Friday, September 12, 2014

WHEREABOUTS UNKNOWN

I’m chaperoning Opium at the jammed apartment of Fil’s father, Max. We’re wedged into his pack rat life, a shabby little place in Christie Pits, owned by the noisy Porkchops yabbering downstairs. A lot of incandescent lights are on, red paisley pattern wallpaper. Tables and bed are supported by boxes of third and fourth hand war books every chairborne commando must own. A raft of plastic bags fills one corner.
Max always asks me about his son and I never reply.
He nods and mumbles, “Filmore P. Mann. Whereabouts unknown.”

Opium picks her way through this overheated overstuffed crap pad, idly scoping tiny soldier figurines and boxes of hot rod postcards. Her black hair is in long pigtails with plastic devil barrettes. She wears Oxfords, white knee socks, kids training pants and a child-size wifebeater, as if about to finish dressing in a navy blue pinafore with sky blue ribbons. She sucks on a lollipop while examining Max’s collection of scale model WWII British fighter planes hung from the ceiling by fishing wire.

Max is missing his left hand from mid-wrist. I’ve heard a bunch of different versions how it happened, from an inexplicable cleaver attack to the extremely rare Doctor Strangelove Syndrome, where the hand was removed because it kept trying to tear out his throat.

Currently he’s using an old fleshtone prosthesis bought at a garage sale after losing his yearly allotment. The losses are down to Max getting boozed up and taking it off to play up some drunken gag then leaving it on the bar.

Pensioned off from the Transit Commission’s ideological purity division years ago, he whiles away his days building dildo attachments adapted to fit onto a universally swiveling mount he sticks over his stump, custom braced all the way up to the elbow. His dildo arm is twice as thick as his drinking and smoking arm so he’s ended up looking like a tennis player.

Max’s Friday night visits from Opium have been going on for quite a time  – months, I guess. To truly get off, he requires a very specific set up. She must wear her child’s underthings and sit in the oversized wingback opposite him, feet dangling as she reads aloud from a dumbed down fairy tale collection – one of those volumes with the pop-up 3D characters. Max then playfully menaces her with one of his dildo attachments, making it rev up and down with suggestive zings. She smiles shyly and continues to read, slow and unsure, as a child of five might. After about ten minutes of this warm-up, Max discreetly wacks off under a big coffee table volume full of those grainy old trench warfare photos from Passchendaele. Opium pretends not to notice.

Cooking up a shot, I watch Max fuck around with his latest contraption, “The Dildonator.” He’s used the mechanism from a reciprocating saw with a massive twelve-inch red rubber dong mounted on a metal shaft. The thing’s thick as the business end of a Louisville slugger. It’s powered by thick cables running to a 12 volt car battery sitting on the floor.

He plans to patent and market his creation through “gentlemen’s magazines.” This new device not only pounds up and down but he’s installed a mini gyroscope to effect random wiggles, waggles and figure eights. Max has been badgering me to ask Opium to take a test drive. Yeah, that’ll work. The chick’s got like an eighteen waist.
“Approximates skilled fornication method,” Max blurts as he waves it around.

He hits an On switch zip-tied to his upper arm and the dong begins a slow articulated rhumba. A hollow section in the middle is full of colored plastic beads. They rattle and clatter as a blue-lit greeting card diode plays the Average White Band tune, Cut The Cake. The thing does in fact wiggle, waggle and wondrously worm its way through a snappy little routine. Opium doesn’t look up from her fairy tales.

After a minute or so the Dildonator seems to get stuck and repeatedly swivels to the left. The motor whines as the mega-dong angrily pogos up and down, as if throwing a tantrum. Max hits the off switch but no dice. The beast howls and dervishes. Its centrifugal force almost throws him out of his wheelchair. Max strains and battles to unlock it from the gyrating base. It’s clamped on tight. He yowls in pain as the thing almost twists off a finger.

