Extract from Peter Sotos, ‘Special’:
I know that a gay gentleman was found about a block or so from his home, passed out and near death, covered head to toe in blood that drenched and seeped through his clothes into his frozen skin. The man had been beaten in his home and had to make his way outside to find some help. He was cruelly attacked by, what police figure was, a group of more than three men.
The gentleman still exists. Still talks and walks and smiles and laughs. The 126 stitches in his head are, however, virtually unknown to him. Such is the nature of AIDS dementia. Currently at his lowest ebb, near death with rare and brief stabs at lucidity, the man either refuses to acknowledge the attack or simply to discuss it.
Police are most curious about the extensive damage done to the man’s feet which, they surmise, would suggest a certain closeness between victim and attacker. His feet- heels to toes- were chewed and bitten through. By more than one mouth. His entire fag body showed bite marks- neck to thighs- but his feet mutilation was fresh and especially vicious.
Meaning, maybe, that he liked it.
And that it went too far. And, maybe still, when he objected- or maybe not- the abusers reacted by smashing his skull again and again into a faucet- maybe- until he shut up. Screaming to stop. Liking it to begin with. Asking for it. Waiting for it to start with a hand rubbing at his middle-aged jaded sagging balls and tough hanging dick. Never liking it and wishing it had never started. Crying with all the godless power in his brain for them to please just fucking stop it now. Unable to stop it; either by that impulse that led him to such an always dangerous and mysterious situation where the groin tug is the smile on his face, rather than the slow steady whisper in his noisy personality. Or simply physically unable to bend against the pure bone gnashing pain.