QUEER HORROR DAY 1 - HEAVEN HOUSE

QUEER HORROR DAY 1 - HEAVEN HOUSE

An ex-gay therapist's room: queer kids strapped down, being electrocuted and made to vomit while viewing innocuous pictures of men and women. An Bishop's boudoir: old priests and nuns getting ready to gang-bang a black kid. A Westboro Baptist funeral:  the "God Hates Fags" family smiles around the open coffin of a queer kid — her face horribly bashed in. An exorcism room: conservative shirt-and-tie folks holding down a scared kid as a preacher approaches him with hot iron cross and a water bucket — funnel and hose attached. In the last room, a bunch of queers with colored hair tell you, "There is a way out! You don't have to go to heaven, you know. Would you like to be saved?"

QUEER HORROR DAY 11 - CHEMICALS

Freshly smelling of bath salts from the shower, John sprayed on his  cologne and took a sip of Moonlight before dragging on his cancer stick. In the kitchen he ironed. He stopped buttoning his shirt in the mirror, took a quick bump off of his car key, gel-styled his hair and drove into the acrid  night.

At the neon bar, he toked with a twink, tasted his cherry lip balm, pulled him closer and said, "I wanna inject you. Like a smoke... like a poison."

They went home. Dropped a tab. Did a bump. Smoked T. Sweated into each other, lipsandhandsblurring a wet humping mess. They woke up a deformed indistinguishable mass — faces connected at the cheek, hair  down the middle, an arm out the other's back, four legs intersecting like two melted plastic fetuses.

QUEER HORROR DAY 5 - MEMBER

Regina woke up one morning with a penis. She didn't want it, it just appeared — hairy, long and just a bit too large for her panties. She told her girlfriend who thought it was some kind of joke, and went to the doctor but she could provide no explanation. She thought about removing it but worried that it might grow back or that it would somehow ruin her chances of ever getting her vagina back. Later that month, she started sprouting chest and facial hair; she felt like her boobs and hips were shrinking and that her arms and legs were getting more muscular. For a woman who had always liked her curvy figure, she was mortified. She began wearing frumpy sweatsuits and large overcoats when she went outdoors.

Then, leaving her apartment one day, she noticed that her skinny artistic neighbor downstairs seemed to have sprouted a pair of small breasts (not pectoral muscles, but round, pronounced breasts). "Does he have my vagina" she wondered, but could not bring herself to ask. 

QUEER HORROR DAY 15 - THE DREAMER

"This is Buster. He's made of stainless surgical steel with Huma-like chip designed to monitor breathing and heart rate, body temperature, facial reactions, non-verbal  cues and pain thresholds within a millisecond and ten-foot range. His mouth can apply 45 pounds of square pressure per inch and his fingers and tongue are both extendable to about a foot and a half. His hydraulic joints and platinum endoskeleton have withstood pressure and resistance from even the strongest child. Plus, he has a knack for  corporeal punishment without external bruising or fractures .

"For twenty minutes each day your child will be left naked in Buster's cell alone. We have found that after three months of sustained humanoid therapy, your child will have an adverse reaction from being touched by a member of the same-sex. They will recoil and even possibly become physically violent at the implication of intimate touching, though we use transference therapy and the medication Rehabidril to help mediate those effects so they can remain functional in society and even raise a child, if you like.

"Many of our graduates have gone on to head corporations, play professional sports and marry very beautiful women. So we encourage parents to watch their children's first interaction with Buster to help quell any reservations. I think that after witnessing one brief 10 minute session, you will be quite pleased. Are you ready to begin?"

"Yes."

QUEER HORROR DAY 8 - BROKEN

Glittering before us, miles of trash crushed into a rolling plain — a mosaic of crushed multicolor sequins; rhinestone fragments; stray curls from auburn, grey, and blonde wigs; the shiny wrappers of candy bars and contraceptives; pinstriped, pleated scraps; broken watch faces; cocktail-colored spectacles; melted credit cards — all pressed into the landscape's, smooth contour.

My guide gestured across the shimmering plain of compressed junk and pointed to a massive horn several miles away, tapered and curved to its point. Tied to its peak was a humongous balloon made of wet magazine covers, torn glamour shots and rejected scripts.

She said, "This is where the broken people go."