reaction to eyes, no
Suzie Q’s, intimacy with the floor & ugly pugilism
I alone determine when the universe magics up—
and Joyce tells me nil in 942 pages
and my words aren’t concussed
and it feels vernal(!) in August.
So I don’t tell you I love the weather about you.
At dawn, I down
Henry Miller’s mer.etricious
spreading benzine on toast, smoking
like a Saint—
as any misstep
a desk’s warmth
or, whatever, the rain.
I prefer sitting here in the sun thinking about Bataille
instead of reading Bataille
oh what a wonderful character, that Bataille! I think, and
how mad mad mad the man was
ha! ha! all the crazy stuff he came up with
fuck Bataille, too
what painter doesn’t sleep with his victims
in the sun a robot fills condoms with whiskey.
*The definition of a kiss: fascist cuspids meeting
through a layer of lips.
what does it even mean when
I with my second-rate education(all education is)
and my second-rate character in
a second-rate planet nurse
such exceptional insanity
hyphenating the horizon,
enigmatic as a dog or a shoe
(don’t tell anyone, but
I got this idea that all literature is
is a conspiracy cooked up to make
you buy books)
and language a fucking pyramid scheme
a girl in a library
is a word in captivity
begs like a garden does
her flirt, the Chinese dictionary
that violence a million ants
wake in high touch
such silence and still—everything about you is aloud
you must own a dress blue
deep blue as a pluperfect in Paradise
and verse leaves in racing
who plays god in your head
what secret screams in your sleep
what is your real name
In the wonderful mess of her mind albino plants are nests for hugtandalfers and she uses astrolabes as haute teacups.
I’m a manuscript buried in the depths of Bibliothèque Al-Imam Essayouti waiting for the hands that will come out of the sand dunes to set me on fire as haram; Ahmed Baba al-Massufi wrote me in the year 1582 and the poetry contained in me is as black as his beard; skin; robes; eye; ferrous sulphate vegetable ink.
15,000 of us are marching against Alexandria under ‘Amr ibn al-‘As; my bow, brave; Byzantine blood paints the soil; we are all painters; divine; paint with death. History our very own; painful, one song.
I am me; just me; watching you stepping out of bed; your foot, flattening and plumping imperceptibly as it comes in contact with the floor; 1 a.m.; I am; the floor; the image of your foot changing; houses my imagination till Life; eclipsed; is parted with me.
In ProgressQuest, my Enchanted Motorcycle; Class: Bastard Lunatic; Lvl: 36; is delivering this teratoma; executing 2 massive Jubilexes; selling a Geryon cornucopia; negotiating the price for +1 Fine Cambric Plasma Greaves.
Iamatically; in any electric current there’s fish swimming arbitrarily through historical context; I’m doused in a waterfall of expletives from; a knife fight in every man; a distillery in every woman. Who’s skyless.
I think it would take a million years; to follow my scent; breathe; rhyme; touch is such; indelible; and you, a stubborn victim that asks to be murdered; thunder/tender; every single narrative.
your father is not your god
you never sleep, no one does
I’m no writer, no poet under my skin
when I unlock the k’s flow thousands kites kilos of paper that weighs nothing in the end like your body that I lift up from the dead every single day like a mother misplaced like 6am am I anything but a weightlifter but a lantern but a firework in winter but I broke my local library’s printer (page 124: too heavy!) and the library girl was there and I wonder what your name is and why the dark circles but there are things I got to take care of first like making sure Hans Jonah Jenssen dies and then they get married like dancing in parking lots with strangers like blowing up my mind some night imagining Marina atop a weathervane in Washington, D.C. waiting for a hurricane to wipe her out like a poetic ant like a militant act like returning home without telling a soul
(he wanted to go to a second-hand bookshop because he was looking for an early thesaurus to find unusual synonyms)
need new words
Last person on Earth scenarios happen daily. All great polyphasic sleepers are dead. Yeah, baby! The rain came wrong and damned the apple blossoms. I love loving you more than I love you. Please take a moment to familiarize yourself with our privacy practices and do let us know if you have any questions.
I named the fox ‘Kafka’ because he is irrelevant and because he tosses around a lot in his sleep. It can be annoying. I had never imagined foxes get nightmares. These days we sleep together, the fox and I, in my trailer by the loch.
