- > Columns
- TODAY'S NEWS AND HOOTS
- Feature - Lloyd Kaufman: The Kotori Interview
- Feature - Martin Luther King, Jr.'s Road to the Mountaintop
- Feature - Losing LeBron
- Feature - The Crazy Legend of Slowhand Jack
- Feature - The Giving Lens Gets Focused
- Notes From A Polite New Yorker
- Tommy Digital's Pussy Cocktails
- The Octopus Files
- Wasims Rants
- The Guys You'll Meet on Earth, But Not in Heaven
- Slippery Id
- The Shameful Truth
- Writing for the Sake of It
- Void Creation
- Frankly Speaking
- Pulling At The Fringes
- These Altered States - America Trying to Become Itself
- The Worthless
Slippery Id: Chapter One
I wondered what the consistency of a live octopus would be and how it would feel inside one's orifice.
It takes a special kind of girl to insert eels and loaches in her anal cavity. Some would call this girl crazy. Some would call her sick. Some would call her an abusive pet owner. And, still, others of us would call her...Brave.
The first time my ex-fiance submitted to anal penetration I felt so proud of her, so in awe of her courage, so grateful and so curious about the emotions that culminated in her decision, which came at least a year and three months into our relationship, that I had to question from whence they sprang.
It probably sprang from watching late-night porno on one of the nights that I was away or, even more likely, it was something that had been forced upon her by another man when she invariably decided to cheat on me. Either way it was a gift to behold and I wondered if it could possibly be as enjoyable or awe-inspiring for her as it was for the recipient. Or was she the recipient? I always get stuff like that backwards.
To be nestled in her lower intestine was the most incomprehensibly wonderful feeling my exterior protuberant being had ever experienced. It was as if my penis had found its way into a womb that would never dare give birth to it, never dare release it from its vice-like cradle, until I decided it had to. And there were certainly several post-coital moments where I would try to keep my baby maker inside of that warm, constricted safe haven for as long as I could, until, inevitably, it wilted to the size of an overly-long prune and drizzled out of her like so much meaty spunk.
But one night we passed out after a drinking marathon and, when we awoke several hours later, he was still inside, sleeping peacefully but for the occasional throb that told me he was having sweet sweet dreams I couldn't even begin to fathom in my cum-numb head full of reality woes.
What a gift it would be if we could stay inside a vagina for the rest of our lives, perhaps influencing the outside world via the glorious woman to whom said flower-meat belonged. Like Dennis Quaid controlled Martin Short in Innerspace. Wouldn't that be swell? To be able to stay within the comfort bosom of the bulb without incident and, at the same time, be able to blaze trails for the poor, pathetic masses who were relegated to that dank, decadent and dastardly outer-realm?
They'd call me the cunt-god. Or Twat Goddess. We live in politically correct times, after all, so it would only be fair to refer to me as a She since the vessel I would be using would be that of Womankind. Yes, the Twat Goddess, in all her glory, neither big nor small, a multi-orgasmic, multitasking benign master uber-healer and magnificent philoso-theorist on all things earthly and ethereal and kegel.
Surely breathing her pussy juices would help me to attain something of the Heavens and, in doing so, I would attain a calm that would elicit an energy, an essence that would radiate out of her inexplicably saintly box and soar about the atmosphere, blessing all the Plebes and philistines beneath its gust, its mightiest of mighty queefs.
The question, then, would be how can a man subsist between pursed lips? And I wouldn't have the answer. I would. But the reply would come so wet and muffled that you would swear I was speaking in tongues.
In the presence of this commandment you would be astonished, inspired by awe, downy in your worshiping ways. You would be humbled. "He hath spoketh in the natural tongue."
Yes. The prophet is cunni-lingual. He speaketh in the tongue of the thorny nether-region.