The motor bursts into flame, igniting the sparkle-filled red rubber phallus. It quickly liquefies black. Max shrieks as molten effluent runs down to his forearm. I grab the loco dong with the sleeves of my jacket and try to tear it off him. The thing deforms in my hands, its slimy napalm ooze sticking to me and anything else it touches. Pieces of it drip and run onto the carpet. The rug catches fire. I stamp on it but the goop comes up in flaming strings stuck to my boot.

Opium finally springs into action.
“Don’t get water!” I holler. “It’s an electrical fire.”
“What then?!” she yells from the kitchen.
“Something powder! Baking soda. Anything!”

I grab a dirty towel off the floor and swat at my sleeve, now going up. The dong motor spins and screeches. I duck as it hurls its remaining guts in a wild 360. The distended nightmare glob twists and sizzles, strung between me, Max and his chair. He screams again as the dong splatters more flaming black rubber at his face. I try to corral it with the towel. It goes up too, a fiery white flag.

“Hurry the fuck up!” I yell just as me, Max and the rabid dong get hit with a choking cloud of laundry powder. The light blue crystals clump and smoke but finally kill the melted remains of the haywire dildo. The monster buzzes and burps a final time.

Opium stands there, jumbo detergent box in her hands. She wears an astonished grin. Max shrugs, sheepish, picks at the bits of melted rubber stuck to his glasses.
Babalon - Javier Pinon

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

HALF A PLANE TICKET

So you're just gonna pussy out on me.
I knew this was another bullshit trip,
like last time,
you cheap little punk.

All fuckin talk.
News flash:
THE FIRE IS THE FIRE
You cannot beg, borrow, buy or steal
THE FIRE

Face it.
You got no fire cuz you are gruesome enough to believe you are the fire.
The fire lives through us, not for us and you ain't us.
You're an old hetero dude with a few bucks.

You want trust?
You disrespectful little cocksucker.
I should call up some real people to come meet you for a dance.

Think back to 13 months ago when you wanted rights to MR as collateral.
Think back further when i set shit up and you said,
"Oh yeah, that's no problem. I'm in for that. I'll cover that."
Then you cheaped out, like every other nouveau riche middle class skinflint.

In the end,
you crave
MY FIRE
cuz you got none.
But MY FIRE is not mine, you dumb fuck.
MY FIRE is bestowed and lovely
and burns me to the core with her silence.
MY FIRE is kind and monstrous,
venal and delicate.
She gives me her perfect laceration across my ass I work hard
to keep in shape so she might consider me worthy.

And you want to peer up on pussy and whores and women?
You're a "pipsqueak" john with a big mouth,
worried about some fuckin legislation of all things.
Really?
You're gonna bring on a legal Whorepocalypse?
(btw, your brand name doesn't exactly roll off the tongue)

You haven't got the balls, boy boy.
If you did, you'd have begged to worship at her altar
when I'd introduced you to her emissary.
You'd have torn your heart from your chest
and sucked her fiery cunt, 
prayed to be engulfed.
You would have shown modesty and comportment.

But you stuck up your hubrisizer nose and
tried to buy her, rent her, pay her.

You can't hide your terror
she would shatter your tight little virgin ass,
enslave you,
make the fire burn in your eye for HER deeds

Instead, you missed the chance to beg and
ran to mummy porkchop frozen little hometown familiarity.
The world is bigger than Calvinburgh, son.

It's funny you're all Joe Lud now after you made
your pile off machines and digital snake oil.
Speaking of which,
sweetheart,
you write like someone who's not a writer,
a fucking dilettante.
I thought you knew better.
Break your own fingers before it's too late.

Your Lud geekery reads like L Ron Hubbard.
At least he made money off his nonsense.
You haven't made MONEY off your ideas since Z held your hand.

A Bangkok cab driver makes more money in one night than
your awesomely Thelemic ideas have made in a decade or more.

And yes, virgin cocksucker, we all make money as we
worship our Great Whore of the East.
And my profits grow geometrically cuz me and mine provide
A SERVICE.
What buyers WANT AND NEED.

