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Send to FriendLet me start at the beginning.
I was in my apartment, the same one-room joint I live in to this day, with the cracking wooden floor, the browning wallpaper to look at in all four directions, but hey, it's home, and as they say, there's no place like home, right? Besides, it's not that bad, and it's got a hell of a view; 25th floor, 25 stories above the ground and away from all the inner city noise and bullshit. Plus I got cable TV and a nice computer. Well, okay, my computer's a piece of shit, severely out of date and probably wouldn't even work now had that y2k shit actually been a real threat, but who cares? At least I got Internet service. Sure it's a shitty dial-up connection that ties up the phone lines all day long, but what do I care? Who the hell's gonna call me while I'm online checking out all the sick shit porn sites? It's not like I got any friends or anything. And my family and I aren't exactly on what you'd call speaking terms either. Ah, but who needs those losers anyway?
Of course, the time frame I'm talking about now was way the hell back in 1991, before computers became household items and the Internet and all of it's stupid terms and acronyms became common household names. Hell, this was even before I got my cable TV (of course, even back then, it seemed that almost everyone had cable, but of course, I've always been a deviant in just about every way imaginable) and the TV always had shitty reception, so I'd spend several hours fucking around with my antennae just to watch some shitty-ass half-hour TV show. But I wasn't watching TV at that time; I was sleeping. It was after midnight—like three in the morning or something—Devil's Midnight, I guess you could say—all the local networks were shut down for the night, and as I said, I had no Internet access, so I couldn't browse through any decent porno either. Nothing to do, and I was tired, so I decided to call it a night. I grabbed the few blankets scattered on the floor and lay down on my couch, which I also use as my bed, just like Agent Mulder on The X-Files, and eventually fell asleep.
I know what you're all probably thinking: I was abducted while in my sleep, or had experienced some sensation of missing time. But you couldn't be more wrong. I was wide-awake and fully conscious when it happened, and did not experience any missing time! I remember everything perfectly clear, even to this very day, 10 years later (otherwise, I wouldn't be able to write all this shit down right now, would I?).
I hadn't had any dreams that night. It was a very peaceful slumber.
Until I had awakened at around 3pm because I had to take a piss. I was naked (I always sleep naked), and had there been anyone in the apartment, I would've surely put something on, but since I live alone, it didn't matter, because I could be quite sure that no one would be able to see me in that state of nudity, looking and laughing at my small, worm-sized penis dangling limply, not even reaching down between my legs. I am very self-conscious of my small penis, as you can see. I don't know why it is so small, even smaller than that of a small boy, but it is very small, barely reaching two inches when fully erect, which it wasn't at that time. Maybe it has something to do with how I used to eat shit when I was a kid -- I seriously doubt it, but who knows? In any case, this small cock of mine brings me nothing but great shame and embarrassment. I can't even satisfy a woman with this puny little twig, wouldn't even dare hire a hooker off the street because it's so damn small. I'm such a pathetic loser. But I digress...
I was half-way to the bathroom, when I saw that sudden flash of light bursting forth through the front window, hitting so abruptly as to nearly give me a heart attack right at that moment, and instead of reaching the bathroom, I had disposed of my urine content over the wooden floor, and was too scared to even bitch about how I was going to have to clean it up later. It was just that light I was focused on, the glaring light shining forth from outside. I had no idea what was going on, of course. The term "UFO" or "aliens" hadn't popped into my head right then and there, for it would still be a good two and a half years yet before the Pilot episode of The X-Files would air on the FOX Network. All that was on my mind was that light, which was flashing this bright, burning white everywhere in the room, so bright you couldn't even see anything through it. My eyes squinted and then squeezed tightly shut altogether, as I raised my forearm over my face to try in vain to block off some of this glaringly opaque light, and still, it felt as though my eyeballs were burning inside my skull. I might have screamed, let off a shrill cry for help out of raw fear, but I'm not sure. I could hear absolutely nothing.
And then I found myself lying on this platform, which I realized was some kind of operating table inside what was some kind of laboratory aboard an alien ship (of course, I hadn't at first realized I was actually inside a UFO -- that came later), and I was completely paralyzed, unable to move a muscle, except for my eyes. I looked around in as many directions as possible, seeing nothing but white, thinking that whoever resided here didn't have much of a sense of decoration, but not caring in the least and in some way relieved that I was no longer being beaten down by that blinding white light. I was scared though. I could feel my heart hammering against my ribcage. I was unable to breathe. And I was scared out of my mind. I felt as though I were suffocating here, like I were being smothered to death. I literally thought that I would die on that operating table, and almost welcomed that bittersweet release; not as though anyone would miss me, so who cared? My mind was wracked with those two conflicting emotions: my near-desire to be put to rest and my raw and primal panic, that instinctive desire to live. Had I been physically capable of movement, I would have been spasming all over the place on that table. Every atom of my body wanted to do just that, and I felt it almost happening as a reflexive movement, but of course, nothing happened. It was all in my mind, all psychological torture. Amazing the tricks your mind can play on you.
