Date: Tue, 05 Aug 2008 13:54:48 +0200 From: Jan Vander Laenen <jan.vanderlaenen@skynet.be> Subject: THE STUFFED TURKEY - JAN VANDER LAENEN The Stuffed Turkey "Avisodomy is the ancient practice of having sex with a bird. As the man is about to orgasm he breaks the neck of the bird causing the bird's cloaca sphincter to constrict and spasm, thus creating pleasurable sensations for the man. (...) Parisian brothels provided turkeys for their clients." (B. LOVE, The Encyclopaedia of Unusual Sex Practices) Frédéric, aged around thirty-five, is probably the richest gay man in the small, Brussels homosexual ghetto, or at any rate, the gay man with the richest father a genuine ennobled industrialist -- but apparently that does not make him happier; quite the contrary. It would seem that all the sadness on earth can be read in his beautiful hazel eyes. And yes, those beautiful hazel eyes are not the only winning asset of his appearance. No, no... Frédéric, although somewhat soft, is a distinguished handsome man, slim, with a regular face and neatly trimmed hair, eyebrows and goatee, and apparently enough hair on his chest to be able to open the top buttons of his shirt. Furthermore, he is always smartly dressed, jeans of the most fashionable cut, colourful chequered shirts and probably a wardrobe full of jackets in leather, suede and denim. And what makes him sad in spite of all this? Oh, to put it simply, perhaps because he is the first born and bred son, with three younger brothers and sisters in what one could consider as one of the most poisonous types of nests of our free Western Europe: that of a Flemish family of the high bourgeoisie. And what does that actually entail? Well, let us say that Frédéric's parents are a spitting image of the bourgeois couple in "La Cage aux Folles", bearing in mind, however, that that they are still Flemish, not the people with the keenest sense of humour, and that they would not be able to grasp the comic notes of the aforementioned film. Frédéric does not in the least fit the expectation pattern that his distinguished parents have or have had of him. That is to say, he was expected to undertake serious studies at university, such as economics or law, but as he is not exactly the studious type, he wound up earning a diploma in secretaryship and languages, usually reserved for girls. He was actually expected to pursue a solid career among politicians, industrialists and bankers, but because he is more of a dreamer, he is satisfied with a position in one ministry or another that his father found for him. He should have done up a barn of a villa in one of the more elegant suburbs of Brussels, with swimming pool and tennis court, but because he is a rather seedy character, he opted for the centre of Brussels, and is all too pleased to live in his father's charming apartment, one of the latter's many properties, on the trendy Rue Dansaert. And above all, he should have long ago entered holy matrimony with the money-mad daughter of another bourgeois, a surgeon or pharmacist or notary, and should have impregnated at least twice, but he has postponed the exploration of a female body for the time being... just like his coming out, for that matter.... ...which has naturally not prevented him from living it up in the gay circuit of Brussels for some eight years, going to most gay bars and cafes in our capital, which are ever so discrete, especially the facades. Furthermore, the aforementioned circuit is so closed in on itself that the chance of rumours about escapades there reaching the ears of his father or someone in his circles is really very small. Frédéric! On 29 December of last year, it had certainly been some three years that I had a real conversion with him, because for three years I have had a satisfying liaison with another man, and thus had tended to neglect the gay circles of Brussels, but when I think back to Frédéric, it is not without a touch of nostalgia. And which venues did he grace with his presence in my time? Oh, in addition to the late-hour leather bar "Le Duquesnoy" and the gay bar "Homo Erectus," he was reported often, after working hours, in the brown café "La réserve", where he sipped his democratic beer with other gay employees who had left their office in the city centre. Incidentally, he was rather out of place there among all these representatives of the "ordinary people." Yes, he could laugh with their "vulgar chatter," but I have never heard him utter ordinary words. Yes, he could participate in a discussion on how, for instance, everything had become more expensive since the introduction of the euro, but his thoughts must have then gone to the series of credit cards in his designer wallet. And yes, he was often courted, especially by bums and what are known as sloshers but deep down he must have wondered why he was attracting all that attention. And did he dare take the initiative himself now and then? Well, like everyone else, he flirted now and then, but I am not curious about the erotic life