WANT AND NEED, little fella, WANT AND NEED.

We offer luscious pussy and twitching hard cock,
smooth hairless bodies and lavender scented lips
and clamped nipples and pussies full of oiled leash and

scarlet binding cords and long tongues and deep
fingers and painted hands and feet and necks and breasts
and shaved painted pussies, clits dyed Mars black and

cocks entwined and enchained with reigns in her fist
and asses slammed and legs spread flat wide and mischievous
laughter and long hissing moans and groans and

face fucked to puking and thanking cunt blossom clits hard
as tiny stones and all the kings horses and all the kings dogs
and gushing rivers of girl cum and lashing rain of hot boy cum

and gspot banging strapons and power mad dildos and
age and youth and candles dripping and whips snapping
and deep menstrual sugar and spice and everything so
so very nice...

All YOU have done is LOSE MONEY AND PAY SALARIES.
It's hideous watching you pay yes men to pad your bad money losing ideas.

You're an ex porn dude without any relevant porn.
That's it.
Not a pimp and not a whore.
Not even a criminal.

You offered me half a plane ticket to
come over there and let you jerk off on my sleeve,
let you peer up with me,
let you pretend you're a pussy slammin whore junkie excon monster freak show
who is gonna rule a world of pain.

This from a guy who haggled over a $20 blow job
in the pre-dawn parking lot of a Lisbon McDonald's.
Remember? Remember I slid way down in the passenger seat
of your rent-a-car while you whined at the transsexual whore
and even she was embarrassed at your parsimony.

And now you boast you will do great evil.
You will be a moral vacuum.
Outcome: Paying a couple bucks extra so you can slap some 250 pound
Hamilton hosebag who needs $40 for smokes, beer and a 10 dollar rock.

I don't know why I thought you might actually do something
instead of jerking off with a dozen different dead ends.
I guess cuz of history, long ago, recalling how you used to
not be right about everything all the time everywhere and
you actually even did some stuff other than
shoot your mouth off about how rich.

Come and play in the big leagues,
you dipstick,
show some balls,
not stick close to mummy porkchop in your shit hole small town.
Don't worry, I'll protect you.

Come crawl before the Great Whore of the East.
What will happen is happening here.

It ain't gonna happen inside your head,
not on some dismal machine,
not in your L Ron Hubbard impersonation.

Come worship at her altar, you offensive little cocksucker.
No more dancing around naked with your little red plastic
Satan horns headband,
your little dick flapping.

Drop that corny shit and come crawl
and learn and begin by licking out
the cum buckets of our highly evolved
gangbang Saturday nights.

You might even meet someone nice.

So come take Satan's circular shaft,
down to your lungs and up to your throat.

Show some fucking humility, man,
don't be so goddamn uncool.
Serve the eternal cunt,
like an honest man begs to do.

Thelemics begin with you getting ass fucked really well.
The blood of despair and knowledge pouring from your virgin ass.
Don't worry, I know just the ladyboy to help you out.

She's very beautiful and has a big beautiful cock you'll ride 7 beautiful times.
Your voice will lilt and sing and praise and chant as you squirt like a girl.

C'mon, I'll buy you half a plane ticket.
The offer stands.



