Hassan's Rumpus room (2)

By William Burroughs


(Art work by Jotto)


Windowless cubicle with blue walls. Dirty pink curtain cover the door. Red bugs crawl on the wall, cluster in corners. Naked boy in the middle of the room twang a two-string ouad, trace an arabesque on the floor. Another boy lean back on the bed smoking keif and blow smoke over his erect cock. They play game with tarot cards on the bed to see who fuck who. Cheat, Fight. Roll on the floor snarling and spitting like young animals. The loser sit on the floor chin on knees, licks a broken tooth. The winner curls up on the bed pretending to sleep. Whenever the other boy come near kick at him. Ali seize him by one ankle, tuck the ankle under his arm pit, lock his arm around the calf. The boy kick desperately at Ali’s face. Other ankle pinioned. Ali tilt the boy back on his shoulders. The boy’s cock extends along his stomach, float free pulsing. Ali put his hands over his head. Spit on his cock. The other sighs deeply as Ali slides his cock in. The mouths grind together smearing blood. Sharp musty odor of penetrated rectum. Nimun drive in like a wedge, force jism out the other cock in long hot spurts. (The author has observed that Arab cocks to to be wide and wedge-shaped).




Satyr and naked Greek lad in aqualungs trace a ballet of pursuit in a monster vase of transparent alabaster. The Satyr catches the boy from in front and whirls him around. They move in fish jerks. The boy releases a silver stream of bubbles from his mouth. White sperm ejaculates into the green water and floats lazily around in twisting bodies.

Negro gently lifts exquisite Chinese boy into a hammock. He pushes the boy’s legs up over his head and straddles the hammock. He slides his cock up the boy’s slender tight ass. He rocks the hammock gently back and forth. The boy screams, a weird high wail of unendurable delight.

A Javanese dancer in ornate teak swivel chair, set in a socket of limestone buttocks, pulls an American boy ---read hair, bright green eyes --- down onto his cock with ritual motions. The boy sits impaled facing the dancer who propels himself in circular gyrations, lending fluid substance to the chair. “Weeeeeeeee!”screams the boy as his sperm spurt up over the dancer’s lean brown chest. One gob hit the corner of the dancer’s mouth. The boy push it in with his finger and laugh: “Man, that’s what I call suction!”

Two Arab women with bestial faces have pulled the shorts off a little blond French boy. They are screwing him with red rubber cocks. The boy snarls, bites, kicks, collapse in tears as his cock rises and ejaculates. Hassan’s face swells, tumescent with blood. His lips turn purple. He strip off his suit of banknotes and throw it into an open vault that closes soundless. “Freedom Hall here, folks!” he screams in his phoney Texas accent. Ten-gallon hat and cowboy boots still on, he dances the Liquefactionist Jig, ending with a grotesque can-can to the tune of She Started a Heat Wave.
“Let it be! And no holes barred!”

Couples attached to baroque harnesses with artificial wings copulate in the air, screaming like magpies. Aerialists ejaculate each other in space with one sure touch.

Equilibrists suck each other off deftly, balanced on perilous poles and chairs tilted over the void. A warm wind brings the smell of rivers and jungle from musty depths.

Boys by the hundred plummet through the roof, quivering and kicking at the end of ropes. The boys hang at different levels, some near the ceiling and others a few inches off the floor. Exquisite Balinese and Malays, Mexican Indians with fierce innocent faces and bright red gums. Negroes (teeth, fingers, toe nails and pubic hair gilded), Japanese boys smooth and white as China, Titian-haired Venetian lads. Americans with blond or black curls falling across the forehead (the guests tenderly shove it back) sulky blond Pollacks with animal brown eyes, Arab and Spanish street boys, Austrian boys pink and delicate with a faint shadow of blond pubic hair, sneering German youths with bright blue eyes scream “Heil Hitler!” as the trap falls under them. Sollubis shit and whimper.
Mr Rich-and-Vulgar chews his Havana lewd and nasty, sprawled on a Florida beach surrounded by simpering blond catamites:

“This citizen have a Latah he import from Indochina. He figure to hand the Latah and send a Xmas TV short to his friends. So he fix up two ropes --- one gimmicked to stretch, the other the real McCoy. But that Latah get up in feud state and put on his Santa Claus suit and make with the switcheroo. Come the dawning. The citizen put one rope on and the Latah, going along the way Latahs will put on the other. When the traps are down the citizen hand for real and the Latah stand with the carny-rubber stretch rope. Well, the Latah imitate every twitch and spasm. Come three times.
“Smart young Latah keep his eye on the ball. I got him working on one of my plants as an expeditor.”
Aztec priests strip blue feather robe from the Naked Youth. They bend him back over a limestone altar, fit a crystal skull over his head, securing in two hemispheres back and front with crystal screws. A waterfall pour over the skull snapping the boy’s neck. He ejaculate in a rainbow against the rising sun.




Sharp protein odor of semen fills the air. The guests run hands over twitching boys, suck their cocks, hang on their backs like vampires.

Naked lifeguards carry in iron-lungs full of paralyzed youths.

Blind boys grope out of huge pies, deteriorated schizophrenics pop from a rubber cunt, boys with horrible skin diseases rise from a black pond (sluggish fish nibble yellow turds on the surface).
A man with white tie and dress shirt, naked from the waist down except for black garters, talks to the Queen Bee in elegant tones. (Queen Bees are old women who surround themselves with fairies to form a “swarm.” It is a sinister Mexican practice.)

“But where is the statuary?” He talks out of one side of his face, the other is twisted by the Torture of a Million mirrors. He masturbates wildly. The Queen Bee continues the conversation, notices nothing.

Couches, chairs, the whole floor begins to vibrate, shaking the guests to blurred grey ghosts shrieking in cock-bound agony.



Two boys jacking off under a railroad bridge. The train shakes through their bodies, ejaculate them, fades with distant whistle. Frogs croak. The boys wash the semen off lean brown stomachs.

Train compartment: two sick young junkies on their way to Lexington tear their pants down in convulsions of lust. One of them soaps his cock and works it up the other’s ass with a corkscrew motion. “Jeeeeeeeeeeee- sus!” Both ejaculate at once standing up. They move away from each other and pull up their pants.

“Old coraker in Marshall writes for tincture and sweet oil.”
“The piles of an aged mother shriek out raw and bleeding for the Black Shit…. Doc, suppose it was your mother, rimmed by resident leaches, squirming around so nasty…. Deactivate that pelvis, mom, you disgust me already.”
“Let’s stop over and make him for an RX.”
The train  tears on through the smoky, neon-lighted June night.
Pictures of men and women, boys and girls, animals, fish, birds, the copulating rhythm of the universe flows through the room, a great blue tide of life. Vibrating, soundless hum of deep forest --- sudden quiet of cities when the junky copes. A moment of stillness and wonder. Even the Commuter buzzes clogged lines of cholesterol for contact.


Go here for the first part.

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