of others, so that I never heard rumours about his tastes or performances, for instance. The fact is that he had made advances to me on several occasions until three years ago, perhaps because he had heard that, as a notary's son, I came somewhat from the same milieu as himself, perhaps a few rungs lower, those rungs between the nobility and the nouveaux riches, and was thus supposed to understand his little existential problem. And indeed, one of the first questions that he asked was whether "my family knew of me being otherwise inclined." "Frédéric!" I cried out, "in our higher Flemish circles, it is not a matter of whether the family knows, but of whether they want to know and how prepared you are yourself to keep it hidden in their circles. No, I lost my virginity very willingly, for that matter -- when I was eighteen, and since then I have made no secret for anyone. When I was twenty-three, I presented my thirteen year older Italian friend to my presents, and even told them that we slept in the same bed. In all these years I have run the gamut from queer to transvestite to leather-jacket boy, to fister and fisted, to find myself again as just an ordinary man, but it is only when I started to talk openly about my homosexuality in my stories and to express my doubts about the respectability of the Flemish bourgeois mentality, that the real problems arose. So..." "You obviously do not like to talk about it," he replied, for he must have noted my relative stiffness, "but what would you advise me in concrete terms?" "Well, I have broken all family ties. I could perhaps give you the address of my psychiatrist, but I would give you this piece of advice: live your life!" "What do you mean?" I got up from our little table in "La réserve", and repeated to him the worlds that an American female friend had sputtered as we were leaving Saint Peter's Basilica in Rome one day: "Let's do something dirty!" Well, Frédéric and I had never ended up in bed together, and thus I had never done anything dirty with him, nor with that American female friend, for that matter, and as already mentioned, our paths had seldom crossed for some three years. When I ran into him by chance on 29 December of last year, I have admit that he looked radiant somehow... Ah, that 29 December of last year... I had spent Christmas alone, and it was one of those indefinable days between Christmas and the approaching New Year, a day on which you inertly wait for something that does not come. Fortunately, the weather was mild and sunny, and around three in the afternoon, I went to have a look at the Christmas market on the Place Sainte-Cathérine, where I had a sandwich with a German sausage and mustard. And as I was standing at a stall, a wooden shed with wooden counters where Glühwein was served, I bumped into Frédéric. "Ah Jan, is everything OK?" "This Christmas period gets to me in a way" I complained. "Haven't done anything dirty?" I looked at him puzzled, whereupon he bid me to take a seat at a small table to drink a glass of warm wine. And "do you still remember how three years ago, you saw me coming out, together with my parents, of the snobbish restaurant Belga Queen, and you subsequently told me that my mother and father reminded you of that bourgeois couple in "La cage aux folles?" "Yes." "Well, on Christmas eve, I found myself in a situation so hilarious as to rival some of the scenes from that film." "Do tell!" "A couple of days before Christmas, my mother phoned me at the office, essentially to order me to go and collect the turkey for the Christmas dinner at our estate in La Roche-en-Ardenne and gave me the mobile phone number of the game warden. So, I got in my car, and after driving for an hour, I arrived at our property, proceeded along the park and the eighteenth century pavilions, and parked by the hut next to the lower court. So I went in the hut, saw that the turkey was nicely on a hook to hang among pheasants and rabbits, and just as I was about to dial the number on my mobile, my eye fell on a number of books on a shelf. No, no copy of the Bible or manuals on how to raise rabbits of geese, for instance, but a real list of rather, ehem, erotic works: "Justine" and "les 120 jours de Sodom" by Marquis de Sade, "Adieu à Berlin" by Christopher Isherwood, "Contes immoraux" by the Prince de Ligne..." "...and, perhaps, not "L'amant de Lady Chatterley" by Lawrence?" I interrupted. "Yes, yes... and just when I somewhat curious started leafing through the book, I heard a reverberating voice behind me "and what do you think you are doing?" "Mellors?" "Our game warden, in any event, and yes he did look a bit like the actor Nicholas Clay in the filmed version, filthy rubber boots, overalls open at the top showing the hair on his chest, and a frank, unshaven gob. "I am the baron's son," I said, apologetically, "I have come to collect our turkey for Christmas." And the scoundrel stepped right up, and took me by the chin with his filthy paw of a hand. "What a nice, neat son that