Sunday, August 31, 2014

I WISH YOU WERE HERE WITH ME

I wish you were here with me.
I could use you right about now.
Use the ass off you.
We’d talk and fuck and perv, think up shit,
patiently show you how to bind male genitals,
female genitals as you add your own stylistic embellishments.
Bound open pussy… the aesthetics are undeniable.
Put on a sprig of mistletoe & you’d make a pretty great
Xmas card,
wide open hole of desire,
the pink and the black.
The red cord pulls your lips apart,
pulls your ass cheeks apart,
strains open the everything of everything right apart
as you tease me in a language of underwater groans:
“Doncha just luv the power of submission, darlin…”
yes baby…
I could use some of your switched on pervin’ right about now.
In this particular now I’d live in your perfect asshole,
your waterfall cum gush onto my swollen balls you’ve beaten and sucked and bitten.
And your big brain makes sure you
don’t get on my nerves
cuz you pull out some book
and read to me,
make me giggle like a girl and make me remember I am very very old.
Side of my face laid on your shaved cunt
your motherly mothering hand strokes my neck
and I murmur about the scent of your cum glistening inside your soft thighs.
You read to me about Horace and his aged slattern whores,
his huge big heart for loving pussy and loving
whores and the sound of desperately holding off daylight.
And your hot snob ass casually tosses off lines about Schopenhauer.
You amuse me with a mockery of his romance-as-bio-imperative shtick.
You put on a serious face and you put on an academicky voice,
insist you remain unconvinced by his thesis.
Best of all,
you stop and turn right at me in bed and ask with all sincerity:
“If he’s right, then why do women become hornier and hotter and sexier and such a better fuck and such a better cocksucker and ass fucker and cum so much harder and more three dimensionally when they become older and it’s got nothing at all to do with being bated by romance into otherwise unwanted babymaking?”
I reply to you: “I guess he was wrong.”
And you laugh a hard-on laugh, an aching begging, come serve my snatch custom built hard-on with your name on it laugh.
I wish you were here with me
cuz I just woke up 3 in the afternoon
overlooking the filthy black river.
It’s still monsoon season,
thunderheads butt above,
fight it out over the Gulf….
Naked people on rooftops drenched
as lovers strangle one another in a deafening rain.





Wednesday, August 27, 2014

FOR WE ARE ROAD MEN...

I’m still in mourning over the fascists' abduction of my Suzi and remain unsure. I’ve been a Suzuki freak a long time. Dogman lays a gentle hand between my shoulder blades.
“Climb on, Jame-O. She needs you as much as you need her. She’s a good little girl.”
“But a 600?” I wince, plagued with the irrational prejudice nothing less than a fully tuned 1000cc inline four will do.
“It's time,” he comforts as Spike and Fil stop what they’re doing and lower their heads. Dogman’s squinting eyes squint even further. “Never forget,” he reminds me. “It’s the rider. Not the ride.” He pauses long enough for those words to take hold, to grab some hard traction then continues. A wild revving anthem of four banger glory slowly wells up behind his voice, as if from a great distance. Dogman recounts the ancient Thompsonian wisdom.
“We are not track men.
We are not café posing cocksuckers.
We are not dealer devoted douchebags.
We are not digital dogfuckers who don’t know a piston from a pisspot.
We do not buy what we will fabricate.
We do not accessorize with anodized, carbon fibered girly gewgaws and race boy stickers.
For we are road men.
Our glorious mission, and we will always choose to accept it, shall forever remain true and stout.
We are gridlock breaking serpents of beauty.
We are bumper busting wraiths of freedom.
Wherever we go we will smite the tin cage cretins, the air-conditioned infidels, the Audi adoring impotents, the Mercedes mincing credit strangled SUV sycophants.
For we are road men.
We will abuse bicycle lanes and pedal pushing poofters.
We will jump curbs and concrete pilons.
We will enrage and outrun the armed minions of taxpaying torturers.
We will shatter the sleeping nights of leafy lawyered sidestreets, our howls sequentially setting off overly sensitive car alarms and terrifying their hideously indulged offspring.
We are the seven headed beast our scarlet mistress will finally ride into town and claim her rightful throne.
For we are road men...”

Tuesday, August 12, 2014

FALLEN ALCOHOLIC RE-INTERVIEWS SOBRIETY HATING FORMER ADDICT

Recovering alcoholic Glen Bolden has fallen off the wagon and decides to re-interview former addict Basil Papademos, who has not fallen off the wagon but regrets it often. They're again sitting in an idyllic Chiang Mai tea garden.

RECORDING BEGINS...

Describe your desk

It's a fucking desk. They're all about the same. My shit's strewn all over it. TV blaring in the background, cigarette going, much banging of head on keyboard. You know the drill.

What do your fans mean to you?

