I’m currently working on a feature for them where I’m interviewing homeowners who have “unique” living spaces. I’m interviewing a guy whose house looks like a boat, a woman who converted an old water tower into a multi-million dollar home, etc.
I also interviewed a man I can only refer to (in this post, at least) as Mr. X.
Mr. X is an eighty-something artist whose front lawn is littered with art and sculptures and other bizarreness. He invited me into his home today for the interview.
I will never be the same again.
Unfortunately, I won’t be able to get the following story (the real story) published in “MKE,” so I’ll just have to settle for writing about the experience here.
What will inevitably run in print will be fluffy bullshit that I’ll have to lie my way through. The following, however, is the truth.
Enjoy my misery,
THE STORY I WANTED TO WRITE
By Justin Shady
Mr. X is quite the enigma, one might even say he’s hard to describe. Still, I’ll try. Imagine a ninety-year-old Santa Claus who lives in filth and is constantly looking to finger every butthole within a three-foot radius. That is Mr. X.
We talked about art and his house while I stared at the stains on his pants and shirt. Amazingly, he was wearing a fish-shaped necktie, but why would I notice that BEFORE the cum stains on his crotch?
Squirrels live in his beard.
There were gnats or flies or some fucking alien bugs flying around his dark, scary apartment, and there was garbage everywhere. He makes my now-dead, dumpster-diving grandfather look like a minimalist.
Want to sit down ? Don’t. The couch touched me back.
Things were gross but soon got downright creepy when I realized that he had turned OFF the news he was watching when I got there, and instead put ON a hardcore porno channel. Porno is usually something most normal people HIDE from their guests, not showcase. But Mr. X truly is the opposite of “normal.” Or “clean.”
We sat there chatting while some chick ate out another girl in a bathroom stall. Then they switched. Then a guy “accidentally” walked in and fucked them both. Then he jerked off on the tongue of one of them. All the while Mr. X was babbling about art. I, on the other hand, was screaming inside, wondering what the fuck planet I had landed on when I walked through his front door.
He probably had a boner. I think my own dick had retreated inside of my body, getting as far away from the filth pit as it could.
I started to itch. Convinced I had somehow contracted lice and/or crabs and/or fleas in the ten minutes I was there, I cut it short. He thanked me, walked me to the door, and then probably jerked off into a bowl of mashed potatoes, Barbie dolls and feces.
I ran home, literally. This is saying a lot considering the fact that I think running is something only losers do. I ran through the front door. My roommate asked me how it was.
“I’ll tell you later!” I screamed as I ran downstairs, tearing my clothes off along the way. I threw them directly into the washing machine, filled it with hot water and added more soap than I probably should have for just a shirt, jeans, boxers and two socks.
I jumped in the shower.
I now have an idea of what it feels like to get raped, where no amount of washing can ever make you feel truly clean. Mr. X had raped me. He raped me with his bugs and cummy pants and porno and fish tie and “unique” house.
It’s unique, alright. That’s for sure.
I wish it were possible to gargle bleach.