The Ed Gein College of Evisceration

[Published in Dead Things]

There is no better feeling in the world than frolicking naked in bed with another man, but on that particular morning I reluctantly chose to abandon Justin's erection, for it was to be my first day as a student at the Ed Gein College of Evisceration.
"Come back to bed, Peter," Justin begged me, "you can't leave me like this."
I believe that I should place a definite emphasis on the word reluctantly which I aforementioned, for my libido was trying its damnedest to tug me back in the direction of Justin's delicious form. Tea and toast was victorious -- absurd, isn't it?
My first day proved to be quite a disaster, the main reason being that I inadvertently sliced out the intestines of a mature student by the name of Cornelius Box. It served him right for having such a quaintly unusual name, I thought. I ought to have known that I was committing an awful faux pas, because the fellow was still alive and breathing, and as I performed the gruesome task he screamed and screamed and screamed. Silly of me really. The authorities took a lenient view of the unfortunate incident, stating that as it was a mere mature student it wasn't so important. As they ticked me off -- sort of gave me the yellow card in football terms -- they proceeded to relate the tale of 'Mad' Edwin O'Hara, who unintentionally decapitated his tutor during a practical examination. They took a very dim view of that, as it involved a member of staff, and O'Hara was subsequently deprived of his windpipe and used as a subject in a first year bone-stripping operation.
I arrived home greatly annoyed, wondering how on earth I was going to remove congealed blood from my Caterpillar boots. However, this was nothing -- absolute zilch -- compared with the scene that greeted me in the flat.
Justin's mind must have gone haywire, for he had scrawled 'HIV' in black marker all over, in every conceivable place, big letters glaring at me accusingly, making me feel like some ghastly leper. I never saw him again, and I underwent a test as soon as I could, proving much to my relief that I was okay. Some time later I read his obituary in the local newspaper, and smirked.
Mr Taylor was an excellent tutor. We had some right old larks with him, he was a real character. He wore a white overall that was always smeared with blood -- designer blood, we called it. He spoke at a rapid pace, and it sounded as if he was using rude words, which he was most of the time. His eyebrows were so thick with hair that they appeared to meet not only in the middle but around the back of his head as well. On my second day he presented me with a special gift, a pickled penis in a coffee jar -- Maxwell House, I think it had been. I treasured it, and I quickly developed a crush on Mr Taylor, which met with disappointment. Some of the most attractive men are not gay.
"This afternoon we will move on to heart removal," Mr Taylor enthused, his words spewing forth at an incredible speed.
I couldn't wait.
During my lunch hour I took the liberty of leaving the college to visit the clinic, as the letters 'HIV' were still lingering within my mind at that time. After calling at a fast food establishment for a burger which was so thick I could barely wrap my lips around its girth and eventually tossed into a waste receptacle, good citizen as I am, I happened to pass the Doc Marten store on Market Street. I froze on the spot -- well, not exactly froze, I don't mean that I turned to ice, I was just sort of petrified.
He was alone, but I recognised him as one of the queer-bashers who had given Justin and I a severe kicking the week previously. Prejudice still prevails in this jungle of a city. I hesitated, but the surgical instrument inside my pocket gave me strength to confront the wicked fellow, so I sauntered into the store after him.
He was a brute, ugly and intimidating, with muscles on his breath. He was in the process of inspecting a selection of fierce-looking boots with steel toe-caps, presumably with the intention of delivering punishment to further homosexuals. I approached, adopting a macho demeanour, which was difficult to do. The monster glanced my way -- I had arrived in Hell.
"What are you staring at?" he enquired, without politeness, almost spitting out the words and snarling simultaneously. The way he was clenching his fists was not to my liking, and I began to regret being born.
He hadn't recognised me, but then why should he, for it was only his boots that had been introduced to my features. I produced the weapon from my pocket, and he laughed. Hearty and jovial. The deep shit I was in resembled a quagmire of quicksand.
My saviour arrived in the form of a hirsute librarian-type who darted from behind some Air Ware soft soles and started to hit the brute over the head with a small but impressive lump hammer until his brains were exposed, what there was of them.
"Payback is sweet," said the hammer-man, "that'll teach you not to pick on poor unsuspecting homosexuals."
"Where did you learn how to do that?" I asked him.
He smiled and gazed into my eyes. "The Peter Sutcliffe University of Hammer Bashing."
I was in love.
His name was Gareth. I've always had a thing about bears. All that lovely hair, it's so sensuous. I adored nestling upon his chest, cuddling up to his curls, stroking his pubic mass. I promised to never, ever leave his erection to go to college.
However, the array of hammers in his bedroom was extremely disturbing. They came in all kinds of shapes and sizes, I'm sure he must have had one for every day of the year. And he was so efficient, his forte being extracting brains from dead cats. They weren't dead when he began playing with them, but who was I to argue. Sex was fantastic with Gareth -- KY Heaven, it was. I had to leave him in the end though, especially after the night he dreamt he was smashing the shit out of a hedgehog with his favourite claw hammer. I was the hedgehog.
My evisceration skills were developing rapidly, and I was becoming quite competent in that field. One day Mr Taylor instructed us to partner up, and I was lumbered with the freakish Lynette Quick. That woman was larger than a dart-player, and it was rumoured that she left turds as big as torpedoes beyond that door marked WOMEN. She was hindering me so much that I slit her throat and used her reddening body as my subject for the day. Mr Taylor chuckled, and gave me extra marks for initiative.
I reflect on that first year at the Ed Gein College of Evisceration with tremendous affection, I thoroughly enjoyed the lessons and the charming people I met there. I had never encountered such a delightfully bloodthirsty lot! The turning point for me was when the alluring Clarence Bridges joined the class after the Christmas break. He'd been transferred from the Albert DeSalvo Institute of Strangulation following a regrettable incident involving some cheese wire and the head tutor's daughter. He and I were carving up a dead street beggar one rainy afternoon when he suddenly made a pass at me. I'm not certain if it was intentional -- he unzipped me and wrapped his warm fingers around my throbber -- but I reacted favourably, and the rest is history.
Clarence and I made love incessantly -- he was relentless, and I loved it. We spent many a lunch break performing an elaborate soixante-neuf in the darkened walk-in cupboard where they stored the unwanted entrails. Several springs snapped on my bed, and his also, and there was a pleasant absence of hammers in his boudoir. He introduced me to the pleasures of erotic asphyxiation, a technique he acquired during his time at Albert DeSalvo's, and those fingers around my throat caused great dizziness combined with a sensational euphoria. I was ejaculating on to cloud nine.
We both achieved a distinction from the college, which called for a celebration, so Clarence and I went out for a Chinese and several ciders. On the way home we beat the fuck out of a heterosexual, with me slitting him open with an ultra-sharp implement and Clarence strangling him to oblivion with piano wire. We laughed about that all the way home.
Accompanied by another friend -- Jack Daniels -- we splattered Clarence's bedroom walls with sperm before falling into a welcoming slumber. In my dreams I pictured decapitated heads and warm entrails and bloody bones, which proved what an enjoyable evening I had experienced. The next morning I awoke with an enormous hangover, which was quite understandable, and my right arm felt surprisingly numb. I rubbed the crust from my eyes and observed the bleeding stump just below my shoulder. I didn't cry out, instead watching as Clarence appeared in the doorway.
"You taste good," he remarked, licking blood from his fingers.
Cold sunlight streamed into the room as I contemplated the situation. "Where did you learn how to do that?"
"The Jeffrey Dahmer School of Cannibalism."
I never laughed so much in my life.