My fans? My only "fans" as far as I can tell are some smart and sometimes very fucked up women over 40 who are going nuts with a million kinds of frustration in some partially straight jacketed situation. I'm a jerkoff toy to a lot of them. They don't want to go out and fuck random guys and screw up their carefully assembled life but they want the odd cyber wank. The fact they get it through reading my crap says something about certain women. That they're readers, I suppose.
But I've always been a sucker for smart women. I'd never suck a dumb chick's pussy, at least not with any fervor. And the older they get, they add some nice venom to their well-read brains and throw in a little yoga and it's a whole other kind of very hot fucking heat.

Do you think older women are hotter than younger women?

Young women? Are you kidding, man? They look good an all but sexually retarded. Couldn't suck the foam off a beer. Even the pros. They rely too much on their looks. Most guys are bedsprings with zero imagination. They're not going to seriously perv some hot chick's fine ass. They get polite with the really good looking girls, don't handle her like a valuable slut, use her up. They're happy if she just lies there and takes it and then they get to brag to their bonehead pals they fucked the hot chick. Meanwhile, she's learned nothing. Fakes an O and goes back to shopping or whatever the fuck.

So you wouldn't fuck young women?

I used to but I'm impatient now. They don't know shit about perving. The coyness can be very irritating, the feigned diffidence, it's a neurosis. You get older, you wanna be with someone who knows what they need, what they want, has some filthy ideas of her own, gets off on getting off, the whole mind/body trip, doesn't require a lot of instruction. A woman who knows how to perv or is an extremely quick learner...

A quick learner?

Yeah... actually, truth is any woman will go with the perv thing if you lead the way. They're bored outa their minds for the most part and want somebody, any-fucking-body to use up their heat, just DO something with it. Amazing the shit you hear. A woman telling me a guy 'asked' her if it's okay to fuck her. They're in some naked and private situation and the guy asks. Jeezus fuck. The insincerity is brutal. I'd wanna kill the idiot. Someone I know said she was at a club, sunning naked by the pool and a character comes over all smarmy and asks: 'So, what do you like to do?' She told him: 'Do what you want to do. Don't worry, I'll get mine.' The guy crawled away.

So older women have more to offer?

A woman hits forty, turns into a ghost, most guys don't see her any more. Stupid, right? They fall for all the magazine brain conditioning. Meanwhile, that's when women get the hottest. But men are morons. She might think, 'Holy fuck, I've done like no perving in my life. It's all been sticky emotional crap that didn't get me seriously laid.' And so they look around but they're picky. They want the guy to not be a jackoff or the wrong sort of asshole but he's gotta be enough of an asshole to fuck them like he means it, do shit to them, with them, spend some goddamn time on their needs. Women get older, they get more demanding. Why wouldn't they? Having to be so fucking nice all those years. Anybody would go nuts.

They want quality you mean?

They keep saying they want to get fucked for real, the whole 3D deal. Passion, they used to call it, compulsion, pussy fever, that kind of shit. They get sick of stroking some guy's ego. Older women stop saying 'oh that's okay' when the guy blows his load too quick or fucks like a wind-up toy. They get pissed off. Get demanding the guy take them for a ride, not just give him a blow job, he licks her pussy for a couple minutes, a standard-issue fuck and then he's off to watch the game. They want the whole four or five hour deal, drown in the fucking thing. But really, who the fuck knows what anybody wants. Anyway, that's what it appears to be to me, empirically speaking.

Do you remember the first story you ever wrote?

Yes, it was shit. I made up some crap about my mother having an affair and my old man found it and went nuts. He didn't really get the idea of fictional context, the fucking moron.

What is the greatest joy of writing for you?

There is none. Joy is for greeting cards. You want to end up crazy, poor and alone, become a writer. Although... you might get a lot of pussy in the meantime.

Women like writers?

I guess it depends if the guy's any good or if he writes stuff women read. If you're writing some Tom Clancy type military thriller, I wouldn't expect the smart hot babes to come knocking.