I used to have delusions of grandeur like this on a very minor scale, usually after a long night of alcoholic and masturbatory reverie. Not always in that order. But the dream was always rinsed clean in the wee hours of the morning when I would awake, a dental dam caught in my cotton-mouthed throat and an in-grown hair fresh on my pelvic region, and, as I pissed out the night's sorrows, I would realize how foolish and misguided these thoughts had been. Nobody could hope to effect change from within the vagina. Perhaps after being in the right one, for the right length of time, for a fortnight or so, but certainly not for a lifetime. That would be Peniscide. The vagina would stop getting along with the penis after a few months of being cloistered together and, soon, other penises would intrude upon the scene and a fight would erupt. It wouldn't be pretty. When a fight of this nature erupts the walls of the vagina tend to require spackling that proves quite costly.
Returning to the picture of the girl with the eel and loach coiled around her rectum, I tilted my coffee mug back and sucked the brown libation through my teeth, letting it roll around on my tongue like so much genki. I wondered what the consistency of a live octopus would be and how it would feel inside one's orifice.
I had seen an octopus video earlier in the month and it gave me nightmares for three nights in a row. More terrifying than any J-Horror movie, to be sure.
Just then a knock came at my door and then the shuffling of Chuck Taylors on moldy wood paneling. It was my dumpy shit-brained courier, coming to pick up the sex letters for the spunk mag I was writing for. I told him to enter and he did and as his fat knuckles dragged along the shag carpeted floor I wondered if I was still fantasizing about being in the womb and, maybe, he was one of those invader cocks coming to poke around and smoke me out of my hole.
"What do you want?!" I howled. "You're not knocking me free of my vag-itated state, fat ass! I'm here to stay!"
"Not if you don't produce," he intoned with hate on his engorged lips. Then he wrapped his hairy fist around the sheets in my palm and yanked them away, taking skin with him as the pages were stuck to my hand by an ineffable adhesive.
"You don't produce you'll get punted outta this joint."
He stormed out and left me slack-jawed, chubby tears forming in the corners of my bloodshot blues. What a terrible thought, to have to leave my special carapace. Then my shocked sorrow was assuaged by the image of the girl with the loach, still flashing on my computer screen.
On soggy days like this it was a Herculean effort to pull my crusty ass from the leather cushion of my swivel chair and to pull on a robe suitable for public display. But it was Thursday and, in only a scant few hours, my fuck column would be thrice past due. It was time for me to pay up and to get Choad to drop some logic on my ass while I was still sober.
The Waste Pay Stub was the bar, but it was more than that. Part watering hole, part pleasure trough, it operated out of the rear of a comic book store where its owner, P.T. Bucksumm, knew he could get his core clientele to pay three cover charges for entry into its three revolving rooms, the main floor of funny books, the (A)isle of Sin and the V.I.Pee Lounge.
Choad was my drug dealer, he who could take a handful of Percocets and a five dollar bill and turn it into a block of has or a bundle of double-stack Ecstasy tablets. He was also the "consultant" I listed on my tax write-offs for the magazine. If ever there was a Porn Scholar it was Choad.
Today a video was being screened for the fan boys in attendance, one that Choad had scored from a friend in his Fuckaholics Anonymous meeting. The friend was a pastor at the church that held the meetings, but when he wasn't doing the work of a deacon he was dealing in dirty deeds done dirt cheap. In this case dirty deeds of people truly getting to know each other in the Biblical sense.
"What is this?!" I exclaimed. "There's no cumshot! No bukkake. No pearl necklace. No eyelash smattering or anything? Did he just come in her ass?!"
"No, he came in her vagina. The old-fashioned baby-making way."
I repeated the question. "What is this?"
"Christian porn. Missionary sex where the man ejaculates into the woman. Occasionally they have sex doggy style or the man invites a friend over to sit on the couch and watch them, for the sake of being risqué or adventurous.
"In that case the friend watches them and masturbates quietly, then politely thanks them for the invitation before climaxing in a re-sealable container that he then puts on ice and promptly delivers to an insemination clinic."
There was nothing sexy about it. Jesus was a real pervert.