rich miser of a baron has, and what nice teeth you have. You see, I'm used to doing this for my job. I always look a horse in the mouth first." I smelled on his breath that he had probably already hit the eau de vie. "And you were sniffing about in my book collection, were you?" I was somewhat cornered. "Ah, there is so little to do here in the country, but since I have good taste, I prefer a good wank with an erotic story rather than with porno. You also have a nice snout, a little bit like a greenhouse plant, but..." And he plunged his tongue in my mouth. "A man or a woman, it makes little difference to me, provided I get my pleasure!" "And did you give him his pleasure?" I asked Frédéric. Frédéric turned red. "Making love in nature, or in this case, in a hut, has always been one of my favourite fantasies." "You are preaching to the converted... How I have frisked about in the pineta of Viareggio." "Our Mellors was apparently not averse to French-kissing another man, and he even stuck the tip of his tongue in one of my nostrils, but then I got down to serious business, sucking merrily on his tick nipples, and then gave his member a well deserved oral treatment. "You are circumcised?" I remarked lecherously. "My penis was already so thick when I was twelve, that they had to operate me because of foreskin stenosis. "And...?" I asked. "Well," he replied, "Later he unbuttoned my trousers and turned me over, but before getting that mushroom and its entire stem to disappear in that spot which is forbidden territory in nearly all religions, he crouched behind me and ... well, relaxed my sphincter with his tongue. He moistened it so well with spittle, and gave it such a good rim job, that the skin round my arsehole is still somewhat irritated from the stubbles on his chin." "And then..." "And then, in fact, apart from a vigorous thrust, he was as vigorous verbally. Because, "yeah, my little daddy's boy," he began to growl, "you are giving me as much pleasure as that turkey yesterday. See it hanging there, that poor beast... Oh what a dignified end did I give it. I first put its dumb head in the drawer of that cupboard there, and then stuffed it nice, in and out, in and out, in and out, and when I felt I was about to shoot my load, I slammed the drawer, breaking its neck, and wow.. how its poor sphincter constricted round my exploding stick... it was grand, just as described in the handbooks... I scored five erotic capers in one yesterday: sodomy, zoophilia, homosexuality yes, yes, our turkey is a he, necrophilia and sadism... You needn't worry... I am not going to harm a single hair of our daddy's boy, but I am going to stuff you nicely like your Christmas dinner there..." I took a gulp of my Glühwein and looked at Frédéric somewhat dumbfounded. "...And then, he shot his load in your rectum?" "No, no, he pulled out, ordered me to turn around, kneel down and open my mouth, because it was a sin to spill his valuable seed in a hole that has no taste buds." "You are careful,...?" I carefully interrupted my question" "He reassured me that he was in perfect health and handed me his bottle of eau de vie to rinse out my sticky mouth." "Wild," I shrugged somewhat indifferently, as I set with a swollen member in my trousers against the wooden table. "And dirty, indeed," said Frédéric, concluding his story about his fling with Mellors. "And Christmas eve?" "Endless boredom, wouldn't you know, a family dinner in our Art Nouveau manorial house here in Brussels, valets, crystal, porcelain, caviar, foie gras..." "And stuffed turkey." "Yes, and when my father said that the turkey was really delicious, and my mother, with her snobbish whistling voice added that the filling in particular was really juicy, I burst out laughing." "And did you own up?" "I was just about to, yes!" I looked at Frédéric with amusement. "I can truly imagine how such a scene would unfold," I said. "First shocked looks, looks of disbelief, but when you persist that you are not lying, then all mayhem breaks loose in your family. Everyone has to be taken to the hospital there and then to have their stomach pumped, then despair when a doctor tells you that infection with the AIDS virus is detectable in the blood only after three months, Mellors who would be subjected to a medical test immediately, naturally be given the sack, and very certainly dragged before a court for gruesome crimes and downright mistreatment of animals, etc., etc." "Yes," Frédéric interrupted me. "It is because of that Mellors that I kept my mouth shut. And when my mother insisted on why I had burst out laughing, I could only reply that I found "juicy" such a juicy word." "And the evening continued its ordinary course?" "Yes," Frédéric said with a wink. And did this story really happen? Oh yes, just like that poor turkey, may someone break my neck if I have lied. Frédéric and I said goodbye to each other later, and I suppose that he, like a Lady Chatterley in heat often jaunts down to the family estate in La Roche-en-Ardenne...