Spector Jelly


party time

 “Jelly,” they said, knowing how stupid I thought the name was. Was it so hard to pronounce my name correctly? Jiro, you idiots. JIRO. But no, they never called me anything but Jelly.

“Jelly, get up on the table. Dance for us!”

I never fought them. All these friends, these drugged out acquaintances. They all thought me simple, ridiculous even. They took my quiet for subservience. How little they knew of me. I let them toy with me, and why? Because I, too, loved the drugs.

“Try this,” the one said. “It will make you feel good in ways you never thought possible.” I took the pill, thinking it a black beauty. Washed it down with a handful of colorful tablets and capsules and a great big swig from a bottle of Dom. If they wanted to test my stamina, my ability to hold my liquor, well, all I could do was show them.

Why did they not like me? I was good looking enough. I was hot, a real hot boy they all said. They sure liked to toss me around, use me, hurt me. My friends.

“Jelly’s going to dance for us!”

It was 1980. Mick Jagger was at the party, nose deep in coke. Warhol was being jacked off by Divine in a corner and some German dude was walking around completely naked, covered in white paint. I was 19. I stood 5′ 10″, my hair dyed cherry red. I wore only a sash made of Scottish Tartan plaid. Gregg Allman passed me a peach laced with acid. Donna Summer was smoking hashish from a lavish hookah — a gift to the host from a Saudi prince.

The host and his exotic tastes. That night was going to go down as the night they played Japanese Hang Man.

What started as a pat on my bum turned into a boost, and up up up I went, lifted on to the glossy black platform. The disco ball flashing in my eye, catching the glitter in my hair, the glitter they all decided looked so good on me when they each took turns rubbing it on my bare skin, into my sweat. Glitter gone blue, gone green, gone rush around red, gone flash smash gold — glitter, glitter everywhere and not a drop to drink.

Cheeky tart, tarty cheek, picking at me with enameled chopsticks. “Jelly, Jelly eat sushi off his tushy, Jelly.” Pressed against my chest, a goldfish in a small round bowl, waterside down, poor thing, dying and flapping as the water drained, kicking it’s legless kicks, tickling my numbed flesh, novocaine coca, several electric lines of pink, green and sapphire traveling wild child head in the clouds…

“Up Jelly, as only you can do!” I danced, I twirled, all eyes on me. Look how they look, how they admire…they do like me, ah, that is good, the pricks, the farting bastard pricks whom I detest with every ounce of my soul, my soul that perishes each and every night as they press, pull, defame and denounce me with their love, their gaze. “Up, up Jelly, asphyxiate darling, no air, lovey, jerk off for us, puppy, hang like a bead, die for us cumming, cum for us, dying” and Jiro goes high on the chair, chair on the high black lacquered pedestal…

Stiff, the tartan wrap has no purpose for this crowd of sleaze bag pig eyeball watchers, they want me to touch for them, their hands in different places, their eyes peeling for erotic Jellydance in his/my naked, oiled, glittered, drugged swing back swig more drink, drink, drink me in and watch…

Friend oh friend who guides the rope that swings from the ceiling, who places the hemp-drench ’round my neck, my pretty white neck, my blue-veined neck and watch, watch as I get you to love me, pull me, suck me, stroke me, fuck me…

Tight, tight the rope does burn into my teenage flesh, my flesh gone dead in 1980, they say, I hear, they say, “Do it, Jelly, do it as only you can!” And I kick it away, the chair on high, the high on chair, my hand on prick, my neck gone gag, my hair gone strewn, my face gone panicked, my neck gone blue, my tongue gone poked…

‘Help me, help me,” airless pleading, “Will no one cut me down? I have done this for you, for you, for your pleasure, your filthy pleasure, to make you love me, cut me down as you promised…”

Cracked, I swing, spit and gurgle, so ugly, no pretty, I watch and see, there’s me, on high, high on, over there, on the laquer box, with the kicked chair beneath my sweet licked toes, hanging, dying, there’s me, and I watch, standing by the buffet, getting my arse tickled by feathers, pinched by sultans, passed around by rock stars…me, on high, dangling by a thick rope, penis in a fist, air no longer.

“Jelly,” they cry, “Jelly, dance for us as only you can!” And once again, I’m ushered to the forefront of everyone’s lust and no one’s love. It’s 1980. Mick Jagger is there nose deep in coke. Warhol’s getting sucked off by John Waters, I’m 19, 5’ 10″, with hair cherry red. Up, up I go, guided by painted men and drug soaked peaches, up to the front in my Scottish plaid tartan, a woopsy away from a glitter-gray end.

It’s 1980 and I’m a hot dead boy who swings from a hangman’s noose, watching himself swing until the end of time.

It’s 1980…

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