Hello, my name is James H…hold on, my grandson is shouting at me. Okay, he says I’m not supposed to use my real name on the Internet. He says it’s “dangerous.” I’m not really sure how that could be; I fought in two wars and you all seem to be addicted to cartoon Jap pornography. Regardless, my grandson has just finished telling me that all the time he is spending on his computer actually has nothing at all to do with dirty talking with other closeted homosexuals. While I remain skeptical of this, I’m choosing to take him at his word when he says that all of you on here are mostly interested in weird stories, creepy characters, tales of depravity, and the dark underbelly of society.

Well have I got a tremendous tale for you!?! It’s a tale that I have tried to tell many times over the years. Unfortunately, my brother said it was not an appropriate toast for his wedding, and the good people at Penthouse not only refused to publish my story, they also banned me from buying their magazine or ever even masturbating again. So now, after almost five decades of this story existing only in a journal buried under a bunch of old rum bottles in the corner of my woodshed, I’m finally able to share it. It’s the tale of my one and only experience with group sex, and I guarantee it will chill you to your bones.

Due to my pure Irish heritage being untainted by the mudblood of any Baltics, Gypsies, or Welsh folk, I have always possessed tremendous physical strength. As such, I spent much of my early years working as a mover of everything from furniture to fine art. In the early 1960’s, I was employed by a museum in New York City for just that purpose. “Jimmy, move that big ass fucking statue out of storage and into the gallery,” they’d say. And I would humbly oblige, knowing that if any hetero women saw me at work, they would cream their knickers at just the sight of my rippling form. I had originally taken the job envisioning just that scenario, but it never quite worked out that way. All the women who worked at the museum were either obvious dykes or so frail and waifish that I dare not dream of penetrating them with my manhood, lest the very thought shatter their brittle, calcium-deficient pelvises.

So, for the few years I was in New York moving around statues and paintings, I was incredibly horny pretty much all of the time. Sure, I maybe could have gotten laid by frequenting one of the city’s many night clubs or whorehouses, but sleeping with whores violates my deep Catholic faith, and I never quite made it to the nightclubs because my tremendous want for both alcohol and gambling meant that I rarely made it past 10 p.m. without being involved in a knife fight outside a pool hall or backroom Chinese casino. I once had arranged to meet a lovely and sturdy-looking Russian girl to view a film, but on my way to the cinema, I happened to stumble upon ten or so punks squaring off in an alley. “Who the fuck are you?” I asked. “We’re the Geraghtys,” said one side. A boy from the other side said “yeah, and we’re the Butterscotch Boys, and we’re fixing to have ourselves a rumble!” “There is no need for this division and acrimony,” I said. “You’re all a bunch of dumb faggots and I’m going to knock the piss out of every last one of you.” And so, while dressed in my Sunday best, I fought ten teenage boys in an alley behind a dry cleaners. I won, of course, but I was a bit too roughed up to show my face at the movie. I never did talk to that poor girl again.

So anyway, I was as horny as a cat in a piss-filled barn, spending my days moving shit around a museum, and my nights gradually losing more and more pieces of my ear to Puerto Ricans who thought they could cheat me at billiards. And then one day, as I was hanging a large painting on a gallery wall, I happened to set my eyes on the sexiest woman I had ever seen. She was definitely pretty, maybe not the type of woman who would conventionally be a head-turner, but she was both whimsical and mysterious in a manner I found completely captivating. Every behavior she engaged in—smoothing her dress, biting a piece of candy in half and staring at what lay inside the shell, awkwardly fumbling with a lighter as she tried to light a cigarette—embodied a separate sensual, feminine, archetype. She was at once a curious and innocent schoolgirl, a stern career woman, a sinful nun, a cold and mechanical prostitute, and an adoring mother. I could tell the moment I looked at her that she was more woman than almost any man could handle, but boy, was I excited to take on the task. Her breasts may have been dainty, and her hair was a little short for my liking, but she radiated sexual energy like Hiroshima and Nagasaki radiated actual radioactive fallout. I longed to be mutated by her isotopic decay. She could not be ignored.

But as I stood on the ladder and gazed at her, I became filled with disappointment. I saw a man with an absurdly styled moustache and birdlike features walk over to my angel and elaborately kiss her up and down her arm in the style of Gomez Addams. I asked my Jew coworker adjusting the other side of the painting who the birdman was. He laughed, but after seeing the expression on my face, cut himself off and said, “Why Jimmy, that’s Salvador Dali. He’s one of the most famous artists in the world. It’s his painting that we’re hanging.” This thing? The naked saint pointing a cross at elephants with spindly legs? This makes a man one of the most famous artists on Earth? I had to find out how a man such as him came to possess my angel.