I call it a loch but that is since I found it earns me the locals’ respect. The loch is not really a loch –it has no proper name– not even a lochan perhaps. Maybe just a big pond.
An entire year went by before I made the decision to relocate. I had never before inherited a lake, so weighing my options took considerable time. I did not even know there was a lake involved when I was first informed, over the phone, of the existence of a parcel of land registered in my name. I discovered as much when I travelled to see it. I took ownership but did not move here until the following summer, giving up the Big Smoke and my life in it.
At the time, I was working as a non-destructive testing technician for a London-based company. Other than that we shared the same surname, that he had dropped out of Princeton and that he had been a shipping magnate, I knew nothing of the uncle who left me a plot of land almost forty hectares large in the middle of nowhere in the Highlands of Scotland. I never met the man. His wife and executor of his will said her husband, childless as they were, had bequeathed property to every relation of his, no matter how distant, in the hopes that his name and life’s work would be fondly remembered.
I cannot say I relate. Maybe I just never had ambition in me or simply I do not care for the love people seem so keen to go after. In my eyes, all the earth ever was is a planet populated by morons, most of which are in dire need of leaders and some of which opt for fulfilling that role. So simple. People clinging onto religion, fighting for lost causes, creating art. Making up purposes of every kind. Anything to lull existence until the final defeat. I do not think there is anything that matters really. I was always one for anchoritism, I guess. But living so detached from the world puts things into a certain perspective.
I have lived here for the past four years and have yet to decide what to do with the loch. There is not much you can do with an expanse of water. I am not attached to it but I admit it is handsome to look at and imagine its depth. In the winter, with its surface frozen as if by the all-encompassing silence, it becomes one with the land surrounding it, a secret sort of being, imperceptible. Maybe I will stay, maybe I won’t.
The fox found me one afternoon in September. He came out of the forest and stood there, at the bank on the other side of the loch, staring at me. I remained immobile for an hour until he got bored and disappeared into the woods, a blush in the low light.
He kept coming and going. Two months later he was eating out of the palm of my hand. When I dared to touch him, I laughed out loud and scared him. Nowadays he does not even mind me brushing him, in springtime when his moulting gets bad, so the trailer is not covered in hair. I prefer his looks in late autumn though; he gets all dapper and cushiony.
Because he is so docile, I suspect Kafka might have belonged to and escaped from someone breeding domesticated foxes. On the other hand, it is clear he has spent enough of his life in the wild, maybe as a stray cub that lost both his parents and somehow survived. When I met him, he was neither a cub nor an adult fox, not a proper one, but something in between. Hence he will always be semi-wild, regardless how long I spend with him.
The first time I put trance on the speakers, Kafka flipped out. This was before I installed a cat flap –a fox flap– and closing the door earlier had been an inadvertent movement on my part to forestall the evening mosquito attack. Instinctively, too, I put on music. The fox was napping curled up in the middle of my white bed sheets while I was busy cooking on the other side of the trailer, over the stove and the adjacent small counter. Thoughtless, I just reached and turned on the stereo.
He wrecked the place, thrashing about and jumping like a lunatic against the walls, hissing and whimpering with considerable brio. Whatever he thought was going on, in his tiny fox brain he had translated the sudden sound as a direct threat. Ears fallen back, tail stashed between his legs, he kept launching himself wild-eyed against my few neatly stacked possessions on the shelves.
The spectacle seemed to me hysterical until the devil bit me. He got me right in the calf, his teeth burying sharply into the soft flesh below my left knee. I did not expect this. As I spun around gasping, I sent the pan with the teriyaki chicken crashing into the washing machine.
Apparently, a terrified fox turns into a jaw-locked idiot. It took me ten minutes to dislodge his toothy grip on my leg, petting his head all the while and muttering continually ‘Stupid baby fox, stupid baby fox,’ under tearful eyes.
The fox listens to trance now. After several low-volume, carefully orchestrated training sessions involving fox treats (hamsters I bought from a pet shop in Inverness) and cuddles, I conditioned him to tolerate the beats. It is pure happiness, jumping into the jeep at night with the fox on my heels, driving to the other side of the loch, turning off the lights and blasting the speakers with 90’s trance classics, rolling up and watching the galaxy. There is no light pollution so all the stars are visible.