Who are your favorite authors?

That's a stupid question. Let's say writers who move the language forward, writers with brilliant ideas. Writers who aren't market-driven hacks nobody will remember. Writers who aren't literary genre geek. Except for people like Bruce Chatwin, I guess. 

What inspires you to get out of bed each day?

I hate waking up. Makes me feel suicidal. So writing is kind of a motive to shake off the dreads, the awful feeling when you look in the mirror and think: 'Fuck, you again.' Writing is largely about disappointment. If you don't like being disappointed, don't be a writer. I see a lot of people call themselves writers and bitch about access, distribution, developing a following - never anything about what the fuck they're writing or why.
The problem isn't writing. Anybody can churn out yards of crap nowadays and many do. It's writing well and writing well is never easy. Language is like smoke, beautiful but difficult to grasp and manipulate. Writing is generally not a happy pursuit. You spend most of your time questioning your own motives, worth, intelligence, wit and so on.

What are you reading now?

Juvenal, the Roman wiseguy. Funny how he bitches about the same things as everyone does now; how stupid the mob is, that kind of stuff. I'm also reading Flannery O'Connor for comfort and I tried reading Hunger Games and got about 3 pages in. Goddamn, it's depressing the kind of one dimensional shit people read. Holy fuck. Makes you really despise people, to think so many of them read this brainless ripoff shite. It's language abuse. That Hunger crap is Logan's Run. Like those Jack Reacher novels at the top of the pops. Pure illiterate garbage. Grade 3 comprehension required. No subtext, nothing going on. Just some idiot playing out Death Wish 2 over and over. But the great unwashed, the mass herd of jackoffs out there, the fucking public, they've never even heard of Charles Bronson and Death Wish - and that was a pretty shitty movie. Now it'd be considered high art by these bozos. Un-fucking-believable.

When you're not writing, how do you spend your time?

Banging my head against the wall. How else? How does anyone spend their time? Being in love with themselves? Forming opinions nobody cares to hear? 

You sound angry.

Angry? No, not at all. That would make no difference. It's this being sober thing. Can be really fuckin dull. I loved getting high. The consequences can suck but it did have many good points.

What is your writing process?

I don't know. Who the fuck knows? What difference does it make? If it's any good then I guess it matters. If the writing is shit, then nobody wants to know. But nowadays, your average repressed psycho in the street wouldn't know what's good or bad or shit, not a clue. Everyone's been trained to make Like or Not Like choices immediately. Nobody's going to ruminate on anything. Ambivalence is not a great consumer trait so it's eliminated. If you hesitate, all you'll hear is, "Next."

Uh, okay. You sound angry to me but anyway... Do you remember the first story you ever read, and the impact it had on you?

Princess and the Pea when I was like 5 or something. And something about a lonely clown who couldn't find a circus that would have him. I already told you this and why even ask? Does it really matter? 

I don't know.

Do you care?

Not really.

Then why ask?

It's on the list of questions but okay, sure, I see what you mean. Here's another repeat question. What's the story behind the novel you're working on, How To Fuck Your Psychiatrist?

It's a lot of pervy fucking between a junkie bike riding over the hill asshole and a couple women and one other junkie bike riding over the hill asshole. One of the women is a shrink who's given up on giving a fuck about ethics. Then there's her crazy secretary who makes it a mission to get perved. And finally, the main guy's super hot psycho bipolar filthy as fuck girlfriend.  There's tons of drugs, perved fucking and fucking around, bikes, clubs and hopefully enough subtext to keep the smart girls reading.

Did you ever consciously decide to become a writer?

A writer? Fuck, I don't know if I'm a writer. I've had two books published but every halfwit and his rabid dog is published nowadays. So I don't even know what a writer is. Maybe it's a label that should be restricted only to those who make money writing or spend more than a certain number of hours a week writing. Shit, I don't know... Problem is quality is meaningless now. Who's going to know if anything's good? I guess it's a default thing. You become a 'writer' when you can't do anything else useful. I should have been a pilot or dog catcher or something. Well, you know, the ol' woulda coulda shoulda...

