiculous yet believable reason for it other than “this gets me hard”.

Anonymous – March 26, 2020
Third option: shotgun up the asshole if you can rig up some remote trigger. Or for heightened suspense and reduced ability to back out, a flintlock pistol with a slow burning gunpowder fuse running into the breach instead of the normal hammer-and-splint setup.

Dynamite if you want to be really hardcore, one up the ass, another deepthroated. Doing a naked swan dive off the top of a high building a few seconds before the fuse runs out and the sticks explode. Set up a few dashcams around the site with decent memory cards in non-overwrite mode (or just running off batteries good for distinctly less time than the maximum rec time) at various angles to cover all possibilities of detonation time, including that of ground splatter followed by bang. Text, facebook, twitter, GC mass messages with the camera locations in sent just before the big moment. Hashtag ludicrous gibs.

 

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CuteandSketchy, 21
I’ll considered it as a crime if you don’t read my profile properly!!!!!

Not going to write long ass’s paragraph which I sure know you’re not going to care.

I’m looking for a man who can give me a lot of money, I’m just kidding but actually I do need a lot of money.

It’s a great time to stock up on meat to get you through this world health crisis you will agree.

Well I am happy to be your meat, to be sliced up or put over the bbq whole, your choice.

If you bank like less than 1,000,000 keep away from me, please don’t text me, it doesn’t make sense.

I also love my ass pleased but not into any type of reciprocation …I know, I know…selfish right?

Not gonna lie about the fact why I’m here but sometimes my testosterone doesn’t obey me which is all your fault!!!!!!!!

Comments

Anonymous – March 21, 2020
Yeah but I think I have to.

DavidR – March 21, 2020
Don’t hurt other beings if you don’t have to.

mpfctn – March 21, 2020
Why kill this ginger bitch? It’s like every serial killer clishe. You don’t want to start with this shit.You need to level up first. You want to start with some rich young fucka instead. Pigs will think it was robbery, and you will earn some extra cash! Just find local young douchebag living 60 miles from you, and get dat biatch.

Biggest concern is the body. No body-no murdah, bois. The best way to hide bdi\\\eas as I’ve read in A\\a[]__=I=+;;\-\!!\\\s+ C3c…

Nothing is sick. It’s all cool. It’s your need. Your body. Your universe. It’s ok. You’re ok. That’s ok. (I love that quotte)

Onix – March 21, 2020
If you do everything right nobody notices you and you leave no evidence you will not get caught. But it is hard to tell what is going to happen and if some tourist will film how you bury him and post on internet.

MAXXX1818 – March 21, 2020
Phone location data isn’t just erased when you destroy the phone. If you want to do it, fucking go ahead and try. Don’t expect anybody to give you a step by step guide.

Anonymous – March 21, 2020
Assuming I tossed/broke the phone, made sure no cameras were around and buried him far away in the woods.

Onix – March 21, 2020
Considering the fact that there are cameras everywhere, you can expect that you will get recorded somewhere with him and then it will be trivial for the police to identify you.
You probably can plan everything to avoid getting recorded or try to change your looks but you cannot be absolutely sure.
Also, he most likely has a phone which is being tracked and you also have a phone so all that police need to do is to match 2 phones in that are that are moving in the same path

Anonymous – March 21, 2020
Do you think I would get caught if I hooked up with this boy, killed him, fucked him corpse, and maybe ate some of him? Like if I dumped the body in a lake or buried it in the woods?

 

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ItsDarkInHere, 18
My real name is not Dustin. But I don’t like my real name, so I prefer to be called Dustin.

I’m 18 still in High School. I’m kind of an athlete, obsessed with stand up comedy, and into anarchism and eating the rich.

I would love to be tied to a chair, forced to smoke and then be hypnotized to become who I really want to be. Dustin. … Yeah I don’t smoke, but if I become Dustin, I will.

If you have a dick smaller than like 5 1/2 it’s probably not gonna work out my bad.

Comments

solitary – March 11, 2020
I’m a dangerous sex offender who should be locked up in prison in solitary confinement. If you have any intelligence, you will not interact with me. But we both know you’re a fucked up little cunt who likes playing games … so I dare you … talk.

 

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here2stay, 23
Hi there,

Can be gay or straight, but I don’t like labels, so I don’t call myself bi either.

LOVE being barefoot, doing all kinds of chores barefoot, hanging out barefoot. Love to be barefoot when it’s hot and when it’s cold.

Other interest of mine is steel. I like cold hard steel. Makes me hard.

Forced to pit fight. Woof! I love fighting. UFC is awesome.

Work as a corrections officer, so have to be a badass at work. Wish I was the one incarcerated sometimes though.

I don’t like to be completely naked. You get the idea. No, not into just full out naked. That’s too much into the fantasy world, and I like to keep myself grounded in reality.

I put up two pics of myself, showing my feet. Not to be a dick, but I know how it is. Guys want to see more photos. Not going to “prove” it’s me, take a pic with a paper with today’s date, that kind of bullshit.

I like pain. I start to panic, and it’s hot as all fuck.

Punishment is hot! Especially undeserved punishment (believe, me, I know something about undeserved punishment). I love it.

