My dad used to call me Gary, because that is my name.
But that's not all he'd call me.
He'd call me Gary the Clefairy. Gary the Clefairy. Gary the Clefairy.
He'd always say it three times like that and it made it worse.
It made me gayer somehow. And that hurt the most.
But here we are at his funeral, and the boner I have won't quit.
This boner, it pokes out through the illusion of my suit pants like a contrarian in an ocean of sycophants.
But that's just how it be, isn't it?
God is taking my father, as he took my mother, and my grandfather has his hands firmly clasped on my shoulders as my uncle Doofus gives the eulogy.
"I'm at a point in my old age where it's barely sexual," he whispers into my ear as he massages my shoulders. "I'm either horny or I'm not, and when I'm not, it's nothing. Nothing is there. Not a twitch. Not a tumble. It's excessive. Or not excessive. However you wanna slice it."
"I know what you mean," I whisper back, the words hanging on my breath like morning dew hangs to the blades of grass, graciously wettening the moist feet of our future's tomorrow. "Sometimes, when I masturbate, I give up halfway through. Like, that's enough, you know? I'm done."
"That's not how I operate at aaaalllll," he says, his fingers digging deeper into my muscle tissue. "Once I start, I can't stop. I've told plenty of lovers, look, I know you're finished, but I'm not. I'm gonna masturbate and you're gonna watch me do it because goddamnit, I start what I finish. You're what I started, and you're gonna feel me finish all over those nips."
"Does that usually work?"
"Not really," he sighs, moving his hands sensually down to my hips and ass. "I'm not exactly Babe Ruth. My strikeout record is out of this world. But I do finish, and though it may not be on some hot nips, someone sleeps in it. Mostly me."
"You remind me of my uncle."
"That's sexual," he says, grinding his crotch against my ass, my tight ass, my ass that's tighter than a jockstrap in football season. "Do I remind you of your uncle?"
"No," I say, grabbing his right wrist, pulling his middle finger out of my pants and away from my taint with the sweat still on it. I suck that finger, and I suck my own taint sweat from my finger like it was mother's milk to a newborn babe. "You remind me of my grandfather. Or should I say... granDaddy?"
"That's sexual," he says, literally sweeping me off my feet and carrying me over to my father's descending coffin. He lays me upon it, cooing in my ear as he unbuttons his pants along with my own.
I can see his cock. It harbors significantly more wrinkles than a nylon bag Marie Kondo would throw out.
It flutters, like the breast of a robin with a snapped wingbone before taking its time to snap upright, like a mummy from a turned over sarcophagus.
He climbs on top of me, pushing my knees up to my head. My feet and genitals dangling like meat from a string, like bait in a gator trap.
He spits on his dick, to lubricate it a little. His mushroom tip flaring out like a timelapsed video on the discovery channel.
He tells me in earnest, whispers among my uncle Doofus's thoroughly planned eulogy, he whispers into my ear, the truest, most sexual words you can hear at this point in a sexual encounter with your grandad at your father's funeral. "Are you on protection?"
He wants to know if he can stick his cock in me, raw like chicken that will give you salmonella. I tell him that I'm on the pill and this pleases him like a man that's only been partially pleased - but is wanton of more pleasure to achieve satisfaction.
His throbbing member breeches my escape hatch like a sperm whale into an abandoned and unforeseen above ground/below ground cavern, filled approximately halfway with water.
Torn flesh, chipped rocks. Both of us are damaged. But it's him that has to suffocate and starve inside of me, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
However, he seems unsurprised, and yet, paradoxically disappointed. He pulls his cock out of me, and it's like farting because you sneezed.
It tears through your asshole and you wonder whether or not you would have survived that if you were poor.
He leans in towards our genitals like a long neck reaching for a treestar. He sniffsniffs and gags on his own vomit before forcing it back down inside of him and looking at me with eyes like he wants to eat my nipples, or feed my cat to a werewolf.
He scoots closer, atop my inner thighs. Damn near pressing my knees to my armpits. It hurts, but it's sexual.
"What do you smell?" he asks. "On the tip of my cock? What do you smell."
I sniff, then gag, then sniff again. Then gag again. "It's poop, your honour."
"Your poop," he says. "Do you smell your poop?"
"Yes," I say, licking my lips. "I've mostly only eaten sardines and mayonnaise since my father passed away. That is definitely my poop and I smell it."
"Suck it," he says, looking down at me, being more serious about anything than he's ever been in the life he's lived longer than me by at least two generations. "Suck your own poop off this cock that's more wrinkled than your underpants were in middle school."
I suck my poop off his wrinkled cock and it tastes like sardines, and mayonnaise, and poop.
God helped me, I like it.
When my grandfather puts his penis back into my asshole, he strangles me with my mother's pearl necklace. But before I die, and he makes sure it's before I die, he makes a pearl necklace of his own.
If my windpipe weren't crushed, and my very soul not fading from this mortal coil, I would tell my grandfather the truth.
"I love you, Daddy's Daddy," I'd say. "I love you more than Daddy ever loved me."
"Gary, the Clefairy," he coos into my ear as I sputter, choke and cough my way into nothingness. "Gary, the Clefairy. Gary, the Clefairy..."
My relatives would be, hypothetically, and very much are, realistically, extremely confused.
But... to leave some final thoughts on all of this...
God did this, not me.