And then I saw them, the aliens, the grays as they are sometimes known as; a whole platoon of them, all standing there, peering across from the white laboratory, all with identical appearances, the same bald heads, the same huge black eyes, all gazing at me, staring me down, and as I looked back at them, at those eyes, it was as though I were staring deep into the darkened abyss. They were all small in size, none of them standing much taller than four feet, all of them thin, their scrawny torsos clearly visible to me. Their lips were small, very thin slits, but their heads were fairly big. They had about four digits on each hand -- three fingers and a thumb -- and four toes on each foot. And they all had that identical gray skin tone. At first I wondered if they were laughing at me, laughing at my puny little boy's penis, but they showed no emotion whatsoever (and apparently had no sex organs either, I noticed),
just stared ahead at me with cold indifference, and perhaps a clinical scientific curiosity. Maybe they're jealous, I thought briefly, and was then amazed that the thought would even pop into my head at that exact moment, given the circumstances. And then a more appropriate thought came to mind: What the hell's goin' on here? What the hell are those assholes gonna do to me?
And then they got started.
It was 100 times worse than being at a doctor's office for your "annual check-up." I was poked and prodded like a guinea pig. They cut me open. They cut me to pieces. The pain was unbearable. It felt as though I were being torn apart, and that was literally what was happening. They were tearing me apart, and then sowing me back together. I wanted to scream, to cry out in the shear agony that their little experiments, operations, and dissections were causing me, but I couldn't. My lips were sealed shut. I still couldn't move; no matter how much it hurt, I couldn't move a muscle. They had paralyzed me, but my nerves still worked well enough for the pain to register. And I still couldn't even breathe. I don't know how much longer it lasted, but it seemed to go on for years. As it went on, through all the shear agony those alien bastards put me through, giving me anal probes and open heart surgery and laser eye surgery that I most certainly did not need, I began to think that maybe hoping for death to finally occur was a mute point, that maybe I was already dead. Maybe that bright light that had hit me was a nuclear blast that had somehow gone off in the heart of New York City, and that I along with many others had been devoured by the ever-expanding bright white nuclear explosion. Maybe I had already died at ground zero, and this was where my immortal soul had been shafted. My own private hell of my own making. I almost became convinced by this idea eventually.
And then it all came to an end, and the aliens returned me back to earth.
But instead of sending me home, back to my apartment, those cock-sucking bastards teleported me way the hell to Central Park, which was a good ten miles from my apartment. Instead of being nice and warm at home, I was outside, feeling the subzero January winds beating against my naked body as I lay there in the snow, gasping and sucking down the precious air that had been previously denied to me. I was still in a lot of pain, and with every movement, I could feel something metallic within my skin shredding even more of my flesh, burning and itching immensely. But I managed to get up, soaked in snow which melted over my skin, making it so I was even colder out there, freezing. I feared I might freeze to death if I didn't reach shelter soon. But where would I go? I had no idea, but I had to go somewhere, so I started walking, feeling my feet stepping deeply into the blanket of fresh snow on the ground, my toes growing numb. The pain each movement caused me because of the metallic implants inside my body was bad at first, but as I grew colder, as I felt the gooseflesh forming over every inch of my skin. I was shivering uncontrollably, my breath billowing white streams of smoke in the night air, with my arms wrapped around my body, struggling to retain at least some of my body heat, which was slowly starting to diminish. I looked up, searching for the alien craft but not seeing any trace of it, only the full moon gleaming down upon me from the black sky above. I didn't know what time it was exactly, or how long the aliens had had me in their grasp, but it was still night...or early morning, whatever. The sun hadn't even come up yet. And I knew for certain if I stayed out much longer, I most certainly would freeze to death.
"Sir, what the hell's going on?" asked someone from up ahead, after a while, startling me out of the daze I had been slowly succumbing to. It had been a cop, apparently on routine patrol or something, I'm not completely sure. "Awful late for you to be wandering around...and why ain't you wearing any clothes?"
"Oh G-g-god, ya gotta...ya gotta help me!" I stammered, pleading with this cop, knowing he was nothing but a fascist pig, but realizing that he was now the only hope I had.
"Sir...sir, what happened?"
I wanted to tell him everything, about the aliens, how they tortured me, the horrible things they did to me. But I wouldn't tell him that. If I tell him that, he would think I was crazy, that I needed to be locked up in a mental institution somewhere, and after what I had been through, that was the last thing I needed. Or he might laugh at me, laugh at the story as though it were an absurd fairy tale told by a deranged lunatic. I didn't want to be laughed at either; it would only add insult to injury, and I didn't need that. So instead, I told him something else: "I...I was raped, officer. I was ambushed, and raped, and knocked unconscious by some gay rapist or something. And I think...I think he stole my clothes. Goddamn it, he stole fucking clothes!"
"Okay, sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to calm down, okay? Just calm down."
I fell to my knees, sobbed, and whimpered, "Oh God, he stole my fucking clothes."
"Are you okay?" the cop asked out of what seemed like genuine concern. "Do you need medical attention?" And as I remained kneeling, he looked me over, from top to bottom, and as his eyes scrolled further down, closer to my crotch, scanning over my all-too-small penis, I could see a smirk cracking across his face. He snickered to himself, scoffing, and within seconds, he had completely lost control and was laughing his ass as though he had gone completely insane himself.
May 03, 2001