Excerpt from Part XIV of Pain: A Memoir – Sean C

November 5, 2024

From Venus’ perspective, Sean was ripe,
Delectable, the prime and total type
Of poor dejected artist. How to pluck
And how to best enjoy it was her luck
To have as her next challenge. Surely, soon
Delight would reach its fullest, like the moon

Which Sean could see against the violet sky.
But if a god can never truly die
Then can she climax? Can she erm complete?
How long can Venus laugh and shoot Sean’s feet?
The moon, fading with day, is like this query:
Eternally returning, temporary. 

As Sean enters the school, it’s Corey’s face
That greets him, though not formally. Their fates,
Though sundered by themselves, would cross again.
But presently they merely passed on when 
They chanced to pass, for they were young and awkward,
The star-crossed nothings with their feelings stoppered. 

Corey’s fish-like face, that turned to Sean
With no change in expression, vague and drawn,
Then turned away, aquatic as before,
Enraged young Sean and made him desire war.
The stupid creature seeking food and safety,
And Sean who sought another world innately.

What had they in common but a past? 
They certainly were not of common caste,
For Sean was now below the lowest rung
And Corey’s pat rebuke of Sean had flung
Him to the second rung at least, because
People wanted to know what Sean’s deal was.

And there was much about Sean that he knew
From years of small talk the two struggled through.
Sean had decided long ago: with Corey
There was no need to lie or pad a story.
Telling him all his secrets seemed then harmless.
Corey was socially powerless and gormless.

So Corey spilled: “At five, Sean and a friend
Touched penises lightly, end to end.
Their parents caught them in the act, but surely
This is why Sean is now so gay and girly.”
Corey’d become a scientist of Sean.
The pretty girls he talked to pressed him on:

“Tell us about the time he tried to kiss you!”
It wasn’t true, but this was not an issue.
“It was the dead of Winter, 2010.
I had suspected his attraction to men.
When Lady Gaga came on at the dance,
He knew like half the words to ‘Bad Romance’.

“A sleep-over at Danny’s was his moment.
It’s common knowledge stimulants can foment
Uncouth desire, and much caffeine we drank
Rewatching YouTube poops. At 2, I sank
Into the warm and welcoming basement couch
And drifted off. Shane, Rolf, and Danny vouch

“They heard this happen: at half past 2, I awoke
To something like a choke, or a creak, or a croak
Behind the couch. I lay awake, unmoving,
As o’er the tall back cushion, hungry, brooding,
Sean’s shadowed head emerged. His eyes…
Bestial, with no spark, no human guise.

“Frozen, I watched their lost and lusty glaze
Descending towards my own disgusted face.
‘Twas luck he thought I slept. ‘In Jesus’ name!
Back I say!’ I screamed. ‘Have you no shame?
Nocturnal sprites unman thee, fill thy mind
With fantasies for which we’re not designed!’

“‘Urggh,’ he groaned, and with his drooling lips
Did lunge in still for an unwanted kiss.
I rolled, a tactic he did not expect.
His head’s momentum caused him to infect
The pillow, where some hair of mine remained.
I weep that even that much was profaned.

“I crawled into the bathtub, locked the door,
And from 2:33 to almost 4:00,
I heard him wailing, ‘Corey, Corey, Corey.'”
And that concluded Corey’s made-up story.
The girls hung silent, wide-eyed. Corey smirked
And made a mental note: that ending worked.

That harmless, gormless, fish-like, nothing athlete
Had made his move, become more than a repeat
Of every other athlete. He had now
A claim to fame and cultural cash cow
In Sean. Such leapfrog—how else to advance
In life’s brutal and very modern dance? 

But Corey’s cruelty was identical
To every other cruelty in the world:
It satisfied a hunger partially.
Sean resolved to respond martially
And satisfy his budding lust for blood,
Cruelly carving a path back to his love.

He’d prove his straightness with a physical fight.
His manly virtues having come to light,
He’d ask Jane for her hand, and she’d accept,
Intractable desire having crept
Up on her, like a panther on a doe,
Observing Sean best Corey blow by blow.

Though never friends, or friendly, or much more
Than comrades in the neverending war
On being lonely, there was history there
That made it hard for Sean to totally tear
The old chap limb from limb. But fine, he’d quit
After at least one really solid hit. 

The plan concatenating in his heart,
To clear his name with the unsubtle art
Of punching, as opposed to writing songs,
Sean counted on his fingers Corey’s wrongs:
1. Being boring, 2. Slander, 3.
Social leapfrogging, 4. Disloyalty