My ultimate unrealisable fantasy is some guy takes me to a factory late at night. He turns on the machines and throws me into them and feeds me into them until I’m totally mangled.

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** David Ehrenstein, Indeed. ** _Black_Acrylic, Awesome. I hope/think you won’t be disappointed. As someone who perversely finds solace in the dark and bleak during this conducive time, that ‘Airless Spaces’ book sounds like just the ticket. Excellent about X-R-A-Y. Do tell because they seem to have stopped their Facebook presence, so it’s hard for me at least to keep up with their latest and greatest. The only hardcore track on your list that I think I know is the LFO. I’ll investigate. Thanks! ** Ian, Hi, Ian! Welcome to here! I’m happy to meet you. I’m glad you liked the post. How are you? How’s your writing going? Can it be seen/read anywhere? ** Bill, I do recall. High five, or high ten even. I think, based on what I read about how things are going in Germany, you might well be able to get into Berlin by then, maybe with a test, but it’s the US side of things re: travel that’s the gigantic question, obviously. How’s today looking, or, err, looked? ** Jeff J, Hi, Jeff! I do think I recall you recounting that incident from your stint at that agency. Obviously, that is utterly shocking. And horribly telling. And I guess somehow comforting to those whose works deserve to be where they’re rejected. Really, though, that is mind boggling. Didn’t know that Zwartjes film is on Rarefilmm, Wow, I’m on it. And … really about that Bresson? An actual sharp print? One hears that a sharp print of that was finally struck several years ago, but I’ve never known it to be shown. As I think I mentioned, I saw ‘FNoaD’ at the Cinematheque a couple of years ago, and the print was a lot better than the bootleg available online, but it was still quite faded and scratchy. Okay, obviously I’ll head over there. Thanks a ton for those alerts. I’m fine. Nothing much changed at all on my front. Stuck here with short walks/shopping trips to barely break the tedium and doing stuff or trying. Fiddling with a new fiction idea, working on some GIF stuff, this and that. You? ** Mark Gluth, My pleasure, sir. The 11th news is, yes, about as good a set of news as was reasonably expected. Ha ha, yes, the luxury of being a fantasy homebody. I hear that. Excellent in the form of a day to you. ** Misanthrope, I have the hardback too. In LA, mind you. Well, you are awfully optimistic about how things are opening over there, and god love you for it. I am far, far less so, but I am way over here where we are being reopened in a far more mature, careful, coherent, and thought out fashion. And the truths of our respective matters will tell. ** Steve Erickson, Yeah, take your turn on the testing thing, I guess. I’m not sure how that’s going to work here. I think the govt. is explaining it tonight. I’m old enough to have lived through Biosphere 2. I even took a little visit of it whilst on a road trip after it was long over. Good luck with ‘Liberte’. Like I said back when, I found it extremely tedious and bullshitty and vapid. Have not heard that remix. I’ll seek it out and see/hear. Thanks! ** Right. Today you get your first batch of pandemic era slaves (and commenting masters). Find out how their usual imaginations have incorporated its overlay. If you like. See you tomorrow.

 

‘One of my favorite books is the story-collection Honored Guest (2004) by Joy Williams. I like it to a degree that its “flaws” seem to function “completely” as contributors to its “tone,” which I like, and which therefore creates a situation for me where “there are no ‘flaws,’ only ‘idiosyncrasies’ that contribute to the ‘tone.’” This contrasts with books where I can easily sense what I like and dislike, for example I like the dialogue and social interactions in Less Than Zero (1985) and American Psycho (1991) by Bret Easton Ellis but dislike the violent parts. When I think about Honored Guest’s “tone” I think it is maybe something like drinking a lot of caffeine while mildly and “calmly” depressed, taking painkillers at night while happy, going outside into sunlight in the morning after not sleeping the night before due to a specific kind of crippling loneliness, or being financially stable while unemployed and living alone in a clean studio apartment with little or no social or familial obligations.

‘Honored Guest seems versatile, powerful, reliable, and accommodating to me. If I am severely depressed I can read it and feel calmer, more accepting, and better able to utilize such depression-reducing skills as detachment, irony/sarcasm, and relativism. If I am happy I can read it and feel “delight,” an increase in the non-delusional aspects of my happiness, and that I am glad I exist and can interact with certain other humans. If I am bored I can open the book randomly and study whatever sentence or scene to see how they have been constructed, find “little jokes” or “other things” I didn’t notice before, or read it slowly in a self-conscious manner for purposes of perceiving how exactly my emotions are being affected by certain line breaks or adverbs.

‘In the past I have felt that Joy Williams’ stories were too [something] for me to enjoy at a comprehensive, “direct” level but today I do not feel that way. Today when I read Joy Williams I feel that I am not blocking out or suppressing any aspects (or only very small and vague aspects) of my personality, sense of humor, or worldview. I feel that I am “enjoying” the writing in a manner similar to how the author herself would enjoy it, as opposed to writing where I feel “ever conscious” that I am probably “enjoying” it in a different manner than the author would, for example writing that I feel is unintentionally funny or only “accidentally” detached (not completely sure what I mean re “accidentally” detached).

