The best part about being a clown is not the opportunity to make a child’s day. It’s not the abundance of novelty-sized lollipops, the elephants, or the fact that I’m constantly in a good mood because the smell of balloons satisfies my rubber fetish. The best part about being a clown is that I can use that hilarious slide whistle thing during sex, and no one judges me for it.

People thought I was crazy when I told them I was going into clowning. I decided to take the art seriously after enrolling in Clowning: The Art of Clowning, during my last year at the University of Iowa, where I was receiving my MFA in nonfiction writing. It fulfilled a curious P.E. credit and was writing intensive, plus I was looking for an easy semester of hopping around on a pogo stick and upsetting people on the street with dramatic, angry facial make-up. I always saw myself as a mean clown–not one of those oblivious funsters who leads children into believing that life is just one big fucking blast. It ain’t, honk.

So I took the class and purchased a whistle, a Ronad McDonald-red wig, some white and black make-up, and I called myself The Amazing Depression. I painted large, black stars around my eyes and a dramatic frown around my mouth. Part of my act then involved telling children to think extra hard before smiling and to remember that there are kids in this world born without the muscles needed to smile and that they should be sensitive of this fact. I told them that they would never know when they are around one of these unsmiling children and that they wouldn’t want to upset one by doing something these disabled children couldn’t. I saw how much kids respected and trusted me–how much they didn’t smile when they were around me–and I liked that.

Finding my inner clown was great. I graduated and immediately got a job as a depressed dolt for a corporate traveling circus that offered 401k, health benefits, and fat bonuses whenever we went ten shows without an audience member death. It was during this time when I was exposed to the true appeal of clowning: At the underbelly of the beast–once you really get into the clowning scene–there’s a hell of a lot of silly sex going on.

If you knew about the number of underground circus orgies that clowns have weekly, your head would jump away from your body and emit a humorous BOOOOINNNNNG. Every night, the sex parties have a new theme: one night it’s The Sexcorist: Clowning With The Devil, the next it might be a Dia De Los Muertos-themed romp. We’ve even appeased my literary senses with a Great Gatsby-era clown fuck, wherein we change the flashing red light on top of the clown car to a green bulb and sip on straight gin. On one occasion, I believe this was on Let’s See How Many Clowns Can Get Freaky In This Very Tiny British Car Wednesday, I met a clown from Toledo who taught me the most sacred clown sex move. It’s called the Froooooooop! and it involves a goat, three wisemen, and exceptional timing. It’s a bit intricate, I admit, but if you can pull it off, your life will never be the same. Tonight I’m going to a party with a couple of non-clown friends. I’ll leave early so that I can hit up one of the bacchanals before bed. I haven’t told my non-clown friends yet the real reason I’m a clown. Part of me thinks I never will.

–Jason Zabel