HELL

And Hell is an endless boardwalk, which is other people's Heaven. All I can see of it is the few feet in front of the shabby stall where I hang, crucificial.

The young stud angels who pass by with two girls on each arm stop and pay the girl $5 to step up and punch me in the belly. I mean right in the belly, while their chippy little girlfriends watch the whole bellybeating go down. Lush, tart sluts with soft hips and batted lashes and bare bellies. Belly-Button Barbies watch me get punched in my belly. Laughing me and approving him.

It's a carny game: pin the punch on the stomach. Throw the hardball at the milk bottles. Throw your fist at the bread-basket.

And it was my job, in Hell, which is some other people's Heaven, to hang in that booth day and night, belly out and bare. Bare-bellied punching bag: Bellypunch Boy. Belly-branded by the live coals in the eyes of the pretty girls watching me beat up. Sparks of desire for the man who manhandles me. Here in Hell. Or is it Heaven?