‘To me Joy Williams (b. 1944) and Lorrie Moore (b. 1957) overlap in their writing to some degree. I like them both a lot. Their output quantity (and, to me, quality) is similar, to some degree, a notable degree. They’re both sort of on the “edge” of whatever groups of writers journalists have successfully grouped together. They both have three story-collections of which the first ones, I feel, were in a somewhat different style than the next two, which have styles that are “crystallized” versions of the first books’ styles, in my view. I sometimes think about what they think about each other’s work. I feel interested in interviewing Joy Williams about Lorrie Moore or Lorrie Moore about Joy Williams. I have Googled their names together without success. They seem to have not ever mentioned each other’s names in print. I think almost everyone I know that likes Joy Williams’ writing a lot also likes Lorrie Moore’s writing a lot.

‘I will write about some of the stories in Honored Guest.

‘Honored Guest. In this story a girl is living with her mother who is dying. At one point the mother wakes up screaming her own name. I feel like if I were dying I would wake up screaming my own name sometimes.

‘Congress. In this story a woman’s boyfriend’s job is to examine body parts of dead people or animals to identity them as specific people or animals. Halfway through the story the man falls out of a tree while hunting with a cross bow and gets brain damage. This story feels to me like a full-length “indie” movie in terms of narrative movement, number of scenes and locations, and quirkiness level re characters.

‘The Visiting Privilege. In this story a woman visits her friend in a “mental hospital.” Her friend gets annoyed because the woman visits every day and sometimes more than once a day. The woman makes friends with an old woman and thinks the old woman is “cute,” in how she acts, and I agree. This story to me exhibits clean, beautiful, high-quality expressions of depression and meaninglessness.

‘Charity. In this story there is a small girl that is very “cute” in how she acts. I think I always feel that Joy Williams thinks her characters are cute, interesting, or funny and not ever “evil,” uninterestingly boring, immoral, or “wrong.” This and The Visiting Privilege are maybe my favorite stories in this book.

‘Fortune. In this story a lot of young people go to South America, for a vacation, I think, and “sit around” a lot. I think their parents are also in South America on vacation. It is maybe the longest story in the book. I remember only parts of it. I remember the ending. I seem to almost always have an urge to reread this story in order to know it enough to “feel aware” of its entire structure inside of my head, at one time, as I have been able to do with the other stories after rereading them whatever number of times. I feel I will in the future reread this story for the 5th or 10th time or something and “gain” the entire structure, and then experience it at a different level, causing me to have different urges to further reread it.’ — Tao Lin

 

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Quotes

 

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Further

Podcast: Joy Williams interviewed about ‘Honored Guest’ on Bookworm’
Joy Williams, The Art of Fiction No. 223 @ The Paris Review
‘Honored Guest’ reviewed @ TNYT
‘Honored Guest’ @ goodreads
‘The In Between Space: Reconciliation in Joy Williams’ Short Stories’
‘Black beauty: Joy Williams’s ‘Honored Guest”
‘Karen Russell on how Joy Williams writes the unspeakable’
‘Joy Williams: The Intuitionist’
Joy Williams’s short story ‘Train’
‘Joy Williams is an unsettling genius’
Joy Williams’s short story ‘The Mission’
Podcast: ‘Joy Williams | 1989 | “The Last Generation”’
‘Ode to Joy Williams’
‘Joy Williams’ greatest hits’

 

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Manuscript page

 

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Why She Writes

 

from Uncanny Singing That Comes from Certain Husks: Why I Write

It’s become fashionable these days to say that the writer writes because he is not whole, he has a wound, he writes to heal it, but who cares if the writer is not whole, of course the writer is not whole, or even particularly well. There is something unwholesome and destructive about the entire writing process. Writers are like eremites or anchorites — natural-born eremites or anchorites — who seem puzzled as to why they went up the pole or into the cave in the first place. Why am I so isolate in this strange place? Why is my sweat being sold as elixir? And how have I become so enmeshed with works, mere works, phantoms?

[…]

A writer starts out, I think, wanting to be a transfiguring agent, and ends up usually just making contact, contact with other human beings. This, unsurprisingly, is not enough. (Making contact with the self — healing the wound — is even less satisfactory.) Writers end up writing stories — or rather, stories’ shadows — and they’re grateful if they can but it is not enough. Nothing the writer can do is ever enough.

[…]

The significant story possesses more awareness than the writer writing it. The significant story is always greater than the writer writing it. This is the absurdity, the disorienting truth, the question that is not even a question, this is the koan of writing.

[…]

A writer’s awareness must never be inadequate. Still, it will never be adequate to the greater awareness of the work itself, the work that the writer is trying to write. The writer must not really know what he is knowing, what he is learning to know when he writes, which is more than the knowing of it. A writer loves the dark, loves it, but is always fumbling around in the light. The writer is separate from his work but that’s all the writer is — what he writes. A writer must be smart but not too smart. He must be dumb enough to break himself to harness.

[…]

The moment a writer knows how to achieve a certain effect, the method must be abandoned. Effects repeated become false, mannered. The writer’s style is his doppelgänger, an apparition that the writer must never trust to do his work for him.