Once, I let the fox share a joint with me. The first times I smoked around him, Kafka avoided standing too close, perhaps unsettled by the pungent smell. As with everything else, he gradually grew used to it. One night in the car, I leaned in and breathed smoke I had not inhaled into his nostrils. His nose felt hard and wet against my lips. He freaked out a bit but after a while he loosened up, rested his head on the seat and was blinking very, very slowly.
Sometime in January that first year, the fox disappeared. He just left, early one morning to tend to whatever fox business he tends to when he is not here, and did not return for supper. After three days without any sign, I took the Subaru and drove around looking for him, unwillingly keeping an eye out for road kill. Nada. Fox gone, I started sleeping naked again, a habit I had been forced to give up since he was so scratchy a partner.
Then, in the middle of the night almost a full month later, I was woken up by frantic licking on my beard. The prodigal fox was back. And not only that. He smelled strongly like something from the underworld and had lost half his weight. His fur featured rough patches where skin was showing and he had obviously received bites in a couple of places. I had read up on their mating habits, and the following years I never wondered where the fellow went when he took flight around January, but that first time I was not expecting the fox to return. At least he looked happy, I thought, if not beggarly and spent, and was more aggressive in his affections than I remembered. I realized that despite his fond shrills and unmuffled excitement at our re-acquaintance he was also a bit shaken, which I connected with the barking outside. Probably the dog had followed him all the way here. I pushed the fridge in front of the door, blocking the fox flap, and groggily went back to bed, facing the wall to avoid my stinking fox’s endearments.
In the morning the dog was still there, sporting a sullen and menacing mood that didn’t bode well at all with the peaceful mist hanging over the loch. And I loved the fox, so I calmly picked up my rifle, went down the trailer steps, and blew the dog’s brains out.
This story features mature content and sexual themes, including explicit language and offensive, politically incorrect terminology. All characters, locations and events in Feksmeker are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Views and opinions expressed by characters do not necessarily reflect those of the author.
I believe that the universe around us is a projection of our
paranoia, an enlarged image of the world we carry within us,
I think that the object our eyes isolate from the real or that
we invent is a pure expression of our delirium crystallized. A
— Salvador Dalí, The Unspeakable Confessions of Salvador Dalí
If you’re not a man, you will never understand what perversion really is. Let me stop you right there before you start spewing bullshit about how you, too, masturbate often and all about your ‘dark fantasies’, pick up that magazine. Page six, let me show you this picture. The nude, encrusted in mud and blood body of a woman in the midst of other corpses, all victims of the tsunami in Thailand, 2004. Are you turned on by her inadvertently arousing posture despite her mutilated shoulders, minced-meat stumps lacking arms, and the fact her mouth is an implausibly wide hole gaping full of shattered teeth? Does your brain shut off the weight of the tragedy, the hundreds of thousands dead, and dictate you have to take out your cock, thrust, and empty your sperm hot over the glossy page focusing on the flawless symmetry of her leg’s curve, that irresistible faint shadow traversing as a straight line the flesh along the length of her calf? Yeah, I thought so. You’re light years away from comprehending the male animal’s psychosomatic patterns when it comes to the inner workings of the abyssal, yes, human aspect we so superficially call sex. Take your scented candles, darling, your amusing ‘kinky’ lingerie, your fifty shades of rose petals and go home.
Now if you’re a man, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Naturally, there’s different degrees in which we let that primal sense surface or become an addiction, yet the thought of it is always there, always present, an underlying current in our minds. Deep down, my friend, you and I are the very same creature. So let’s not hide behind our thumb. On the other hand, if you’re a man, not prepubescent, and honestly claim not to have ever related to this innate trait of our gender, dude have I got news for you. You’ve been living the stupid life of a pet and you are not in any sense of the word a male. A certain amount of darkness inherent to being a man.
Not that I care much about the gender distinction thing, but all these years in the fakes business I have not once heard of one single woman that makes them. Our audience, the people that beat it to fakes, apart from a tiny, negligible percentage, are in their overwhelming majority men. It makes sense if you consider we’re biologically acclimatized to respond differently to sexual stimuli. At the same time, most fakes produced and circulated are predictably of women, although a considerable market exists for male fakes, too. These address the gay and bisexual part of our audience.
