Sasha Selavie recounts her clandestine encounter with Quentin Crisp.
I’ve got a confession – my dick, always, has been a living hell to me, so no wonder I once tried butchering the little fucker as it slept! Even today, it’s still festooned with red-raw razor scars, but somehow, I just couldn’t follow through with the killer cut! But hey, don’t get me wrong – I adore other queens’ dicks, and one now-dead, Holy Grail dick in particular – the throbbing cock of Quentin Crisp
Okay, call me a sick fuck, but there’s a name for my panting pursuit of aged men – gerontophilia. See, I met Quentin many times, and just the thought of his butt – all the sagging crevices and multiple fissures – got my tranny dick sopping wet. Even better, I frantically visualised deep-throating his tiny todger – isn’t genius best sucked fresh from the source?
Does that disgust you? Get over it – surely, in our daily, chemsex-cocktail of pissed-on social taboos, aged flesh is just one more, admittedly rare, dish on a sexually diverse menu? And me, I get pig-sick of perfect bubble-butts and undamaged minds – it’s the poxy, thrillingly warped and extraordinary defects that are fascinating!
See, most wannabe artists – even the fiercest, Charlie Saatchi mavericks frothing at the mouth on bog-standard coke – are dull as piss and barely worth euthanizing. Okay, maybe it’s not their fault – as barely-evolved apes, we come pre-loaded at birth with such limited notions of outrage it’s simply laughable.
Look, trawl through the work of even the sickest, artistic psychos – the Chapman Brothers – and there’s nothing but the usual, tedious notions of cannibalistic mayhem. God, they’re so numbingly predictable – give me a break from the Chapmans’ smug, middle-class, deathly-dull atrocity parade. Frankly, 99% of art – gay and straight – is pure shit, so let’s shamelessly adore the 1% outlaw, Hell’s Angels art that’s not!
And doesn’t that bring us steaming back to dear, darling, hilariously misanthropic Quentin? Far more on the ball than dumb tragedy-in-waiting Oscar Wilde, Quentin slashed through deluded, gay romanticism with the tenacity of a serial killer! Always, like a mincing Sherlock Holmes, he’d ruthlessly expose the sordid, or often merely lame, motives behind his adoring public’s lives, hatreds and deepest convictions.
No wonder part of NYC’s early 1990s gay community hated Quentin’s guts – awkward truths are pure, poster-saint poison! Not for me – as a tranny dominatrix then working in Manhattan, I had to touch base with La Crisp again. Picking my heels over wall-to-wall scum crashed on a sidewalk strewn with used condoms and syringes, I sashayed to our Lower East Side café date. Me, I believe artistic brilliance is infectious, and wouldn’t you milk Oscar Wilde’s dribbling cock if you could? Christ, shouldn’t every worthwhile artist be forced to have sex with aspiring scumbags two days a week? Fuck privacy – raging genius should be a mandatory, public access service!
But – at 11am on a Sunday morning – Quentin’s obviously frail health meant even deluded intimacy was impossible. Besides – despite my lust for his flesh – I’d always sensed Quentin was now irretrievably post-sexual. Worse still, what if I groped an empty ball-bag? I’d heard persistent rumours of his self-diagnosed transsexuality, so maybe, s/he’d had an unpublicised Big Slice?
I couldn’t and wouldn’t risk it, and face it, aren’t some fantasies best left dead on the cutting-room floor, like dying sperm after a wank? But, sheer magic happened – a circle of rough-as-guts truckers flocked to our table, mesmerised by our unmistakably English, hugely effeminate, three-hour bitch-a-thon! No sneers, no jeers, but a cheering, mass ovation. See, genius is a socially transmittable disease – Quentin, no matter how briefly, instantly infected oafs with civility! He’s still deeply missed.
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