100daysofqueerhorror - Tumblr Posts
100 DAYS OF QUEER HORROR!!!
So for the next 100 days I'm gonna write very small snippets of queer horror. Some days it may not be horror, but anything else. Beware!
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 2 - TRICKED
After I finished bottoming for him, he said, "I have to go," quickly put on his pants and disappeared into the night. I tried to contacting him later to thank him, but he'd blocked me on the site where we met. Soon after that, I found my wallet laying open on my bedroom floor, completely emptied — my cards and rent all gone. I don't remember his screen name; I never knew his real one. But now he knows mine, where I live and where to return if he ever wants more.
QUEER HORROR DAY 3 - PORTRAIT
None of us have seen Dorian for several weeks, but he keeps posting weird shit on his blog. First, it was naked pictures of his ex — a guy who until then was still friends with him. Then there were several tweets about an unnamed relative dying in a house fire, a comment about how meth gave him diarrhea and a post that read "Just lost my job because of porn." Then a week later, there was this image with red letters that just said "I have already infected 4 people with HIV." None of us can get a hold of Dorian. We're not even sure if it's really him updating his blog.
QUEER HORROR DAY 4 - PATROL
In Dallas 1971, police investigated a series assaults by an unknown person know only as "The Pink Panther." From summer to fall of that year, the Panther broke the arm of a single mother walking home from work, fractured the eye socket and jaw of a drunk man on lower Greenville (he lost his eye) and broke into the home of a straight couple and forced them at gunpoint to insert household objects into each other and then pour bleach on one another. Investigators realized that the Panther was re-creating gay bashings scenarios that had occurred around Dallas the previous summer, but by 1972 the Panther disappeared. The Dallas Morning News buried stories of the Panther's attacks, supposedly to keep other gays from committing copycat crimes. But some local gays considered the Panther a hero and told gruesome stories of other straights having their teeth bashed out and their hair set on fire. A lot of people also believed the Panther was a woman.
Scare yourself with 100 Days of Queer Horror — only at thehispanicpanic.tumblr.com
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 6 - SUCCESS
As Percy rose from the toilet, several piss droplets moistened the front of his briefs — bright yellow spots reminding him that he hadn't drunk enough water yet. He frowned.
He tucked his pinstripe Oxford shift into his Saxxon Club pleated slacks, tightly fastened his Leroy Cebleaux belt and admired the polished nickel buckle in the mirror . Looking up, he noticed how the bags under his eyes accentuated his crow's feet and the grey wisps receding from his forehead.
"You're old," he told himself, "and powerless." He sighed. "Your days are numbered... everybody knows."
Later that night, he came home to find his Chiba Inu cowering in the corner. Alarmed, he strode directly to his bedroom and found one of his AC Cloverley shoes chewed to pieces next to an open closet door. "RIKKO!!!" he screamed, rushing towards his dog.
Seizing her by the scruff of her neck, he smashed her whimpering face into the torn leather scraps of his destroyed shoe upon the cold marble floor, undid his belt and began whipping her with the polished nickel buckle until she stopped moving — the sound of his own labored breath lulling him into a strange calm.
QUEER HORROR DAY 7 - GHOST
The ghost of her lover permeated the apartment — she could smell her in the shower, feel her empty spot in bed, hear the tinkling of her fork every time she ate alone. At times she caught a whiff of cigarette smoke in the garage, the scent of nagchampa in the living room even though she owned neither. She stared at the blank television as the sun slowly set against the cardboard boxes. It had been two months. They'd never found a body. The television, the radio, the icy window panes called to her, "Come... come here, lover... come be with me please."
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."
QUEER HORROR DAY 9 - TORRO
His dagger-shaped dick dripped hissing poisons, his jet black body made darker with black striped flames licking his legs, his round cavernous ass (a dank growling scent from within). Even in the dark, his brown eyes burn you, his jaguar muscles, a burning cross. Claws, fangs, talons, pounce!
Oh sweet victim! Sad plaything, you rape-toy seized by the neck, he sinks his teeth and thrashes about, the killer! Terrible passions! Paws pin his prey, crushing breath, THEN the meat rips upward in his bloody maul. Hot gouts spurting, the moonlit wound. The taste of moaning whispers, weakened pleading.
How he loves — as the bull did Europa.
(image via)
QUEER HORROR DAY 10 - LIPS
As the plastic surgeon unwrapped the bandages tightly wound around Melissa's head, we all noticed the curly hairs poking out from between the slats of gauze. The hairless misshapen mound of her new forehead descended into two fleshy folds where her button nose used to be. And in place of her usually pouting lips, there merely glowed an unhealthy pink hole that turned darker red as it receded into her face.
Her girlfriend — the so called "human artist" — had mutilated my best friend's beautiful face into a vagina; as she promised, "Something I will always love to kiss."
It was then that we heard the pained moaning coming from under the sheets, quivering slightly between Melissa's legs.
(image via)
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 13 - RIALTO
There is an old (now defunct) theatre in Ohio, called The Rialto, it has one of those old marquee signs out front. It got built on top of an old burned down tenement — the landlord did it for money. He got the chair for killing 81 people in the process too.
Even before the fire, the tenement was a cesspool of drugs, illness, suicide, and shitty plumbing. Soon after they cleared the ashes, they erected the theater on the same ground.