By this point you might be wondering about my identity. Allow me to not introduce myself: I’m the most famous fakesmaker in the world, which means nobody knows who I am. Unless you’re a client, you have probably never heard of me or may not even know what a fakesmaker is. Fakesmaker, faker, fakist; there’s so few of us doing this professionally that we don’t have a generally agreed upon terminology. Still, let me assure you I’m on top of my game. I go by feksmeker or feksmeker83 sometimes, as far as sobriquets are concerned. If you look me up online your search won’t return any results, I’m that good. The people that hire me know where to look for me, which forums under which oft-changing usernames I frequent. Otherwise, I’m invisible. I leave no traces. And my work is impeccable.
You laughing yet? Think what I do is funny or weird? I’m smiling, too. It’s like that. Until it gets personal. Is there a photo of you online, darling? I might be faking your face on the body of a whore fucked by a horse right this moment. Not so humorous now, is it. As long as someone out there is willing to pay to see you naked as your mother brought you into the world or if my urges ask for it. I’m probably the one person that does know which of your ‘friends’ would like to have Swedish number 6 with you. So, you said there’s a picture of you on your blog? On Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, Imgur, Tumblr? What about the most frequently inhabited temple of online hollowness, Facebook? Do you appear on Facebook’s ‘photos of’ search? Nevermind privacy settings, sweetheart. I bypass them like it’s routine surgery. You sure your face hasn’t popped up on a 4chan revenge thread? Hasn’t been posted on a drunk ex-gf fap thread? Poor angel. So tell me about that photo of yours that exists online. Is it a pretty one, a high definition one? Do you look like you might be moaning in it? If your mouth’s open, all the better.
Thinking your ass is safe from my art because you’re a guy is a mistake, too. Pretty boys are quite popular, let me tell you. My external hard drive alone holds a terabyte’s worth of men’s fakes. Has a photo of you been on the internet once, it’s most likely there forever. Cached pages, handsome boy. Wink wink. You think you’re man enough you could take it did you google your name one day and results took you to a site where you –most undeniably and clearly you– are depicted as another man’s cum dumpster? Where you’re the smiling fucktoy cross-dressed in the middle of a group of studs made for breeding, all significantly bigger than you? Is that insecurity in your eye? Aw, now. How long before you’d break.
So thanks for taking me seriously. I take my work seriously, too. There’s two things I don’t do: child pornography and rape depictions. Feds get you jailed even for unconscious possession of such material. If the model you’re asking me to fake is under eighteen or your request is in some way overtly related to rape culture, you won’t get a reply. Keep writing to a dead email address. These are my personal boundaries. For anything else, I’m your man. Deepthroats, DP, bestiality, pregnants, midgets, gangbang, scat, shemales, degradation, BDSM, skullfucking, I pretty much do the lot. Though most requests are pretty innocent, relatively speaking. Just a nude in fishnets and high heels, a facebang session, maybe a gloryhole scenario or bukkake. Whatever. You can’t expect your clients’ imagination to match your own, though from time to time I’m asked to prep some pretty weird stuff. There was this one dude that needed a fake of his wife fucking the top of the Eiffel Tower, legit. Retard didn’t even know the structure doesn’t end in one single pole. Another one commissioned me to produce a fake of himself getting assfucked by a camel. I mean, I’ve done dogs, pigs and the like, but obtaining a high resolution image of a camel’s erect dick is pretty hard. And of course there was that guy who asked me for a fake in which the model, a pretty ugly milf if you ask me, would be eating his cock – no, valid eating it, using a fork and all. Then the tool was embarrassed to send me a picture of his penis, imagine.
But as I said, mostly it’s the usual stuff. Actresses fakes or requests for friends, acquaintances, neighbors, personal relationships fakes. By way of clarification: I don’t refer to those easily accessible by conventional browsers. 90% of online fakes are trash at any rate. Cfake dot com is nothing but a joke. Tip of the iceberg. I’m talking about real fakes, good fakes, not the kids’ stuff any douche from Neckbeardistan can make with Photoshop. Well, technically Photoshop existed since the 90s but it wasn’t known when I started out. And you don’t need it to be a good faker. All you want is Paint, some simple editing tools. And an artist’s eye.
