Rough Trade In The Coo Coo's Nest
I kept his number on a post-it note inside my address book for three years. The lure of his deep masculine voice called to me, like an imaginary voice in my head, from the binders of my leather bound Day Runner.
He wore a blue handkerchief on his head and ran up and down the hallways of the psychiatric ward like a crazy person. He ruled the joint—his six foot two frame was covered with large muscles and he looked like he could kill a person with his bare hands.
My first encounter with him was in the hallways. My restless legs would not allow me to lay down or sit, so I wondered the hallways day and night.
He walked up to me grabbed his crotch and stated, “Damn I’m horny. I could sure use some pussy.”
I wondered why he told me that before my mind drifted again into the great abyss of nothingness.
Sex was the furthest thing from my mind—the drugs had forever taken away my desire to get it up and get off, so I ignored him.
Later that evening I walked into the lunch room. In-patients were fighting over containers of vanilla ice cream—small white Styrofoam containers with pull off paper lids hit the hunger spots of those who couldn’t get enough comfort food while on the psychiatric medications.
“There he is, the queer,” proclaimed the man with the snot rag on his head. “He likes me. He thinks I’m hot. Tell them, you think I’m hot, don’t you?” he asked me in front of those in the loony bin.
“Yes, you are ruggedly handsome,” I said as I tried to remember how to hold a fork and feed myself again.”
The lunch room grew incredibly silent. Even the sane nurses didn’t know what to expect after I confessed to being a crazy homosexual in a predominately straight psychiatric ward.
The man with the rag on his head was discharged a few days later. He never confronted me for sexual favors again, although he slipped me his telephone number on his way out of the gates of hell.
When my sex drive returned, it was he who I lusted to make love with.
But I never called him, after all, he was crazy!
He wore a blue handkerchief on his head and ran up and down the hallways of the psychiatric ward like a crazy person. He ruled the joint—his six foot two frame was covered with large muscles and he looked like he could kill a person with his bare hands.
My first encounter with him was in the hallways. My restless legs would not allow me to lay down or sit, so I wondered the hallways day and night.
He walked up to me grabbed his crotch and stated, “Damn I’m horny. I could sure use some pussy.”
I wondered why he told me that before my mind drifted again into the great abyss of nothingness.
Sex was the furthest thing from my mind—the drugs had forever taken away my desire to get it up and get off, so I ignored him.
Later that evening I walked into the lunch room. In-patients were fighting over containers of vanilla ice cream—small white Styrofoam containers with pull off paper lids hit the hunger spots of those who couldn’t get enough comfort food while on the psychiatric medications.
“There he is, the queer,” proclaimed the man with the snot rag on his head. “He likes me. He thinks I’m hot. Tell them, you think I’m hot, don’t you?” he asked me in front of those in the loony bin.
“Yes, you are ruggedly handsome,” I said as I tried to remember how to hold a fork and feed myself again.”
The lunch room grew incredibly silent. Even the sane nurses didn’t know what to expect after I confessed to being a crazy homosexual in a predominately straight psychiatric ward.
The man with the rag on his head was discharged a few days later. He never confronted me for sexual favors again, although he slipped me his telephone number on his way out of the gates of hell.
When my sex drive returned, it was he who I lusted to make love with.
But I never called him, after all, he was crazy!
posted by Charles George Taylor at
11:40 AM
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