Viet Ham

My litty cousin Jimmy…

He was only six or seven years old when I first helped him realize and defend his sexual pride. As a kid, he was too adorable looking, and already even had some of the physical traits that skewed him towards 12-15 year old girls to say, ‘oh him, he’s gonna be a looker’. His innocent and infectious smile partially hid a devilish smirk that made women either want to nurse, placate, or sodomize him.

I was afraid for him. It sounded too perfect. Something terrible was bound to occur, and I was determined to divert it somehow. The death-knell for his super-mechanic dad would be his only son being the gay. My mission was clear. I would terrorize him with homosexual antics to gauge his reactions, while at the same time infusing my heckling with a pedagogical reverse psychology. My pseudo-gropes teased him mercilessly, and I flamboyantly declared him part of my harem. I vowed to push him into egregious heterosexuality by corrupting the beautiful man-romance fantasy festering in the young womb of his mind.

He’s all sixteen, strapping, grown up years now, and he has delightfully reached the mental capacity to bemoan his ‘whipped’ status in solid, traditional, heterosexual relationships. There’s a certain welling up of pride in my heart each time I think of him, tearing himself up over the wretched and trivial frivolity of girl problems. I think of how fortunate it is for our family that his sexual identity had been thrown off course early on, so that its effect has thus far been minimalized. I’d like to think I had some hand in such a warm, feel-good story.

I had just stepped away from the dining room when my dad blurted what had seemingly been lodged in his throat for the past hour.

“Tom, do you remember the feeling of being inside the woman? It feels so good you remember, so okay, the feeling that you have when you become one with the woman when you are inside. Do you know?”

His face was mixture of whimsical smirk and collective nostalgia. I would not respond. I feared the floodgates that would yield to this monstrous conversation.

“Tom? You know when you are one with her, it feels sooo good, not just physical, but it is wonderful for two people to become one; it is the best feeling in the world to become one with someone, did you know that when you meditate you not only become one with one person, but you become one with all the elements of the universe.”

So there it was. That was the reason why this 50 year old man-child insists to me that all thinking was toxic for the mind, and that one should spend as much time as possible in peaceful(?) meditation. If he had only told me from the start that meditation was akin to the toe curling, vascular squeezing, torrential gushing of the gonads, I would’ve been more obliged to give it a whirl.

We were discussing the merits of reducing our biodomes bellies when Duckie imagined that a haphazardly dramatic reduction of the biodome would result in an equally unappealing “bio-bog”, an unruly collection of loose belly skin that would give our bellies the delectable firmness of rotten fruit.