Fag Face by Zach Blas
I think about fag face sometimes when a cock is in my mouth, or an ass is pressed against my head, or cum runs down my chin.
That accusation, that claim that has been put upon my head by high school bullies, strangers, passers-by, college jokes, and now, experimental psychology units. A couple seconds, they read your head as a type of face, and then you’re “known.” All those sexual acts and styles of living become merely biological defects crystallized into a face. And it is a face to be corrected: with fag face, you can’t speak because you always have a cock in your mouth.
There is something inescapable about such an identification; there is the insinuation it starts at birth. That most visible, readable, and expressive feature—a head—is given one face. Fag face controls head-matter to visualize one interpretation.
But is not a head infinitely organizable? Those features that assemble together to make a face can be interpreted and evaluated endlessly, yet there is an inexhaustibility to any reading. The head always remains open. It must remain open. This openness is its facelessness.
Fag face mutates a head; it shifts and reorganizes flesh. The head tightens, pulls firmly together, closes off from the outside, and flattens into a singular knowability. It is a particular fag-ness, not the fag I might want to be with a community and lovers. This is a monolithic fag constructed, determined, and controlled by others.
Fag face captures me into an identity that is not my own, a grid that legislates me.
How do I escape this face? How do I desire to escape this gridding of my head? How can I open, make into a mystery, liberate my fag face?
Force the face forward. Bring the face to the limit of these grids, so that it can de-code its boundaries, break them open, to enter again into the swarming chaos of matter that resists recognition.
If fag fucking is what fag face visualizes to the other, push this further.
Accumulate cum so that your face becomes a volatile liquid surface with no eyes, nose, or mouth; keep the smell from rimming so that your face and ass are irreducible; let the pubic hair gather into different consistencies of stickiness; wipe the shit left on your fingers under your hidden, cum-filled eyes like war paint. Transform your face into a hypertrophized state of fag-ness. Let these new excesses dissolve readability. Let your fag face configure with these materials into that which is not identifiable.
Once 1000 cocks have cum on my head and 1000 asses have wiped their shit and sweat there, try to tell me what my face is.
We accelerate like this—fuck like this—to become faceless. Because a face is never ours.