Theatre patrons regularly reported a man playing with himself in the back row during matinees, but no ushers ever caught sight of him. The area around seat E on row 7 remained inexplicably cold and wet (no matter what), leaving management no choice but section it off permanently. On more than one occasion, women reported seeing a young girl passed out on the lady’s room floor — her skirt over her head — or a person hanging from the rafters in the balcony's flickering dark.
Today you can still hear noises from inside the theater, sounds of a movie even though it’s been empty for over 15 years. I'd reveal its location, but I’d hate for another fool to try and explore it again, only to end up missing.
QUEER HORROR DAY 14 - CAT
The day his grey cat Aesop went missing, he’d left no open windows or doors unlocked. The cat wasn’t hiding in the hamper, behind the couch, in the study cabinet or any of his other usual hiding places.
He left Aesop’s food out until it went wormy; then he threw it out. He always kept Aesop’s bowl out where it had always been in the kitchen… polished and waiting.
One morning, over a year later, he woke up to find a large pool of blood splashed in his living room corner — tufts of grey soaking in the red. The front door had been unlocked.
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 16 - MIRROR
I’ve replaced my mattress with a mirror. I wake up to myself. Make love to myself: smudges, saliva and pecker-tracks on the glass. I am cold, flat and smooth to my own touch. I shatter my face, crack my body and cut my own hands.
I’ve installed mirrors throughout my apartment. First the windows so I can always see inside by looking outside, then the walls and floors so that my world is much bigger than just me. Now I can finally see myself as others see me — imperfections and beauty from all angles. I am getting taller, grayer, pudgier, more tense.
Reflected into infinity, one should know what they project in every movement and expression. One should study themselves with the exacting interest of a naturalist and actor, making note of how they dance, undress, eat and defecate. One should never go without self-sight.
Even my dreams have mirrors in them. I am never alone.
(image via)
QUEER HORROR DAY 17 - MIDNIGHT CHILD
When my pregnant lover fell into a coma, I began sleeping in his hospital room. A few weeks back he began sputtering and convulsing. Weird black squiggles (like dark veins) spread from the center of his abdomen.
“Your child is deformed,” the doctor concluded. “I want it,” I said, massaging my aching stump.
Every night at midnight, my lover speaks. He says, “Daddy, you dare? Is dark n coldie. Pwease hode me.” It’s not sleep-talking; the voice is not his. It’s a toddler’s, gurgling in fluid.
The black veins extend every day. “Daddy dying. Pwease halp.” I cry against the cold stomach whispering, “I promise I promise I promise,” as I fall asleep.
My lover has been brain dead for a few days now. His bedsores stink. I beg the doctor to cut our child from the womb. “It won’t survive,” she replies. Not he or she. It.
The sonogram display a writhing, squirming mass eating away at Ken’s innards — a wormy tangle, a pulsating brain. Please save me. It’s all we have.
“Daddy, I hungee I hungee I hungee,” he says. I rub my wrist against Ken’s blackened belly. “I cannot wait. I will hold you. I will feed you all that's left of me.”
QUEER HORROR DAY 18 - CREEK
After a fight with her partner, Sarah took a walk along Turtle Creek to calm her nerves. After a twenty minute stroll, she noticed a tall heron standing among the exposed tree roots of the crumbling embankment across the water. She had lived in Dallas her entire life and never noticed how beautifully the stream trickled down the moss-slickened rocks near the road, how hypnotically the waters glistened, reflecting the orange street lights above. A family of ducks sat quietly in the still waters, their metallic green plumage shimmering in the dark. Two turtles observed kept watch like two black rocks on a wet log — the scent of some delicious flower wafted on the gentle summer air.
That night Sarah told her girlfriend Gina, "You have to see this beautiful place I found not too far from our house!" And she excitedly took Gina there the next morning.
That morning, the creek smelled of mildew. A dead whiteness blanched all the trees and grass along the embankment and the heron Sarah had seen was little more than the torn scraps of a plastic shopping bag caught upon a reed emerging from the water. The small trickling moss-covered rocks were just a sludge-slicked concrete incline orange from some highway grossness. The ducks were bobbing soda cans. The turtles, just rocks.
"Why did you even bring me here, Sarah? Why do you always waste our time?"
100 DAYS OF QUEER HORROR 19 - ZOO
When you work at a zoo, you kill more things than you keep alive.
I entered the rat room: shelves with rat-filled wire cages containing a hundred rats each from floor to ceiling. The room stank of piss and death. Thousands screeching, clawing and gnawing each other's guts out. I put on a welding glove and shoved my arm into the cage, feeling their dull bites and scratches as I'd grabbed one or two rats by the tail.
I bashed them against the floor with a crunch and a squeak, then take them to the reticulated python — a 22-foot long, 200-pound serpent as wide as a basketball hoop. The snake needed the rats while they were still warm. We would've fed it live rats, but the rats might have bitten or scratched it, so...
Eventually, it started taking 11 rats to feed the beast, so we started feeding him pigs about the size of basset hounds instead.
We put a live one in the tank; the python ignored it. So we put two pigs inside of a non-operating freezer and let them suffocate to death. It took a couple hours. Then we put them in the tank. Still... nothing.
Finally, skinned the rats, dropped their skinless bleeding bodies into a crushing machine for the slurry we used to feed the crocs, and draped the skins over the pig corpses.
With its forked tongue, the serpent smelled his familiar meal and slithered over, swallowing it whole.
This is what the children never see.