Playing Touch Me on the Funeral Organ – Gwen Hilton

May 14, 2025

I was presented with the opportunity to have my attacker killed. Taken care of, dealt with, humbled. I assume killed. I assume killed because a three man team beating down an alcoholic with an Adderall abuse issue and a penchant for psychedelics is easier to kill than one expects. Livers explode. Bile is vomited until it mixes inside with blood. Blood is vomited. 
        It wouldn’t be hard to have him killed. He has a habit of disappearing from the bar lured by strange men in strange cars with strange things in their slim Levi’s. His girlfriend of ten years can’t know what I know. He pushed his fingers into my chest, into my breasts, after I accidentally started to call him daddy last July. 
        People justified the fingers. People justify a lot of things because of who I am. People justify it because of the size of my breasts. People justify it because of my being. 
        After he attacked his colleague in front of my lover, the same place he attacked me, my lover comforted her and defended his drunken antics. There are heavy drinkers that aren’t rapists. There are heavy drinkers that can admit their dick doesn’t work. Well, that’s why the Adderall, the blow, the four AM bar, testing the strength of the relationship anchored by a hoe. Grass is greener pussy killed many men. 
        When I explained to my “mentor” that I had the opportunity to have my attacker killed he asked what I was going to do. I am writing this so I don’t have my attacker killed. I once dreamed of having a man that admired Jonathan Pollard killed. He would touch me. He would talk about my young penis and how I need to use it to fuck as many women as I can. He made the mistake of marrying his wife because she was grieving. He would change my wallpaper to bears with large members in small thongs. He was my employer. I made diagrams and drawings. In Mexico his wife was raped in front of her children. And he was where? Did she scream louder than she did at me over the VPNs? Probably not. Rape gets quiet. I stopped the drawings. He rescinded his law license. He cited his love of Jonathan Pollard on LinkedIn. 
        I was vague when I told my “mentor” how I could have it done, because I love the person who can do it for me. He asked that I never phone him in. I said I would never. He said thank you. This is a man who could have me arrested for the conversation, the conversation that you can hear through the walls. 
        My attacker would talk about his large penis from a faith, no, a genetic people, no, fighting for a homeland that riots for the right to rape hostages. When he started screaming about mine, that of a woman’s, that which he’s never seen, talking about my sex with his colleague, it could only be one thing. 
        She laughed. 
        Have you read The Sun Also Rises? My attacker told me to. What needs doing, I just can’t do. 
        Pope Francis imagines Hell as a place that exists and is empty. When I stood at the highest point in Vatican City I was sworn at by French tourists. I imagine graveyards with clear identification of bodies I can piss over. 
        When my attacker called me a sissy I felt a profound loss. I had wasted so much time looking for my father as he was dying in the hospital that I didn’t realize he was all around me. 
        When I reached out after the event to say what had happened, what people now agree has happened, what people now use specific legal language to describe, I was rejected. I was rejected by the woman who defended the attacker after his last attack. So I started to tell other people. Several people asked me if I wanted him hurt. I’d describe what happened and they all said they felt bad for me. They said they couldn’t believe my friends stood there. They’re his friends. When I said I didn’t want him hurt for my own conscience they asked me if I was sure. The offer is on the table. The offer is on the table. Sometimes I have intrusive thoughts about how easy it would be for me to get a gun. There are a lot of people who want me to have a gun for my safety. There are a lot of people who want me to have a gun for free. 
        My lover laughed at me when we were alone. I was overreacting. My dead boyfriend was born on Valentine’s Day. We saw Fired Up on his birthday. We got chased by townie bumpkin thugs. After I said happy Valentine’s Day at the bar my attacker tore into me. It is about crushing my love. It is about making my sex no longer private. It is about worming inside of me. It is about forcing yourself inside of me, because you, like all the others, think it never really happened. I’m the one you can rape. My history of violence leads people to ask why didn’t you do anything? Because you want me in jail for killing someone you think should’ve attacked me. Wars are not won in single decisive moves. 