I stepped off my ladder and walked over to the artist and his exquisite companion. Before I even spoke, Dali extended his hand to me and said, “Hello, you base brute of a man. I am Dali, and this is my wife, Gala.” I was amazed. I had expected completely to hate this man, yet somehow, in speaking only a single sentence, he had caused me to hate him even more than I had thought possible. Dali then continued, “Tell me, you fiendish prole, do you desire to be within my wife?” This statement essentially robbed me of the ability to speak. Had Dali just read my mind? And if so, why then had he so calmly asked me about such a taboo topic? This creepy birdman was truly unlike anyone I had ever met. I was so taken off guard by his gypsy powers that I barely managed to squeak out my reply of, “If only such a thing were possible. You truly are a lucky man.” “Oh, but it is quite possible,” Dali replied. “For I am not some man who has attention on what is corporeal; rather, I receive pleasure when in witness to the joy of the divine Gala. So tonight, you will meet us at our ‘otella.” He spoke this last word in an exaggeration of his natural accent. I thought perhaps he was trying to mock himself. I was not sure why. Then Gala smiled at me, jotted an address on the back of a business card for a taxi company, handed it to me, caressed my face, and then linked her arm with Dali’s at the elbow and lead him away.

Back in my shitty apartment, I replayed the interaction in my mind. The invitation itself was quite out of the ordinary, but it had been extended so quickly and casually that I had a hard time feeling anxious or apprehensive, even though I knew that I should. I was pretty sure that a world-famous artist wanted me to fuck his wife, but I still had no idea what he meant by “when in witness to the joy of the divine Gala.” Did he want to watch? I’d normally castrate a man for even suggesting such a thing, but I so badly wanted…needed…was consumed by desire for Gala, that I had little trouble talking myself into suspending my normally unwavering moral code. And honestly, I was a bit curious about Dali. I wanted to see him again, if only to hear what he would say. So I avoided the pool halls for a few hours and forced myself to drink only a half-pint of rum. Then I headed over to the address Gala had handed me.

I was not sure exactly what was expected by a world-famous artist when you were arriving at his hotel suite to fuck his wife, but showing up empty handed seemed wrong, so I arrived at their door with a bottle of wine I had purchased from the liquor mart. Gala answered the door in a white negligee. She looked like Aphrodite as depicted in a non-gay Renaissance painting. She was so beautiful and natural that there may as well have been birds fluttering around her head. The moment she saw me, she wrapped her hand around the back of my neck and pulled me in for a long and passionate kiss. Instantly, I had to have her, but as the two of us tumbled into the room, I was met by the sight of Dali, standing perfectly still, but heavily tilted at an angle and leaning on a black and chrome cane like some sort of bizarro Charlie Chaplin. “Greetings Ji-ME!” he shouted at full volume.

Just then, a small and furry figure scurried across the room and positioned itself on the back of the love seat in the corner of the suite. “Is that a fucking anteater?!” asked Salvador. “It is the most angelic creature on Earth,” he replied. What Salvador had just said was either retarded or Satanic, but I was so focused on figuring out which it was that I never actually got around to smashing the wine bottle I was holding on his head. So I just handed it to him while he did an exaggerated and preformative bow of gratitude.

Gala then grabbed my hand and recaptured my attention. She led me across the room and sat down on the bed while positioning me in front of her. She quickly and skillfully undid my belt buckle with one hand without ever breaking eye contact with me. I knew that she knew just how to please me; I could see it in her eyes. She was bursting with confidence and grace and fertility and sexual aptitude. She was the maternal well from which all life sprung, and she was massaging my dick while kissing me softly on the stomach. I was consumed by her. As she took my turgid Celtic manhood into her mouth, she grabbed me by the wrist and placed my hand on her teacup breast. Waves of pleasured washed over me. I felt excited and vulnerable in a way I had not since grade school. I was ready for this, to be where I was at that moment was all I desired in the world.

And then Dali let out a great moan. It was a vibrant and sustained sound that was totally foreign to me. It sounded sort of like a baritone singer doing an impression of a kung-fu fighter, or a recording of a macaw played at half speed. “Wiiiiiiiiiiii-mi—yaaaaaaaaa!” shouted Dali. “Wiiiiiii-ni-mi-yaaaaaaaa,” he said again. I was then suddenly aware that Salvador was standing directly behind me. I turned my head over my shoulder, expecting to see him playing with his pecker, but he was dressed exactly as he had been when I entered the room. This somehow made me more uncomfortable than I would have been otherwise. “She’s lovely, isn’t she?” said Dali, “like a butterfly, a beautiful butterfly.” Except when Dali said “butterfly,” he again exaggerated his accent, separating the syllables staccato style and screaming the last one with a high, reedy tone, so what he was saying is more accurately represented as “boo-ter-fla-EEEE, a beautiful boo-ter-fla-EEEE.”