[…]

But a writer isn’t supposed to make friends with his writing, I don’t think.

[…]

Language accepts the writer as its host, it feeds off the writer, it makes him a husk. There is something uncanny about good writing — uncanny the singing that comes from certain husks. The writer is never nourished by his own work, it is never satisfying to him. The work is a stranger, it shuns him a little, for the writer is really something of a fool, so engaged in his disengagement, so self-conscious, so eager to serve something greater, which is the writing. Or which could be the writing if only the writer is good enough. The work stands a little apart from the writer, it doesn’t want to go down with him when he stumbles or fails to retreat. The writer must do all this alone, in secret, in drudgery, in confusion, awkwardly, one word at a time.

[…]

The good piece of writing startles the reader back into Life. The work — this Other, this other thing — this false life that is even less than the seeming of this lived life, is more than the lived life, too. It is so unreal, so precise, so unsurprising, so alarming, really. Good writing never soothes or comforts. It is no prescription, either is it diversionary, although it can and should enchant while it explodes in the reader’s face. Whenever the writer writes, it’s always three o’clock in the morning, it’s always three or four or five o’clock in the morning in his head. Those horrid hours are the writer’s days and nights when he is writing. The writer doesn’t write for the reader. He doesn’t write for himself, either. He writes to serve…something. Somethingness. The somethingness that is sheltered by the wings of nothingness — those exquisite, enveloping, protecting wings.

[…]

Why does the writer write? The writer writes to serve — hopelessly he writes in the hope that he might serve — not himself and not others, but that great cold elemental grace which knows us.

A writer I very much admire is Don DeLillo. At an awards ceremony for him at the Folger Library several years ago, I said that he was like a great shark moving hidden in our midst, beneath the din and wreck of the moment, at apocalyptic ease in the very elements of our psyche and times that are most troublesome to us, that we most fear.

Why do I write? Because I wanna be a great shark too. Another shark. A different shark, in a different part of the ocean. The ocean is vast.

Joy Williams reading ‘Uncanny Singing That Comes from Certain Husks: Why I Write’

 

______
Interview
from The Rumpus

 

In your story, “Yard Boy,” from your first story-collection, Taking Care, and in many stories since, you talk about being enlightened, about seeing things without preconception, which means allowing the possibility that inanimate objects have feelings and thoughts, that everything is relative and arbitrary, and other concepts involving “enlightenment” such as that the physical world is an illusion and that nothing can be “known.” In those worldviews “morals” seem irrelevant, or aren’t addressed, since they require assumptions and those worldviews tend to not want to assume anything. In your nonfiction, though, you seem to have morals, and seem to be “against” certain things like hunting, cruelty against animals, destroying the environment, etc. How do you reconcile that in your life? When you are making choices in your life, like choosing whether or not to pay more money for food or transportation that won’t destroy the earth, what do you think about? Do you more live your life like a work of art (fiction), or like a work of rhetoric (nonfiction) or some other way?

Joy Williams: You can get away with a lot more writing nonfiction (I’m not talking lies as has been the trend but attitude) than you can writing fiction. In a work of rhetoric you can take a stand, make a case, inform and inspire, scream and demean. You can’t be angry in fiction — it’s all about control. You create worlds in order to accept them. You create worlds open to interpretation. Facts have limitations. At the Univ. of Wyoming where I’m in residence for a year, there is this wonderful little geological museum wherein there is THE FLUORESCENT MINERAL ROOM. There are maybe thirty rocks in there sitting quietly on shelves, modest rocks, nice rocks, but nothing lovely or extraordinary about them. But when you flip a switch — Press Switch Here — the room goes dark and the rocks blossom into the most intense and varied colors. They are really expressing… something. Now the explanation for this is helpfully posted on the wall: Certain stimuli, such as ultraviolet light, disturbs the atomic structure of certain minerals. The energy released as the structure returns to normal results in the emission of visible light.

And there you don’t have it. Far better to have a fictional Yard Boy, prone to love and awe, come to his own understandings which he certainly would have had if he had been fortunate enough to find himself in the Fluorescent Mineral Room at the University of Wyoming.

When I read your stories I feel that everything becomes more accurately balanced out and then I feel calmer, I feel “better.” There is an attempt, I feel, in your writing, to not give anything more “importance” or “weight” than anything else, and to not “rule out” anything. It is like how a child sees things — without preconception. Or more accurately, maybe, how a robot or tree would see things — without even the preconception of consciousness. Do you write or read to feel calmer, to feel less scared of death and other mysteries, to feel less “bad”?

JW: No.

You write about nonexistence a lot, about being either not-yet-born or “dead,” and have been focused on this pretty steadily, in your writing, for more than 30 years — speculating on what it actually is (to not exist), making jokes about it, and “trying out” ways to feel and think about it. Has this affected your life in concrete reality, do you think, as opposed to someone who thinks less, and less creatively and originally, about not existing?