        No one will touch me. No one wants to touch me. People look, gawk, stare, obsess, observe, document, photograph, ogle, lock their necks and jaw as they try to see out of the corner of their eye, crash cars, crash bikes, hit signs, make images out of Memoirs of a Geisha, they joke, mimic, mime, clown, laugh, imitate, flatter, humiliate, but they will not touch me. Touching me creates an even ground. Touching me outside gives them social leprosy. Touching me allows me to reach for my KA-BAR. The last man that I don’t know well that touched me hugged me from behind. When he hugged me from behind it was something my lover didn’t do. Hugs were hard to come by no matter what. When I exclaimed that men don’t just hug anyone from behind, that it’s gay, that it isn’t, because it’s me, because I’m a woman, because I’m not-woman, because I’m not anything, because I cannot be, because being is mediated socially, because all things are mediated socially. He hugged me from behind and it scared me because it is something I want and something I didn’t want from him. It is something that only happens when people are drunk. It is something that doesn’t lead to someone asking me on a date, or trying to see me in the sunlight, or wanting to be friends with me for years. Sometimes it leads to someone asking for a photo. The photo gets them a lot of things. You get a lot of things if I even acknowledge you, especially with a possible positive spin. You get a lot of things so you take them from me. When I left Megalopolis I went to a bar. There was a man there with his friend. I was with two friends. The man started looking at me. He was blonde. He had a thick mustache. I could never grow a mustache like that because of the scars on my upper lip. He had only a mustache. He was thin. He was wearing a sweater from a Catholic university. He could not stop looking at me. He started talking to me about Paul Schrader, a name nestled above my peeking nipple in the soft cream colored shirt. His friend got disgusted. He kept talking to me while staring at my tits. He was nice. He was direct. He made me feel like a person. He made me feel okay about the staring. He made me feel okay about my tits. My tits are one of the only parts of my body that I get compliments on. I think they’re kinda bad. Lara Croft triangles that are beginning to sag and point outward on my stout frame. Every woman thinks every other woman’s tits are perfect except hers. Maybe a chode hammerhead shark. I get compliments on my eyes when I’m crying. My eyes look especially beautiful when I am crying. I know this is true. It hurts. The man at the bar told me he’d watch every Paul Schrader movie when I told him he should. He told his friend that he could have someone who he could bring around the boys. Someone who could actually laugh. We all know how Steve is not everyone’s cup of tea. The other man became sick. He stopped drinking his beer. The flirter went deeper. Oral sex came up. He kept looking at me. How disgusting. I liked it. I felt good. I wondered if maybe a man would want to love me. I wondered if a man would punch the person grabbing me. He was not too much taller than me. He would not be the one. He could be a sign of a one. These things don’t happen. I won’t be approached again. For him I was a one night circus act. My lover stood there. Isn’t it funny that guy did that? He just kept smiling. I want someone who stares at me to approach me and tell me why they are. I want them to know the heart of it. I want them to speak honestly. Even if they could, I would not be able to receive it. This is the dilemma. If they could, would I hear? Do they now? I’m afraid I’m going to get killed for my sex. In a way the attempts on my life were already about my sex. I used to get sexually abused about my sex before I was having sex about if I was having sex, I guess just to confirm that I was now having sex, which I need to be abused sexually for having. People get really nervous when I talk about the way my mom used to do small dick humiliation to me and how she would talk about my child penis as it was developing and how I got my HPV shots because you can’t give cancer to a woman you can’t even make cum. How horrible of a man you will be. I get nervous I’m going to get killed for my sex. And like to be honest I haven’t been the happiest in some ways and I really should be, but like if I’m gonna die for this I think I can be a little unhappy about the harassment and the violence and the literal rape and how like actually yeah my sex is kinda fucked up and you are winning and that’s okay for you I get it like I know I just have to deal and yeah honestly I would like to have a better more attentive sex. I got in trouble for the dream about the redhead. The same tics, always to be repeated, I’ve talked about my mom and now I can talk about fucking finally. My way. My “mentor” asked me if I know who the redhead is. I don’t know her. I can’t see her, but I can feel it in my gut. She has red hair. She is in a red dress. This could just be a riff on the Matrix, right? Let’s calm down. She is holding my hand. She is rubbing my back. We are in public. She kisses my cheek. Do you know that song, “History of Touches?” We are at a brown table. The wall is brown. The images are still. I recently started having nightmares again. Visions of people dying. Me killing people. People killing me. People in my home. People I can’t save. So many people I’ll never save. Not saving myself. Dying to get ahead of it. Dying because I’m afraid of the future. Francis Bacon apocalypse works. I thought dreaming was something that stopped when you became fulfilled. It is an Adlerian idea. The person with a strong Gemeinschaftsgefühl does not dream. Then I had the dream about the redhead. She held me how I wanted to be held. It wasn’t a sex dream. Not really. I woke up when the sex started. Maybe my cat woke me up. She held me how I wanted to be held without me asking. She wanted me. I am sure there are a lot of people that want me. Some have written works about me. Wait. This is fiction. You’re listening to the Streets. Original Pirate Material. Some may one day write works about me. If someone wants to fuck me I want them to say it to my face. If they want me I want them to say how. The not knowing is hard. I am too stupid. Or maybe it is a tease, a game, something conquered. If I am going to die for my sex I’d like to know just how bad someone wanted to fuck me even if they never will. I think I am relegated to shadows because of how people want to fuck me. Me. Just me. Me like you can see. You know the one. People say those things after you die. I won’t be able to attend my own funeral. I want to be held in a way that soothes the muscles all the way, for a night. For a lifetime. I want it just once. I would like it without asking. Do you remember that part in Fight Club, the movie, where the woman with cancer just wants to be fucked right one more time? Hahahahhahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. Man. The people who want to rape me don’t give me my public verbal lashings. The people who give me my public verbal lashings and call my being to the entire bar’s attention, clearing the bar, want to go home and google sissy after they’ve called me it. Where are the people who want me? Do they exist? Maybe I’ll just die for something I did for myself. If I fight back I’ll die. They’ll kill me slowly. No one has it in them to kill me now. Why can’t you kill me? Will it always be this until it isn’t? Then it will be funny I got what I begged for. Then it will be funny. I want that scene from Body Heat to happen to me. There’s a lot I’ll have to die without knowing. I try to accept that every day. It’s dumb to need to know if I’m wanted, before anything else, as if wanting is anything, as if want carries the weight of the word I’m not finding, wanted in a carnal way, wanted in an immediate way, wanted at all. I know there is someone that knows a raw lust doesn’t have to start at touching and end at the orgasm. There’s a lot more that makes going to the grave easier, but if it’s what I’m going to die for I’d like to know in a pure sense, a few times. A few times. Maybe several. More than ten at least. Really honest and pure. Knowing is one thing. To have?