I wanted to kill Salvador Dali. What the fuck was he doing? Whaling like a banshee as his wife sucked me off? But as my anger rose up in me, Gala released my member from her mouth, rose to her feet, touched her hand to my chin, and firmly turned my head so that I was facing her. She then embraced me in a passionate kiss and pulled me onto the bed on top of her. Within seconds, Gala and I were screwing. Her hair smelled like a forest of cinnamon and cherries. I noticed this even before I noticed the sensation of her wet cunt firmly grabbing my dick and pulling it into her body. She whispered in my ear, and I realized that this was the first time I had ever heard her speak. “That’s it, Jimmy,” she said, “have me. Let me be all those girls you never got.” This set me off, and I began to thrust harder, to fuck more vigorously. I saw her smile at me, and I felt completely whole for the first and only time.

And then, from the corner, came more of Salvador’s moans. He was on the floor by this point, and though he was still fully clothed, he was writhing about in pleasure, but all the time his gaze was fixed on us, the moans and twitches coordinated exactly to my actions.

Then the oddest thing happened; Gala began to fade from me. Her eyes were unfocused, her voice mute, and her breathing soft and even. While seconds before she had been the whole universe, she suddenly seemed miles away. It was like that movie Powder, the one where the albino recluse kid with psychic powers sees a hunter shoot a deer and then takes the deer’s experience of death and forces the hunter to feel it alongside the fading animal; Dali was able to so thoroughly experienced the pleasures Gala received from my penetrating her with my hefty cock that I was not so much fucking her in her vagina as I was fucking him in his head. Gala’s body and the empty space in the room were nothing more than a thin condom separating Dali’s pleasure centers from my aggressive Dubliner thrusting.

Not only was this encounter unlike any I had ever experienced, it was unlike anything I had ever heard of. It wasn’t just gay, it was vicariously gay, meta-gay, a gayness that sits above all other gayness as a gay model for ritualistic gay emulation. Worse still were Dali’s commands to me. “Fuck her as a rhinoceros!” he screamed. I had no idea what this meant, but a mixture of fear and pleasure compelled me to thrust even more vigorously. This made Dali moan even louder. By this point, he had rolled his legs, torso, and left arm up into the suite’s Persian-style rug and was using his free hand to beat his midsection with his cane. “Yes, you rhino beast!” he screamed, “penetrate her so that you become an angel. Cast off your mammalian form. Lust is a flat circle. There is no before and there will be no after. There is no Gala. Become your foreskin. Live as the riddle of your infant cock.” I of course had no idea what this meant, but Gala had just licked her fingers and inserted them into my anus. This made me thrust harder, and that of course made Salvador moan in pleasure. Cries of “Wiiiiiiiiiiii-mi–yaaaaaaaaa” and “Wiiiiiii-ni-mi-yaaaaaaaa,” flew out of the ‘otella room windows and circled around the midtown streets.

And all this lust continued as a flat circle. Gala performing the actions of a sex goddess but never quite looking at me, me thrusting into her as a response, Dali moaning and yelling incoherent and surreal commands at me, Gala sucking my nipples, me thrusting, the anteater flicking its tongue, Dali smashing a potted plant with his cane, pouring wine over his expensive-looking suit, and then rolling around in the potting soil, Gala licking my underarms, me thrusting. Over and over this went. I have no concept of how long it lasted. Maybe five minutes, perhaps five hours, who could say; there was no before and there would be no after. There was only Gala, and there was no Gala. I was Sisyphus, and my impossible task was to thrust into an insane birdman’s brain until I became the riddle of my infant cock.

And then I came. I came like I had never came before. And when I came, Salvador Dali stood up, stared at the hotel room ceiling, and wept while speaking in tongues. Gala’s eyes again met mine. She smiled at me as the last of my cum shot inside her, gave me a single kiss, and then moved out from under me and ran to Dali and embraced him. The two of them fell on the floor atop the wrinkled rug and laid there. Her, nude and dripping with sexual fluids. Him, sweaty, fully clothed, covered with cheap wine and potting soil, and no doubt marked all over his body with cane shaped bruises.

I said something to them then; I don’t remember what it was, but neither of them turned their heads or seemed to notice me at all. They just laid on the floor in the dirt and muck and caressed each other’s faces while the anteater circled around them and flicked its tongue. So I put on my clothes and left.

It was not long after the night of that surreal sexual encounter that I left New York. I never talked to Salvador Dali or Gala again, and honestly, I did not ever want to. I moved to Canada and started a family with a plain-featured woman named Gayle. She and I have three sons and seven beautiful grandchildren.

Nowadays, I spend most of my time carving birds out of wood. It takes me hundreds of hours to complete a single bird. I make no money for my efforts, and I do not much enjoy the process or the end result. But idle hands are the Devil’s plaything, and there are forces out there that are far beyond anything a sane man can comprehend. Time (or lust) may be a flat circle, but I am 81 years old, and if I have to live this life over again, I want to make sure that I am not too overstimulated.

P.S. In 1963, Salvador Dali drew a sketch he titled Icarus. It depicts a winged figure three times on the same page, first rising, then having his wings meet the rays of the hot sun, and finally falling from the sky and crashing to the earth. If I had the money, I would buy that sketch and have it destroyed; I don’t much like folks drawing me without asking permission first. Bastard probably had the idea for it while I was fucking him in the head.