JW: Annie Dillard quotes someone who ventured that “the worst part of being dead must be the first night.” The themes you mention are in the new novel I’m working on as well. Back to the non-expressible. I so wish I were smarter! All art deals with the peculiarity, the strangeness of our situation. We do all this stuff — we think, we marvel, we despair, we care — and then we die. That makes no sense. Surely we should be spending our time differently since that is the case, but how? With the injustice, the political stupidity, the destruction of the natural world, it is tempting to believe (in our non-believing) that things are not what they seem, that there is a link between the dead and the unborn that can replenish the void we know awaits each of us and all we love.

What things have made you feel excited in your life?

JW: Excited? Why do you ask?

You said about The Changeling, “That book was just destroyed. It was an awful experience. […] I felt at the time that some of the reviewers wanted me to die. They just wanted me to stop writing. They were saying, ‘We have other writers out there who we have to deal with and all the writers yet unborn, so please go away.’” Your recent novel, The Quick and The Dead, however, received a lot of praise from almost every reviewer and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize. Why do you think “critics” reacted differently to the two different novels?

JW: The late ’70s were a tough time for women novelists. We were supposed to be feminist, engaged, angry. It was really, weirdly, a very conformist time. (Of course, Toni Morrison’s Song of Solomon came out around then and she avoided those problems profoundly and beautifully.) The Changeling is about a guilty young drunk named Pearl on an island with feral children. The prose is lushly stark and imaginative, the method magical, even demented. Feminism did not need a guilty drunk! The Quick and the Dead had larger, more charming and annoying characters and a bigger theme. It’s a better book. It was published in 2000, a millennium baby. Maybe people were more willing to contemplate the straits between the living and the dead. Still, the critics didn’t like it that much.

Throughout the ’70s and ’80s there was a term, “K-Mart Realism,” or “Minimalism,” that journalists used for a group of writers you were sometimes mentioned with — Raymond Carver, Ann Beattie, Bobbie Ann Mason, Frederick Barthelme, etc. Did — and are — you interested or excited by work from that “group” of writers?

JW: Of the ones you mention, it’s Carver who’s the stand-out, and he very much disliked the term minimalism as it was applied to his own work. The editor Gordon Lish was the maestro of minimalism and under his uncanny pencil, many an ordinary story became a very good one. Minimalism as a productive style can be very affective, alarming and satisfying, but I don’t think there ever was a pure strain of it. For a time, it was just a kettle into which many a strange fish were flung. Now with America’s miniaturization of not irrelevance in the world, it might return to the short story in grim and freshened renewal. Certainly the days of the giddy blowhard are over. I hope.

I feel like your writing has become more concrete and less abstract over time. There are more scenes and more of a narrative, I feel, especially in your last two books, The Quick and the Dead & Honored Guest, than in your first books, specifically State of Grace & The Changeling. I like your writing more with each new book. It seems funnier and calmer now to me, I can picture things easier, the sentences feel to me more interesting like you spent more time selecting each sentence that is allowed in each story. I feel like most writers become more abstract over time, you seem like the exception to me. Do you ever think about this? Why do you think you became more concrete over time, or do you not think (or have not thought about) that?

JW: A writer is always seeing pitfalls inherent in a skill he thinks he’s already mastered. You write, you change, everything changes. The pressures on language fail to evoke the desired effect. The “gift” you feel you may have undeservedly received can’t be used for everything. The dependable friend has become untrustworthy. Your ear goes, or confidence that the delivering word will appear, erodes. You get sick of fulfilling your characters, your ease with Time evaporates. Endings, beginnings, impossible. Strategies change. It never gets easier, that’s for certain. Abstraction in fiction is supposed to be bad, but it can be just the struck match that illuminates. Much of a writer’s work is to unexpress the expressible as well as the opposite. And the “concrete” is essential to both.

At the end of one of your essays on writing you said, “None of this is what I long to say. I long to say other things. I write stories in my attempt to say them.” Is there mostly just one thing that you long to say, so that you try, in each story, to “say it all,” to express that one thing, or are there different things that you long to say, each requiring a different story?

JW: The conundrum of literature is that it is not supposed to say anything. Often a reader can enjoy a story or novel simply because he can admire the writer’s skill in getting out of it.

In Corinthians there is this passage: Behold, I show you a great mystery: we shall not all sleep but we will all be changed… in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye… This is one of those terrifying Biblical passages, though not as terrifying as many others, that addresses the unspeakable heart of our human situation and commands us to be aware. The best stories, I think, always contain this annunciation of awareness, no matter how cloaked. Emerson said, “No one suspects the days to be gods.” Stories can’t be gods of course. Maybe little godlets.

Do you have an “ideal” that you strive for (some already existing story, novel, movie, or song that you think of) when you write a short story? A novel?

JW: No. The first note must be sounded and why have it be another’s? To name an ideal and then seek to riff it anew is an exercise for writers’ workshops.

What story or novel writers, if any, do you feel are (or were) trying to “get at” the same things you are?

JW: I can tell you who I admire greatly — writers who always move and trouble me — Sebald, Coetzee, Delillo. They are rigorous, merciless novelists of great beauty and integrity.

Do you like to be around people and go to parties and drink alcohol?

JW: Not really. I’m shy.