So anything else uplifting to add?

Yeah. Things are good. Not perfect but pretty good. I miss getting high. Too bad good drugs are so goddamn addictive. Doesn't seem fair, really, but what can you do.

God, I need a drink. Where's the waiter?

What about AA?

Screw AA. Where's that bloody useless waiter?

RECORDING ENDS...










Tuesday, August 5, 2014

FASCISM, FACE-FUCKING & THE GLOBAL 'O'

The trouble with fascist rule, aside from everything else, is it is so uncool.
Like all forms of imposed large scale social order, it creates a kind of mass retardation. Very wealthy middle aged men in their toy soldier get-ups are going to tell you what's what.
How brutally uncool is that?

One of the most gruesome byproducts of recent events is watching the capital's fashion gimps, hip resto creeps and various other branding parasites try to remain diffident and louche while armed tools of the paternalistic ruling class send some frowning comb-over creep to go on TV and make a public announcement along the lines of...

Fuck you and your fucking elections! Fuck what you want. This is how it's gonna be, you noisy assholes, so shut the fuck up - especially you hicks from the sticks. Who the fuck said you could have a say in anything? Shove your votes up your sodomistic butt holes and shut the fuck up. Did I already say that? Good. Maybe it'll sink into your thick peasant skulls. (Long pause while glaring into lens) Now would be a good time to bow and scrape and knock head and affirm your lowly bullshit status, you credit pumped imbeciles.

In case you're not sure, that is when you can be certain it's not so groovy to be a blithely apolitical strolling fashionista, a boutique bozo, a clothes horse cocksuckerino.
Speaking of which...

Whatever happened to Vice Magazine's hipper-than-branded-hosebags gleaming new SE Asian office they were gonna open with much gay apparel? I hear a launch party was planned but they couldn't find enough arm bands. Y'know, the kind with a carefully shared visual space of various corp logos. Heineken, Mercedes, D&G, Durex, Potatohead Vodka, yada yada.

I'm talkin like those branding whore cardboard backdrops covered with sponsors' highly recognizable sigils, those things you see at made-up news events. The fake wall of consumerist identity images behind the blabbermouth telling the media recordists why everybody should get face-fucked by their 25% APR gold card. They're the same backdrops used at manufactured red carpet made-for-TV award show hype-a-thons where tux and gown douchebags pull and suck branded erection statuettes. C'mon, you know what I'm talking about. There's a good chance you've got their cum stain logo dripping down your face right now. The sunglasses you're wearing. Right? Gotcha.

Even the vast Whoring Industrial Complex which forms the backbone of this city - even that sea of human fluidic charm is suffering beneath the veneer of public morality. Herds of professional dick drainers go unplugged, loiter in the lanes and bars of approved whoring zones, their mouths empty as soapy sex tubs remain unsplashed, fishbowl bars no longer teem with armies of haggling holiday ejaculators slapping their leaking erections against smudged glass. It's grim. The eternal line of eternally blind and vomiting hard-ons are being serviced elsewhere these days. 

Wait a second...
Imagine if people had to function while in a continual state of orgasm.
Imagine how corporate board meetings would go. How shopping would happen. Or driving. Could you drive while in the unending throes of a screaming 'O'? What about dinner and a movie with a blind date as both of you gasp and heave while trying to make appropriate small talk? How would it work - everyone stuck in a singular ecstasy loop, left to writhe and grind and flop around, eyes rolled back. Geez, imagine the dampness. 

Yes, one endless global orgasm. Even war would be tough or trying to manage a pension fund, groins continually contracting - like those very stupid porn sites where women have giant club-like Hitachi vibrators taped to their crotch and then left tied up some place for days.
Imagine. Those grim faced middle aged men in uniform would be caught forever in their moment of 'release', faces wracked with the sweet agony of a 'completion' which never truly completes.
Jeezus. Imagine the soundtrack...
The unrequited lips of love...