Because there’s art in it, even though few of us understand this. Of all the fakers that go pro, I would say only about ten are worth the effort and your money. Out of which, I consider just two to be really as good as I am. I said earlier I’m the number one fakesmaker in the world and that’s true in terms of who gets the most clients. Plus, I’ve been doing this longer than the others. Cashflow aside, between the divine trinity of myself, thundercunts-ho and billythedik, it’s only a question of style or personal preference. I don’t distinguish between the actual quality of our art.
thundercunts-ho is like me, subtle. He doesn’t splay out his logo all over the corner of a picture. Logo placement is tricky. You always have to add your signature to claim ownership of the fake even though your editing style is recognizable in the details. But you’ve got to carry this out in a way that doesn’t threaten the plausibility of the scene, doesn’t make it obvious it’s a fake despite the audience being fully aware. When you look at the final it should be as though it’s real, a photo taken by a secret camera. Not to mention if you’re in possession of any level of IQ above 85 you can’t possibly masturbate to a picture of a blonde standing next to an enormous 3D block of letters spelling CUMMAN32. It’s fucking disgusting. No, if you’re not a peasant what you do is add the logo in an unobtrusive manner. You make it part of a poster on the wall, have it reflected on the TV screen as a station’s logo, place it on a newspaper cover crumpled next to the model’s feet, spell it out on the feathers of a bird’s wing outside the window using rain droplets and making sure it’s faint enough so the eye isn’t attracted to or distracted by it. This is subtlety in faking. Of course, most of the spergs trying to pass for real fakers online don’t get that.
Neither does billythedik or unfromagemagnifiquemmm or XxXFUNOOBXxX or LaSaGnA666hAiRcUt or any of the other weird-ass usernames he goes by. I think the dude is French, a gamer and pretty crazy. But he’s the only faker in my list whom I’m making an exception for as regards the subtlety rule. billythedik’s aesthetics are all over the place, his fakes are the most bizarre things ever. Once, in one of our private forums, a client paid him the milestone asking for a simple fake of his girlfriend fucked by a priest in church. She was a virgin and keeping the goodies for after marriage or something, so the dude was understandably frustrated. Whatever. For three days we heard nothing from billythedik and I was ready to jump in and ask the client if I should take over the project. (We were in a collaboration for him and this request was a side thing.) Before I get a reply, billythedik is back on the board, sharing a full-on 40MP 11658X6112 wallpaper featuring, behold: the dude’s girlfriend wearing a Galatasaray T-shirt out of which her tits are bursting enlarged like nukes, with her hair in a red Mohican, lustily blowing an enormous, real-looking Bugs Bunny fur and all dressed as the Pope on the altar of a magnificent cathedral we later identified as the Alexander Nevsky in Tallinn, Estonia. My description doesn’t do it justice. It was the creepiest. I went pale, certain we’d lost the customer and the main project. thundercunts-ho happened to be online too and he called me (unregistered numbers, neither knows who the other is) and he was losing it, so hard he was laughing. But the client liked it!
Yes, billythedik’s style, entirely vertiginous. Paranoid, crass in terms of execution but hasn’t the bastard a way of making anything look realistic by posture! He’s truly a master of seeing how the body twists, moves, expresses itself naturally. His messed up collages are structured so the more you stare at the scene, the more possible it seems to you, regardless of the monstrous elements in it.
Sometimes I edit billythedik’s fakes or those of others for my personal archive. If a work is particularly good and turns me on. I might save it and correct all the minor but important details the original faker has overlooked, make it perfect and keep it for myself. Though most of the time this proves too much hassle. Most fakers are careless, repairing someone else’s mess is frustrating. You can tell how they see things by their efforts. Invariably their vision is faulty, like most people’s. They don’t see properly how shadows fall on objects, can’t tell if a certain material of a dress would or wouldn’t ripple over a taut part of the body, they leave a plant on the sill’s leaves unmoving despite the wind in the picture blowing the woman’s hair.
Because there’s elements, too, in the work. If your model has windswept hair and you choose not to change it borrowing another woman’s mane, you have to adapt the entire environment around it. Given the bulk of fakers are idiots, what you get is all these pictures with a woman in the middle of a living room, her hair flying as in a hurricane. As I said, no subtlety, no care for realism and they treat fakes as a brief masturbation break from other porn. I don’t. I create scenes that are sensible, fakes so real they could or have happened. In case you think I’m just a pervert that has taken it too far, let me inform you that thankfully there are others out there (few, but there are) subtle as I am, who value the detail in my work and are willing to hire my talent. Have you sold a single picture for $23,000? Guessed so.