 

___
Book

Joy Williams Honored Guest
Vintage

‘With her singular brand of gorgeous dark humor, Joy Williams explores the various ways–comic, tragic, and unnerving—we seek to accommodate diminishment and loss. A masseuse breaks her rich client’s wrist bone, a friend visits at the hospital long after she is welcome, and a woman surrenders her husband to a creepily adoring student. From one of our most acclaimed writers, Honored Guest is a rich examination of our capacity for transformation and salvation.’ — Vintage

Excerpt

She had been having a rough time of it and thought about suicide sometimes, but suicide was so corny and you had to be careful in this milieu which was eleventh grade because two of her classmates had committed suicide the year before and between them they left twenty-four suicide notes and had become just a joke. They had left the notes everywhere and they were full of misspellings and pretensions. Theirs had been a false show. Then this year a girl had taken an overdose of Tylenol which of course did nothing at all, but word of it got out and when she came back to school her locker had been broken into and was full of Tylenol, just jammed with it. Like, you moron. Under the circumstances, it was amazing that Helen thought of suicide at all. It was just not cool. You only made a fool of yourself. And the parents of these people were mocked too. They were considered to be suicide-enhancing, evil and weak, and they were ignored and barely tolerated. This was a small town. Helen didn’t want to make it any harder on her mother than circumstances already had.

Her mother was dying and she wanted to die at home, which Helen could understand, she understood it perfectly, she’d say, but actually she understood it less well than that and it had become clear it wasn’t even what needed to be understood. Nothing needed to be understood.

There was a little brass bell on her mother’s bedside table. It was the same little brass bell that had been placed at Helen’s command when she had been a little girl, sick with some harmless little kid’s sickness. She had just to reach out her hand and ring the bell and her mother would come or even her father. Her mother never used the bell now and kept it there as sort of a joke, actually. Her mother was not utterly confined to bed. She moved around a bit at night and placed herself, or was placed by others, in other rooms during the day. Occasionally one of the women who had been hired to care forher during the day would even take her for a drive, out to see the icicles or go to the bank window. Her mother’s name was Lenore and sometimes in the night her mother would call out this name, her own, “Lenore!” in a strong, urgent voice and Helen in her own room would shudder and cry a little.

This had been going on for a while. In the summer Lenore had been diagnosed and condemned but she kept bouncing back, as the doctors put it, until recently. The daisies that bloomed in the fall down by the storm-split elm had come and gone, even the little kids at Halloween. Thanksgiving had passed without comment and it would be Christmas soon. Lenore was ignoring it. The boxes of balls and lights were in the cellar, buried deep. Helen had made the horrible mistake of asking her what she wanted for Christmas one nightand Lenore had said, “Are you stupid?” Then she said, “Oh, I don’t mean to be so impatient, it’s the medicine, my voice doesn’t even sound right. Does my voice sound right? Get me something you’ll want later. A piece of jewelry or something. Do you want the money for it?” She meant this sincerely.

At the beginning they had talked eagerly like equals. This was more important than a wedding, this preparation. They even laughed like girls together remembering things. They remembered when Helen was a little girl before the divorce and they were all driving somewhere and Helen’s father was stopped for speeding and Lenore wanted her picture taken with the policeman and Helen had taken it. “Wasn’t that mean!” Lenore said to Helen.

When Lenore died, Helen would go down to Florida and live with her father. “I’ve never had the slightest desire to visit Florida,” Lenore would say. “You can have it.”

At the beginning, death was giving them the opportunity to be interesting. This was something special. There was only one crack at this. But then they lost sight of it somehow. It became a lesser thing, more terrible. Its meaning crumbled. They began waiting for it. Terrible, terrible. Lenore had friends but they called now, they didn’t come over so much. “Don’t come over,” Lenore would tell them, “it wears me out.” Little things started to go wrong with the house, leaks and lights. The bulb in the kitchen would flutter when the water was turned on. Helen grew fat for some reason. The dog, their dog, began to change. He grew shy. “Do you think he’s acting funny?” Lenore asked Helen.

She did not tell Helen that the dog had begun to growl at her. It was a secret growl, he never did it in front of anyone else. He had taken to carrying one of her slippers around with him. He was almost never without it. He cherished her slipper.

“Do you remember when I put Grecian Formula on his muzzle because he turned gray so young?” Lenore said. “He was only about a year old and began to turn gray? The things I used to do. The way I spent my time.”

But now she did not know what to do with time at all. It seemed more expectant than ever. One couldn’t satisfy it, one could never do enough for it.

She was so uneasy.

Lenore had a dream in which she wasn’t dying at all. Someone else had died. People had told her this over and over again. And now they were getting tired of reminding her, impatient.

She had a dream of eating bread and dying. Two large loaves. Pounds of it, still warm from the oven. She ate it all, she was so hungry, starving! But then she died. It was the bread. It was too hot, was the explanation. There were people in her room but she was not among them.

When she woke, she could feel the hot, gummy, almost liquid bread in her throat, scalding it. She lay in bed on her side, her dark eyes open. It was four o’clock in the morning. She swung her legs to the floor. The dog growled at her. He slept in her room with her slipper but he growled as she made her way past him. Sometimes self-pity would rise within her and she would stare at the dog, tears in her eyes, listening to him growl. The more she stared, the more sustained was his soft growl.

