Hot Jock Shot Wad from Wisconsin 11/85 Saturday the 3rd


Hot Jock Shot Wad from Wisconsin 11/85 Saturday the 3rd
In 1985, Dexter Stefonek, a 78 year-old man,
is killed while traveling
from Oregon to Wisconsin.

It’s winter. He chooses to save
time by stopping at rest stops to sleep.
“Hot Jock Shot Wad from Wisconsin 11/85 Saturday the 3 rd”
is written on the rest stop bathroom wall, a cryptic phrase,
maybe a clue.

Police discover it months
after they discover
Dexter Stefonek’s car burning,
just after his body is discovered

at a county dump, his shoes hanging out
of a pile of garbage, his legs, his body
hidden frozen within the pile.

According to the internet
and also to the office
of Orrin Hatch, who was mocked online
for using the phrase publicly
in August 2017

“shot your wad”
comes from the Civil War era and refers to
shooting a plug of cloth
rather than a bullet
from a musket: i.e., an ineffective shot
a shot where you fucked up and wasted it.

But we all know
that if you write on a bathroom wall
that somebody has shot their wad
you’re probably referring to cumming.

Maybe to masturbation
rather than to sex
but the musket is definitely a dick.

There is even more mystery, though.
The dates are wrong.
Dexter Stefonek’s car was found
burning on November 19, 1985, not November third.

November third, then, must’ve marked a parallel, a time-split.

A hot jock from Wisconsin shot his wad
in the bathroom stall. Possibly into the mouth
of another man. Possibly into the hand of
another man. Possibly into their own hand,
wishing for a different hand, a hand
that wasn’t theirs and that was therefore
less predictable and that would have
taken away the burden of being in control
of each motion, of getting oneself to cum as
opposed to being made to cum.

Being made to cum is not always
better but in a bathroom
stall in Montana in the winter I think it is better.

In this scenario
someone refers to himself as “hot jock,”
which seems surprising. Perhaps this was intended
as a seed: suggest on a bathroom
wall that there is sometimes
a hot jock there
and then perhaps there will be.
Orrin Hatch was mocked
for saying
that other Republicans
had “shot their wad”
with regard to a series
of defeated health care bills.

The health care bills
wanted to make health care even shittier,
to make life and
the relationship to
one’s body even more stressful
so that it would be less
and less likely
that one could sadly
or agitatedly
or happily
or thoughtlessly
shoot one’s wad
in a restroom stall
and more and more likely
that one would
like Dexter Stefonek
be kidnapped
and shot twice
and left
at an icy garbage dump.

In this world
the world in which we lose
healthcare and other services
even more quickly than we are
it is definitely more likely your
car will be set on fire
your foot will be spotted
sticking out from under an old couch,
your body will no longer be animated.

A friend got caught by a cop
writing “Bernie would have won”
in a rest stop bathroom. I.e., enacting a
spell.

That world would be a different world.
There are many possible worlds,
some better some worse than that phrase would suggest.

In one world everyone is
sad about the deaths of their loved ones
but cross-country trips do not exist,
Montana does not exist,
springtime does not exist.

In this world
you don’t have to jerk yourself off
but you’re not jerked off by anyone
else either.

You can touch your dick yourself
or you can thrust it into the world
and the world manifests not as loose air but
a sloppy wet mouth
a rectum
spit-covered labial folds

a spongey warm pocket

a small calloused hand.
You thrust into the world,
you the hot jock
and you shoot your wad.

My current favorite memory to “shoot my wad” to is:
a man pulls out to avoid cumming
to keep lasting and make a game of it
but cannot help but cum accidentally
sitting in front of me
with his legs folded underneath him, thighs
shaking, spurting into a condom
without touching himself or me.
Just a dick, not being touched,
no longer inside of anything, quivering
and filling a condom head.

This man was definitely not
Dexter Stefonek, since Dexter Stefonek
is dead. But this man came into the aether
suggesting the possibility
of a world in which Dexter
Stefonek would never have died.

The theory of the homunculus—a
sixteenth-century speculation
about how a fetus came to be—
suggested that cum was composed
of tiny men. Tiny little humans.

So in shooting our hot
wads we’re shooting out people.
Little men who might
escape the condom
not to cream on a hand
or in an ass
but instead to populate
the world
to fill it
with
tiny helper-elves, helper-elves
who would’ve, as
Dexter Stefonek shot his wad
in the rest station bathroom
left the restroom
stopped the killer
a man of a least six feet
with a pale complexion
who was later seen pulling
up behind Stefonek’s empty car .

The homunculi
might’ve restrained the killer
whispering warnings into his ears
and when he did not heed these warnings
chomped into his flesh
repeatedly until he melted into the snow
and dissolved into the bellies
of the homunculi
strengthening them for more good
deeds.

In this world Dexter
Stefonek lives another couple years
shooting wads where he likes
quivering and cumming
driving across the isolated
stretch from Oregon to Wisconsin
over and over again.

Note: this poem is from a manuscript titled Unsolved Mysteries, which is about a number of unsolved mysteries, including those from the TV show of the same name. Dexter Stefonek’s case appeared in Season 1, Episode 12.

Marie Buck

Marie Buck's most recent collection of poems is Goodnight, Marie, May God Have Mercy on Your Soul (Roof, 2016). She is the managing editor and online literary editor at Social Text and lives in Brooklyn.