It’s all about aesthetics. You can tell a brunette that classy wouldn’t be wearing such a cheap leather skirt, especially for bondage. Also, she’d never go for red. And she most definitely wouldn’t fuck that farmer. Max she’d do would be piss or take a shit on him, if she deigned. Or her, you can tell by her face she’s shy and submissive, at least that’s her expression here, why the fuck would you shop her as a femdom? The whip is not just cliché, it shows your imagination is as small as your little pony. And no, you don’t fucking use snapshots from popular porn everyone has seen, I can tell at a glance whose body you lent to your next door cougar and it’s not attractive. Also, you don’t employ a limp-dicked moron in a fake, his cock represents yours in the fantasy, are you an imbecile or what in blue hell are you trying to prove. She would never cuckold that guy with this one, they’re practically the same dude, get a fat freak or a proper bull to do the job. And her, oh fuck, this is going to be the end of me, why in the name of every cumjunkie in the world would you ever do that? What makes you think she -or anyone for that fucking matter- would be smiling serenely with a buttplug the size of a 1.25 litre Coke bottle plunged up her subwoofer? Really?!
Of course it’s like that with everybody, no matter what they do. Most people are mediocre at their job, too slow, unobservant of detail, dysfunctional. I’m not saying everyone’s got to be a perfectionist, but gosh put some fucking effort in it. Masses go for the easy option and what have you. That’s why there’s so few good fakers. People prefer watching porn videos, not stills. You can’t compete with video, in the same way written word can’t compete with the visual qualities of a fake, though these two are more closely related than you’d think.
I didn’t jump from fakes to writing. That’s how it started for me, the other way round. Ironically, it wasn’t Playboy. As a boy, I discovered masturbation because of Bukowski and his Women. I picked it up drawn to the cover, it had a woman’s legs in stockings on it. But that alone didn’t work, it was the narrative that woke me. I learned to get turned on by words, by descriptions and implications. In short, by my imagination. Same thing with fakes. Beating it to fakes means preferring your imagination, although many poorfags just resort to it out of necessity. But the true fakes enthusiast doesn’t watch porn or at least not more than he collects fakes. You see, with fakes it’s all about narrative. It’s subtler than words. Within 1024X768 or 1920X1980 you’ve got to suggest an entire story. Not tell, hint at it. The visual helps, but you get no space or time like writers do.
Writers. Ha. Brave thinkers, my balls. Supposedly set to exploring the depths of the human psyche. Let me illuminate you. When it comes to sex, undeniably the darkest, most crucial aspect of the human condition, where are the writers? Writers have nothing on us. Even those that write about sex or fumble around the corners of perversion are boring or afraid to go too far. Otherwise, they go down a pornographic route like your Mr. B. there. Spare me all the pseudo-intellectual allegedly dark urges of feeble minds. We, fakers, do porn, of course. No illusions as to that. But there’s an entire psychology, a vast culture around our work which, even though not recorded anywhere, is lived, experienced, delved into.
Not art like painting, but it is an art. A dark art, perhaps. Purpose oriented. Illegal. Happy thing feminists haven’t picked up on our sites yet to shut us down. I will always be anonymous, having to use dozens of bank accounts and hundreds of PayPal addresses over the years. But could you deny I’m like Dalí, only darker? I, too, see the same force in a woman’s legs, placid muscles, that can command a man’s fantasies for eternity. I never fix imperfections of the body. I understand how to light them so they become starker, more human. Hell, it might take me an entire week to decide on the filter I’m going to use. Can you tell which way a knee will move when a woman crouches? How much her paw tends to flatten and on which sides it will get chubbier the moment her foot touches the floor as she’s stepping out of bed? Fuck painters, writers, cuckolds of the real. In the 21st freaking century, true study of the female form happens when you can see the details. I know which tendons in your body will create an imperceptible shadow on the surface when stretched. Painters, authors are blind.