She had a dream about a tattoo. This was a pleasant dream. She was walking away and she had the most beautiful tattoo covering her shoulders and back, even the back of her legs. It was unspeakably fine.

Helen had a dream that her mother wanted a tattoo. She wanted to be tattooed all over, a full custom bodysuit, but no one would do it. Helen woke protesting this, grunting and cold. She had kicked off her blankets. She pulled them up and curled tightly beneath them. There was a boy at school who had gotten a tattoo and now they wouldn’t let him play basketball.

In the morning Lenore said, “Would you get a tattoo with me? We could do this together. I don’t think it’s creepy,” she added. “I think you’ll be glad later. A pretty one, just small somewhere. What do you think?” The more she considered it, the more it seemed the perfect thing to do. What else could be done? She’d already given Helen her wedding ring.

“I’ll get him to come over here, to the house. I’ll arrange it,” Lenore said. Helen couldn’t defend herself against this notion. She still felt sleepy, she was always sleepy. There was something wrong with her mother’s idea but not much.

But Lenore could not arrange it. When Helen returned from school, her mother said, “It can’t be done. I’m so upset and I’ve lost interest so I’ll give you the short version. I called … I must have made twenty calls. At last I got someone to speak to me. His name was Smokin’ Joe and he was a hundred miles away but sounded as though he’d do it. And I asked him if there was any place he didn’t tattoo, and he said faces, dicks and hands.”

“Mom!” Helen said. Her face reddened.

“And I asked him if there was anyone he wouldn’t tattoo, and he said drunks and the dying. So that was that.”

“But you didn’t have to tell him. You won’t have to tell him,” Helen said.

“That’s true,” Lenore said dispiritedly. Then she looked angrily at Helen. “Are you crazy? Sometimes I think you’re crazy!”

“Mom!” Helen said, crying. “I want you to do what you want.”

“This was my idea, mine!” Lenore said. The dog gave a high nervous bark. “Oh dear,” Lenore said, “I’m speaking too loudly.” She smiled at him as if to say how clever both of them were to realize this.

That night Lenore could not sleep. There were no dreams, nothing. High clouds swept slowly past the window. She got up and went into the living room, to the desk there. She looked with distaste at all the objects in this room. There wasn’t one thing here she’d want to take with her to the grave, not one. The dog had shuffled out of the bedroom with her and now lay at her feet, a slipper in his mouth, a red one with a little bow. She wanted to make note of a few things, clarify some things. She took out a piece of paper. The furnace turned on and she heard something moving behind the walls. “Enjoy it while you can,” she said. She sat at the desk, her back very straight, waiting for something. After a while she looked at the dog. “Give me that,” she said. “Give me that slipper.” He growled but did not leave her side. She took a pen and wrote on the paper, When I go, the dog goes. Promise me this. She left it out for Helen.

Then she thought, That dog is the dumbest one I’ve ever had. I don’t want him with me. She was amazed she could still think like this. She tore up the piece of paper. “Lenore!” she cried, and wrung her hands. She wanted herself. Her mind ran stumbling, panting, through dark twisted woods.

When Helen got up she would ask her to make some toast. Toast would taste good. Helen would press the Good Morning letters on the bread. It was a gadget, like a cookie cutter. When the bread was toasted, the words were pressed down into it and you dribbled honey into them.

In the morning Helen did this carefully, as she always had. They sat together at the kitchen table and ate the toast. Sleet struck the windows. Helen looked at her toast dreamily, the golden letters against the almost black. They both liked their toast almost black.

Lenore felt peaceful. She even felt a little better. But it was a cruelty to feel a little better, a cruelty to Helen.

“Turn on the radio,” Lenore said, “and find out if they’re going to cancel school.” If Helen stayed home today she would talk to her. Important things would be said. Things that would still matter years and years from now.

Callers on a talk show were speaking about wolves. “There should be wolf control,” someone said, “not wolf worship.”

“Oh, I hate these people,” Helen said.

“Are you a wolf worshipper?” her mother asked. “Watch out.”

“I believe they have the right to live too,” Helen said fervently. Then she was sorry. Everything she said was wrong. She moved the dial on the radio. School would not be canceled. They never canceled it.

“There’s a stain on that blouse,” her mother said. “Why do your clothes always look so dingy? You should buy some new clothes.”

“I don’t want any new clothes,” Helen said.

“You can’t wear mine, that’s not the way to think. I’ve got to get rid of them. Maybe that’s what I’ll do today. I’ll go through them with Jean. It’s Jean who comes today, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want your clothes!”

“Why not? Not even the sweaters?”

Helen’s mouth trembled.

“Oh, what are we going to do!” Lenore said. She clawed at her cheeks. The dog barked.

“Mom, Mom,” Helen said.

“We’ve got to talk, I want to talk,” Lenore said. What would happen to Helen, her little girl …

Helen saw the stain her mother had noticed on the blouse. Where had it come from? It had just appeared. She would change if she had time.

