Want To Hear It?

The Gonzo Journals

January 17th, 2023

I slept in my own bed last night. I know, this isn’t a noteworthy accomplishment for most people, but the wife and I just spent the weekend a few hundred miles away from home in a house full of strangers. Well, strangers to me, not to her. She went to college with these people over a decade ago so…strangers for her as well. Everyone seems to re-invent themselves once per decade. At least I do.

It was a giant house on a hill above the Arkansas River and registered with an Air B&B knock off. A couple we know were getting married and this was the plan to save everyone hotel costs. I never got around to counting the number of bedrooms, but it was way more than what I’ve ever been accustomed to. There was even a basement full of beds. The Real World – Little Rock? Dear god, the horror of such a show!

The wedding venue was a MASSIVE Masonic temple. Imagine a redneck Grand Central Station without the coolness of trains. At one point, me and several of the groomsmen sneaked away to explore the ancient structure. This was a Scooby Doo episode come to life in many ways.

Eventually, dark hallways led to secret passages and then dark chambers. Within these rooms were seats on balconies meant for judging eyes and decision makers. To add to the eeriness, we found stout, wooden chairs complete with leg shackles and swords. I don’t know much about the Masons really, and there’s a good reason for that. They don’t let you see things like this unless you’re one of them. Agreeing that these crusty old fucks would more than likely send a group of ninjas to the house and murder us in our sleep, we promptly returned to the reception.

Did I take photographs? Are you kidding? Why would I want to be carrying proof of my wrong doings around in my pocket? Also, if the ninjas did show up, I would be putting you all in danger as well by sharing pics. I’m doing all of you a favor as well as saving my own ass. You’re welcome. No need to photograph anything. My memory will never delete the shit I saw with my own eyes.

Upon returning to the main reception hall, I was introduced to a young lady who was accompanying one of the house guests. The guy (Whose name slips my mind. I met a lot of people all at once and I’m horrible with names. Horray for Autism!) introduced me to her as ‘the author’ and a wave of happiness washed over her face. It’s almost as though she was facially constipated and her mouth’s chance to shit for the evening finally arrived. I recognized this look all too well.

Here it came.

“Oh my god! You’re an author? I swear my life is so crazy that it should be a book or maybe even a movie. I’m actually a videographer and I’m already making the movie. I have some great book ideas, though. Want to hear them?

No.

No I don’t.

Ever.

As a matter of fact, if you’ve ever approached an author with a similar phrase, I’m about to disappoint you. No matter how pleased the author was to hear your story, the author didn’t want to hear it. In fact, no matter how long ago this was, the author currently hates himself for standing there long enough to hear you. Courtesy is a mother fucker in the face of strangers, especially when you’re introduced as some sort of public figure. Clearly my face was melting because I could feel it sliding down my head. Still, I never heard her story. Why?

This is the epic part.

“What do you write?”

Me: “Dark fiction, horror, splatterpunk…”

“Oh, that sounds interesting. What’s splatterpunk?”

The burning question. Most splatterpunk fans don’t even know the definition of splatterpunk, thus making splatterpunk one of the most asinine communities to be a part of. They ask for ‘disgusting’ and then bitch and point fingers when you give it to them. Not all of them, but the most vocal among them. Social media has given a voice to those who don’t deserve one, yet they never shut up. For those who are interested, here is the official definition:

Splatterpunk is a movement within horror fiction originating in the 1980s, distinguished by its graphic, often gory, depiction of violence, countercultural alignment[1] and “hyperintensive horror with no limits.”[2][3][4] The term was coined in 1986 by David J. Schow at the Twelfth World Fantasy Convention in Providence, Rhode Island. Splatterpunk is regarded as a revolt against the “traditional, meekly suggestive horror story”.[5] Splatterpunk has been defined as a “literary genre characterised by graphically described scenes of an extremely gory nature.

Horror with no limits, yet most who claim to love this genre draw lines in the bloody sand every day. Most times, they apologize the day after, only to draw another line. Then, the pattern continues, week after week, year after year. This is clearly a mental issue, not a problem with the writer.

The girl replied “Oh, that would be a really big problem for me since I find all sexual situations to be scary. I’m asexual.

Wait. What?

This person forced themself upon me in a conversational sense but can’t quite seem to get their downstairs to work? Holy crap, I just diagnosed their entire problem inside of a five-minute meeting! This girl has her orifices confused!

The funny part about all of it was the look on the face of the dude who introduced her to me. I think he ultimately planned on getting laid that night. She was very physically attractive, but that fact failed to come into play the moment she threw her ‘attention getter’ into the ring. Poor guy. I bet he spent money on her too. I hope he kept the receipt!

The way this girl spoke and carried herself, you could swear she was trying to come onto you sexually, only to display the ‘asexual’ sign as the cherry on top of the conversation. Actually, I’m pretty certain there were no cherries involved. She spoke in hushed whispers a little too close to your ‘me’ bubble and slowly batted her eyes as she spoke with a sensuality only seen in animated Disney movies created by lonely animators. Translation: she was too fucking ‘over the top’ to be serious. A bad situation during youth was more than likely what caused her to not want to be sexually active to begin with. At least that’s what I’m getting from the psychological articles I’m reading. I mean, I get it. I’ve lived through some horrific sexual situations myself. I was raped by a chick once and, years down the line, a guy I knew married her. I never felt comfortable around my friend again, and I damn sure didn’t feel safe around her. Yes, I could’ve broken this chick in half with my bare hands, but psychological warfare is a beast. Maybe she just didn’t want to sleep with her date, and this was a way of softening the blow. Yeah, I just said that…

I have no problem with people being who they want to be, whether it’s ‘asexual’ or a prostitute. One side of the sexual scale to the other, it’s all about personal choice. Still, no matter what you do or don’t stick into your holiest of holies, don’t lead the conversation with those facts. I don’t remember her name because she never even told me. No, she led the conversation about her vagina. Is your life really that boring when you must introduce complete strangers to the inner workings of your crotch before you even chirp a first name?

In the end, I felt sorry for her. I love sex. I’m 49 years old and I still have it as often as possible. I know a lot of you reading this didn’t want to hear that but, no worries. You already know my first name so we’re thick as thieves!

On the bright side of things, she was so preoccupied with telling me how she’s never rolled the odometer on her panties that she forgot to tell me her book ideas.

Win/Win?

At least until the ninjas get here.

Peace…

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