THE STORY OF A SAFE-HOUSE.  Screenplay created by Male Survivors of Sexual Violence.

 

An Ordinary Son

 

EXT: Now, we see the sky. Black clouds rolling by ominously.

 

An Ordinary Son

 

I am on the beach wearing a speedo. You can see my scars.

 

People look.

It is an ancient grief of dark gods and all their ashes. That love never in the tongues of sorrows is a malcontent.

I stand up on the sand and motion for the boys to come to me. They laugh why are they laughing as if tricks among the travelers because half part of corpses, everyone they know is dead. But me. By what necessity I am bringing to this table. It will be the beginning of us against the them. That is what I teach. Proudly on our backs in blackened hues. My houses are the death of kings. Sudden storms are just the sea. This is The Life and it has no parent, no forgiveness, no even break, no remembrance, no commonwealth of suck there is only banishment.

My job is to keep the dazzle in their eyes, not make them eat the barren earth, there is a whole other world out there where the fight for survival is such scorch in December’s snow, we beg cold comfort of mortality.

You do not know them. You cannot know anything about them. You cannot know what they confront.

I bring them back to the motel room. We are repelled. Open the windows, the sliding glass door. It is raining hard.

I dream I’m back in Europe.

You hear rain. I hear it on the Georgian roof. The copper holds. Having turned green two hundred years ago. Paris again. The best sex in Paris was on that roof rain or no rain. I could not really afford to live there but WTF.

INT: Long slow pan around a motel room where socks and shoes and sleeping bags and and towels are everywhere. We see a parking lot.

The two youngest boys go outside on the balcony and run around trying to drink the rain.

The motel room reeks. Something is dead.

Now he cries when he has to pee. It is with a gnarling sorrow his own life comes back not to but at him. It’s all a betrayal. Twenty shadows of betrayal. Blotted out by parts. A reckoning.

Anyone who would expose a child to such a dance with pain and death, should be put out of their misery.

I am death’s it has now come to this.

The above photo was taken in a hospital that had once been a hotel. Mainly, for prostitutes. Now, they care for a lot of sex workers. I am still wondering what the bridge is from hotel to hospital.

My own Them always at the gates. The little whore you swallowed and his fuck stores more misery inside his inner walls than anyone can imagine as unequipped to deal headlong into the mix of sex and disease and abuse as it comes for him chained to the walls of any room. Those clouds where desire is oblivion.

You can’t sell sick children.

This is not unlike the drug dealer who understands that he should not sample product if he wants to stay in the business longer than a week.

I don’t know of a single drug dealer who could do it.

Everyone samples product. A one week’s attribute if for addiction gives and learns.

Boys dirty laundry can always be burned. But the smell in the room was god awful. Emilio, the oldest boy, had anal gonorrhea. Green pus was coming out of his ass, and he was doubled over in pain.

We see in a long pan of the motel room a boy in bed.

Fortunately, antibiotics were not hard to get. But we couldn’t move him for at least two days.

Painkillers helped as well. I had to put my pharmacy rogue hat on again, and figure it all out for someone under fifty pounds.

Finally, he slept.

Es Emilio enfermo. Él apesta malo.

Sí.

We took turns being with him. And then we took turns being with the three younger boys. Taking them outside to the beach and running them. Salvation with the dogs.

The brother who is one year younger than the oldest boy in bed had connected to Tal, was never out of Tal’s sight, and the kid sucks his thumb. Augustin is six.

Tal, the great protector. Deep in secrets, what he teaches of The Life is courage as an exhalation. It is not special, and either are we. It is not a single appetite in the Normal’s gravity or heaviness, not freezing a long farewell, but a charge sparked by mobility that is not yet either hope or its counterpart, corruption.

A hand to hold or a leg to hide behind.

It hit me that I was going to have to get them 1.) Vaccinations. 2.) Tested for Syphilis, HIV, and TB.

Get them into care whatever care is. A gentle peace, it always aims and falls.

Beyond my depths. I assume they have HIV.

Most of their keepers will assume the opposite. But this rough magic will assume the worst in the dull, cold marble of disbelief. A disbelief more ignorance than it stands no doubt, delight. You are thinking without thinking that a whore’s perpetual drama is where we stand in silk, but, no, you indifferent bitch, this black costume is protection. When that is done, black as a hundred scores in drops of light crystal meth is thunder heard and mazes lost and a labyrinthine’s labored love of veins and hell breaks loose in fragments.

 

 

Magical reality comes with ruin, the ashes of sanctuary, and the immersion of Tellus, the mother of the Titans. The dazzle in their eyes is but bewitched.

Fuck me. Just fuck me. Just bend me over and fuck me.

We see a door to a bedroom being closed. And behind it we hear the murmuring streams of birth from which children impregnated with ingratitude simulate love and few have seen it. They learn how not to cry. The ripping of them is beyoind the mark. The wretched have no friends and I would meet them all with a kitchen of my knives.

Isn’t that how we all got this other sorrow for all the world released into our holes, our bowels; and isn’t that the bottom line. The salt the sea rages with. The mask burned upon the face of the ordinary supplicant. All the little fathers are who are rounded with the sleep of sleeps. The ones who got away to sink entire navies leaving us as if life were but an instrument of goodbye and rims its own hole with tyranny and despair. Just bend me over with your sons undone, and ordinarily I would beg you to hurry up and cum. What I sell you are my scars and eating time and my own despair is but a minister.

CONTINUED AT: PART ELEVEN