“When I die, I’m going to forget you,” Lenore began. This was so obvious, this wasn’t what she meant. “The dead just forget you. The most important things, all the loving things, everything we …” She closed her eyes, then opened them with effort. “I want to put on some lipstick today,” she said. “If I don’t, tell me when you come home.”

Helen left just in time to catch the bus. Some of her classmates stood by the curb, hooded, hunched. It was bitter out.

In the house, Lenore looked at the dog. There were only so many dogs in a person’s life and this was the last one in hers. She’d like to kick him. But he had changed when she’d gotten sick, he hadn’t been like this before. He was bewildered. He didn’t like it-death-either. She felt sorry for him. She went back into her bedroom and he followed her with the slipper.

At nine, the first in a number of nurse’s aides and companions arrived. By three it was growing dark again. Helen returned before four.

“The dog needs a walk,” her mother said.

“It’s so icy out, Mom, he’ll cut the pads of his feet.”

“He needs to go out!” her mother screamed. She wore a little lipstick and sat in a chair wringing her hands.

Helen found the leash and coaxed the dog to the door. He looked out uneasily into the wet cold blackness. They moved out into it a few yards to a bush he had killed long before and he dribbled a few drops of urine onto it. They walked a little farther, across the dully shining yard toward the street. It was still, windless. The air made a hissing sound. “Come on,” Helen said, “don’t you want to do something?” The dog walked stoically along. Helen’s eyes began to water with the cold. Her mother had said, “I want Verdi played at the service, Scriabin, no hymns.” Helen had sent away for some recordings. How else could it be accomplished, the Verdi, the Scriabin … Once she had called her father and said, “What should we do for Mom?”

“Where have you been!” her mother said when they got back. “My God, I thought you’d been hit by a truck.”

They ate supper, macaroni and cheese, something one of the women had prepared. Lenore ate without speaking and then looked at the empty plate.

 

 

*

p.s. Hey. ** Corey Heiferman, Oh, cool. Home run. That hill, or, rather, its ruins, or perhaps the hill in and of itself is also something, sounds interesting, of course. You plan to do something transformative with that info? Okay, that Leonard Nimoy thing seems very strange. A glance made neither heads or tails of that page, so I’ll trying concentrating there once I can. Thank you. By next year there should be espressos available in Paris. By June in fact, we’re told, should we so lucky. ** David Ehrenstein, Not a shabby film at all, that one, yep. Everyone, Mr. Ehrenstein has something new up on his FaBlog called ‘Ambivalence Mon Amour’ that appears to have Stephen Sondheim prominently within it. Solve the mystery here. ** Mark Gluth, Hi, Mark. Blurb got devised, sent to Michael, he okayed it, so everything’s set for its usage however y’all see fit, I think. Yes, yes, of course, and please about the ‘welcome to the world’ post. Yes! Whenever the time is right, the blog will become a throne. Paris is not itself. I walk around in Paris thinking how much I miss Paris. According to the official pronouncement from above, stores and shops and kindergartens reopen on the 11th. Masks will be necessary. If things don’t worsen because of the reopening, other things will start to gradually open three weeks later. Otherwise, we lock down again. No concerts, theater, etc. until probably September. No travel in or out of France for non-French citizens for probably the summer. That’s the dictum. Bon day! ** _Black_Acrylic, My sleep’s been super strange too. It’s stress having a party after hours, I guess? I’ll check out that book. Yes, we might even have crossed paths at that show. We should check to see if they still have the surveillance footage. ** Bill, Hi, B. Glad you dug it, them, that. Well, yeah, we will start to reopen on the 11th a bit if the daily infection rate is 3000/day or lower then. Stores, shops. No more filling out officials forms unless one is traveling 100km or more. Wearing masks a lot of the time. That will be studied from on high, and, if the rates don’t spike, more openness will occur very incrementally. It’s a start. Oh, ‘964 Pinocchio’! I saw that, but I hardly remember it. Huh. No DVD player here, but I’ll try other resources. ** Misanthrope, Okay, that sounds reasonable. Your work’s plan. I laid out our hopefully impending reopening up above. Everything is so chaotic over there in the USA with the piecemeal, politically motivated mess of a general plan that god fucking knows what’s going to happen. Here’s hoping. Fuck knows when I’ll get to go back to the US again without getting stuck there with no way out. Seems like it could be ages. ** Steve Erickson, Nice new remix there, bud. The plan over here is that pretty much everyone can be tested in a highly available way starting on the 11th, although they haven’t explained how that will happen or what test they’re talking about. Everyone. Steve has reviewed the new and apparently quite problematic Car Seat Headrest album. Find out what went wrong or right here. You’re using your time wisely on the film watching front, and that’s good. My attention is still just scattering all over the place. ** Kyler, I’m happy you enjoyed the religious shit show. Being without any religion beliefs, it’s all curious but enjoyable Greek to me. Hope today let you make your mark. ** Okay. It’s no secret to blog readers how much I love Joy Williams. And I haven’t focused on a book of hers for a while, so I decided to put her under the spotlight again. It’s a truly wonderful book of stories if you’re so inclined. See you tomorrow.