The greatest irony in all this and of course the core of everything in the fakes business is that the attraction doesn’t originate from the nudity, the sexual acts, the potential scenarios. It comes from the face. It’s exactly the character of the model that is the powerhouse of the fake. Hence always a motive lies behind requests. It’s either celebrities or people you know. Unlike mainstream porn, nobody beats it to random fakes. That’s what galvanizes a picture: the face. Of the actress you saw in a movie, of the girl that rejected your advances, of your very wife whom you sleep next to every night but are too afraid to propose the nasty stuff your body is dying to do to her.
That is also the reason my battlestation looks the most insane it has in years, probably ever. I haven’t left the desk for weeks, not even sure how many. Me and my inaudible friends that have gone white due to the dark. I remember to eat because I’m running out of bottles to piss in. I order two or three with every takeaway since I’ve no time for trips to the bathroom. You don’t understand what devotion to what you’re doing means if you haven’t resorted to pissing in bottles or on yourself because you absolutely must not stop working. No mediocrity would ever understand this. For a month or longer I’m living in a state of perpetual arousal and my work room reeks of leftovers and Dettol-drenched feces in the bin. But I’m on the screen.
Sometimes it builds up too much, I have to stop and masturbate during work. Normally, I find it difficult to carry on with the fake because there is no sexual drive behind it. It’s the desire that drives you to create. Since I’m doing this professionally, I’ve conditioned myself to work despite the lack of arousal. My work doesn’t suffer, but it does take me longer to complete a project and I’m doing it with considerably less enthusiasm than when I’m turned on. Ironically, I would be an ideal sexual partner if I didn’t weigh as much as I do, given I’ve learned how to maintain my sexual drive for prolonged periods, sometimes even for 16 or 18 hours in a row in order to continue working on a fake. I have to take fast breaks for ice cold showers -I’m aware of the consequences of priapism- but soon as I get into the work again, my desire is awakened.
These days, I’ve stopped beating it in socks. I ran out of socks. They lie on the other side of my battlestation, all of them too crusty with hardened cum to masturbate in them, scraping the glans. Plus, I started saving it. The piss bottles are everywhere around the room, but the bottles with my sperm I keep by the PC. I’ll open them when my masterpiece is ready.
This is how I picture it: I will first take a proper shower. The fake, my nonpareil creation ever, will be on the home cinema screen dominating a whole wall of my living room. Music, my enormous bulk nude, I’ll work myself to wasted watching it quietly, slow. The pale goldfish I’ve been meticulously taking care of all this time will be out of their tank, waterlessly spasming on the floor, a touch of death, there to be crashed onto by my naked underfoot -no hoof on my heel- or kicked in silent paroxysm. I might force my feces into their gulping mouths, like before. God I love this sickness. Then E and I will get that party rocking lovely. I haven’t been using so it’s going to be intense. Opened, the cum bottles will eventually ruin my cookie-colored, linen cotton sofa as I end up emptying them all over it, the screen and myself, the smell of rank semen pushing me insane. It will be the ultimate and it will be worth it. Even the one month I had to work in that job, to install a keylogger on the computer to get the passwords to the accounts I couldn’t hack into, will be worth it. That face, that perfect face, intrepid and innocent with unknown charm, sublime at the centre of my masterpiece, will be staring straight into my eyes as my fingers clasp tight around my cock and the epidermis of the goldfish cushioning it -the largest of them- like an internally-myriopod-bearing flesh cavity until it’s torn apart and I, most grateful animal in the world, carousel into an explosive, Ferris-wheeling with rage orgasmic spate that no real person could ever offer or dream of offering me.
To think how it all started… Of course, you wouldn’t remember when I first saw you.
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In the East someplace there’s got to be a temple
where devotees of the wind spend all the day silent
secret as bees, deaf as a man underwater or
man-under-train, gasping for breath
far from our European capitals and the noise of
life, continually resonating through our screens
like traffic; stuck and static, occasionally an
inadvertent crash, the shock and kick of a kiss—
Some Oriental marvel, perhaps, that I will never
understand (and I could never possibly understand)
but this temple has to exist, like a taxi to the sky
they got to be there and studying the politics
of air, these monks factorying silence
humble like weather dials and
almost as passionate as you, who
always had time for another time—
I respect myself so I never research to see
whether such a place does really exist (though it must)
just I love thinking about it and its
restness, what sort of haven it would be
but the swarmer and the brawler in my heart gets
going again, seeks an opening for the haymaker
like a novel delivered to you by Rocky Marciano
that it never mattered other than fight—