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yichudim—“unifications”; secret knowledge, divine gifts gained through meditation in the Chasidic, kabbalistic tradition
XXIX
— Damn smokers cough, gasped Grandpa when I brought him his coffee and brandy in bed. Do me a favor and piss in my mouth, mite.
I opened my fly and lightened my bladder. Grandpa squatted to receive it then gargled with his eyes shut.
— You certainly can piss, little Ficedula hypoleuca, but it takes a fucking sumppump to suck the sperm out of you! he griped and spanked me. Me now, I had sperm coming out my ears when I was your age! hooboy! I could both give and take a squirt! I was their fucking Helen, I swear to God! They were on me like blowflies on syrup spilled over a festeringwound! Of course, I only fooled around with them if they treated me nice, otherwise the narcoho-mos could go blow themselves! Yes, I frolicked and fell away from the Word of God with a pocket of cocksocks spurted full to the brim, so you can see why some of those buggerfiends got jealous, the devilqueers! I enjoyed myself so fucking much the memory still makes be blush!
— You don’t say?
— One day, I got word that the Old King was in Skaeliptom hunting waxwings with gutstring. He was scalding hot, ready to come down on me like a hurricane. But the Little King gave me a sign and warned me. So I prettied myself up as much as I could, shaved my balls and powdered my ass. I remember it was Milky-John who curled my hair, because Frusse was in doing some rehab shit. By the by, did I ever tell you about how I bit Milky-John’s cock off on Walpurgis Night all those hebbers-years ago?
Without waiting for my answer he went on:
— That night we were horny as pigs. We’d gone skijoring on a truck bound for Spännarberget, because we were slated to play a game of bumhook with the Gideonites. I was wearing a rough sheepskincoat, rubber snowboots, and moleskinpants, a shagcap and some fancy leathergloves. As luck would have it, though, me and Milky-John were both headoverheels for a sardonic little permobilwarf named Leif. He was one of the chosen few, he could crack a Rosita with his ass. Anyway, we were both assoverend, but you should know that that dollarstorewhore made the rounds kissing and karasarting with the dwarf and frankly it made me a little sick. Plus, he’d always been a burr-in-the-ass knowitall, and you know I can get pretty jumpy when I’m horny. That’s something I’ll freely admit. So anyway, we started brawling and John took a hunk of out of my back. But we finally agreed on a triangle and I began it by licking Milky-John’s chapped flange. But you know what that dumbfuck did next?! He started shouting about bottlefed lambs, hinting I sucked cock like a goitresick deacon. Then he sung in a snotty voice, “who can suck without slurping,who can flay without nails?” so I swallowed his pole whole and gulped his eggs. Then I bit them all off like a rabid badger and ate them up like a bootlegger.
I made my eyes wide and Grandpa lit two black Blends.
— I’ll never forget the look on his face when he figured out I’d just severed his salvation, Grandpa giggled. His face was as gray as Auntie Eskil’s roughest pube. Of course, I was choking with laughter, but John was so thickskinned he barely whimpered. Since then, though, he’s become the worst sort of homebody, a real brownnoser. But you know, it was like Leif and I were meant for each other. It was too bad he had diarrhea most of the time. I sold him to Sixteen Lammby, the trashpeddler, who was into dwarftossing. Poor Leif, it didn’t take much to make him puke, but he could tear up a cock like nobody’s business. Kissing him was like taking a mudbath, Grandpa reminisced dreamily. His tongue was slimy as a wombat’s ballsack and his saliva tasted like catpiss. I’m not ashamed to admit it gets me right here, right in the pants, just thinking about it.
— But Grandpa, what about the Old King?
— Come and sit on my knee, girlyboy, Grandpa said coaxingly, and I didn’t have much choice in the matter. It looked like the Old King was just gaga for the Uberrace. “I just want one night of your homespun ass,” the Old King, Mr. G, croaked as he rammed me with a tennis racket. He drywanked like that for about an hour until his Little Prince wept blood. Then he started to sob. “I wonder … might the king blow?” I asked. “You taste like fermented herring,” the King said, going all sham elegant and smacking his lips. He gave head like a girl, though, and I didn’t know whetherto laugh or cry. He was so fucking sweet I just didn’t have the heart to cum. So I smeared my cock with ricotta and planted it in His Majesty’s fungoidal lovetunnel. “This is one girl who can’t take it anymore,” Mr. G wept. You know, of course, that he was an archeologist. While I fucked him like a vole, he spouted some papist bullshit about balanitis’s conquest of Jericho. Next day, he was so sore he couldn’t walk. But did the Old King have the grace to say thank you, my boy, job well done? No sir! He refused to acknowledge me. It seems he was ashamed and regretted our lovely time together. “Don’t make a dirty mess of yourself with a woman, whatever you do!” he shouted as he left. The Old King may have been a tatty old sow, but he made me a man. I knew he liked Negro spirituals, so I sang “Give Me that Old Gay Religion” every time he got what he was begging for. But the brokendown old bugger was as ungracious as Satan himself.
As the story ended, Grandpa shook off his sorrow and anger. He let his gnarled pettingfinger glide from my navel to my cock, which stood upright to meet him.
— Now imitate the Little King, mite, he demanded and licked my left earlobe.
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Ficedula hypoleuca — the pied flycatcher
Old King — Gustav V
Little King — Prince Carl Philip
who can suck without slurping — allusion to a Swedish sentimental song “Vem kan segla föruten vind” (“Who can sail without wind”) Skaeliptom — earliest known name for Skellefteå
Spännarberget — in Kåge
bumhook — a game like Indian leg wrestling
karasara — Swedish, a woman who likes to hop from one man to the next
balanitis — inflammation of the foreskin and head of the penis
XXX
Grandpa and I were on our way to Stålberget to burn Siegfried Israel — sson to death in his house, and were following the animal trail countless generations of alcoholics had beaten through the brush. On our way, we passed through a jumble of stones dotted with gnarled pines. A goshawk was riding the barebreasted sky. At a bend in the path, we stumbled on an angry fortysomething in a redcheckered shirt and carpenters pants. Flushed and enraged, he was uncombed and unshaved. He’d been laying in wait. When he saw us, he whipped his pants off. He grabbed Grandpa, who was shedding his skin just then, not a pretty sight, let me tell you, and bent him double.
— Let’s see your liceridden ass, you old fogy.
I drew my Lapp knife and got ready for some hand-to-hand combat, but Grandpa shrieked like a stonewalled stockbroker: “Stay back, boy! this doesn’t concern you!” I obeyed and backed off a few meters. Still, I couldn’t look away. The guy had a huge, unabashadly magnificent cock. He went down on his knees and pushed in until he was up to his balls in my Grandpas ass.
— You give me any apeshit and I’ll fistfuck you with my rough lumberjackglove!
Grandpa had to grab a pineroot with both hands to help him take the rawfuck coming his way. He opened and shut his eyes, lewdly rotated his hips. But the big laborer wasn’t into that kind of nonsense. He grabbed Grandpa’s hips hard, forced him to hold still, and impaled him again and again with his furious, explosive cock. It was a good plan … Draw back and shoot forward, retreat and attack … Like Mundelföri twirling his firewhisk in chaos … Grandpas hornjuices squished, he blathered and yodeled … You could hear it for miles …