So I'm getting a hand job the other day at a rub and tug parlor by some Asian woman who spoke three words of English: Honey and Sank you.
As she gently tended to my Judaic endowment, I repeatedly declared, Jesus. Afterwards, she asked me what jesus means. I said: it means it feels really nice. She said, Oh, sank you, honey.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Friday, July 31, 2009
Notes for a talk on capitalism as virus
By capitalism, I am not referring to an economic system, as if financial models are something we can pick and choose. This, in fact, is one of capitalism’s techniques of hiding itself: it propagates the lie that it is an option, something we choose rather than something we are.
When I say capitalism, I am referring to a complex economy of desire, inter-personal politics, and capital. As an economist knows, the ebb and tide of markets have as much to do with the irrational laws of human behavior as they do with the supposed laws of markets. I work in branding and this is what we do, what we are hired to do: to navigate the economies of desire for capital.
If you’re having a problem w/ my word choice, I ask to put that aside for the moment and listen to what I have to say,
What I want to suggest is that capitalism is a virus that infected the human host long ago and has at once mutated and caused mutations in its human host to the point where it is very difficult to distinguish virus from host. And that this virus has mutated quite rapidly over the last 200 years and seems to be accelerating replication at an ever-increasing rate.
Why a virus? Because, like a virus, it seeks solely its own replication: it is not just a call for “more” but a call for more of the same, more of me. As such, it is a virus of quantity that, in order to replicate more effectively, seeks the eradication of qualitative states of being, affective experiences.
And, as a virus, capitalism will exterminate its host — viruses are not smart that way. As William Burroughs says, any quantitative system will eventually annihilate itself as it exhausts its environment.
Speed and replication: these are the dominant behaviors of capitalism.
The present economy moves at incredible speeds and is accelerating. The human body, the host, slows things down. In particular, the human propensity for pleasure slows things down. Humans are desiring machines: we enjoy the world. We seek pleasure. And pleasure is slow.
And so we are witnessing the extermination of the human body and, specifically, if its will to pleasure. Let’s look at our lives:
-First, the virus seeks to own time. Be at work, everyday, by 9:00. Leave, if you’re lucky, by 5, 6, 7. The work week is getting longer thanks in large part to technologic mutations and always-on micro computing. The majority of your waking time is accounted for — and accounted for being productive, for producing more capital.
-Of course, there will be no fucking at work. In fact, it’s against the law: there are elaborate rules and regulations and training sessions to ensure that not only don’t we fuck, but that we don’t even discuss fucking — or even look at each other with the desire to fuck. Why? Because fucking is pleasure and pleasure is slow and unproductive.
-While at work, we are not allowed any privacy. Work spaces are now, for the most part, open. No chance to sneak a wank — or even pick your nose, exercise, stretch, no chance to enjoy private indulgences. Even bathrooms are rarely private: we piss and shit in front of each other. There will be not space, no time, for private pleasures.
-We sit all day at work in front of a screen. We no longer need bodies that can lift and haul and operate; the information economy wants a brain to do the computing that computers cannot. The body gets in the way.
-We eat at our desks. And what do we eat? Wraps from Wendy’s: fat and processed corn and soy to ensure we are never feeling healthy. Why? Because a healthy body wants to fuck.
-When we get home, things are no better. Both husband and wife must work now: more more more more. So both are exhausted and dehydrated from their day. The kids are wiped out from being abused at school — made to sit in chairs and memorize nonsense. It is not a pleasant scene.
-So we pop Valium and Xanax and Ambien to sleep. Which makes us groggy and stupid and dehydrated.
-So we wake up — gotta wake up good and early and get the kid to school and yourself to work — completely exhausted. Enter: Coffee and the Starfucks conspiracy. Why is there a Starbucks on every corner in downtown America? Because capitalism demands we work and we are so fucking tired so we neeeeeed caffeine.
-Only we don’t really drink caffeine; we drink Lattes Grandes: high powered coffee dumped in a vat of antibiotic soaked milk fat. Which makes us sicker.
-The rise of coffee shop culture in America is not the rise of leisure and pleasure: it’s the spread of capitalism. Coffee shops in this country are places to work, laptops out and ready.
-And so we have become an increasingly impotent society. Which is the goal. But we still gotta breed — cloning is not up and running yet — so we have to take a pill. Doesn’t it bother anyone that there are ads for impotence all the fucking time? The signs are not subtle.
-Schools have been taken over as well: adolescence and youthful desire must be turned towards quantitative production. So high school students don’t fuck: they join after school programs so they can get into college.
-Once in college, they are recruited, No more taking acid, reading Nietzsche, and having orgies. Now it’s Adderall and internships. The majority of college students major in business.
-Acid has been eliminated. What else do I need to say?
-Of course, we can’t just eliminate pleasure. And so capitalism substitutes consumption: we consume, relentlessly. This drives the will to more: produce more, consume more, on and on and on. There is no delectation, just consumption.
-This virus is aggressively mining its host. The first thing it needs is not fossil fuel but human vitality — as in the matrix, it needs our energy production. The environmental movement is, for the most part, part of the capitalist engine that keeps our eyes on fuel rather than humanity itself. We create green cars. Green cars! That’s insane! There’s no such thing. You know what a green car is? It’s called your feet.
-Is there a cure? Is there resistance? Capitalism is very good at infecting resistant bodies incredibly quickly. It folds whatever emerges back into what Guy Debord calls the society of the spectacle. John Lennon’s Instant Karma sells a bank; Vincent Gallo sells Vodka. No sooner does resistance emerge than it is turned towards quantitative production and consumption.
All is lost. Head to the hills. Find the scraps of land still left, set up camp, and fuck and fuck and suck and read and draw and fuck some more because the end is neigh, dearies. There is no cure.
When I say capitalism, I am referring to a complex economy of desire, inter-personal politics, and capital. As an economist knows, the ebb and tide of markets have as much to do with the irrational laws of human behavior as they do with the supposed laws of markets. I work in branding and this is what we do, what we are hired to do: to navigate the economies of desire for capital.
If you’re having a problem w/ my word choice, I ask to put that aside for the moment and listen to what I have to say,
What I want to suggest is that capitalism is a virus that infected the human host long ago and has at once mutated and caused mutations in its human host to the point where it is very difficult to distinguish virus from host. And that this virus has mutated quite rapidly over the last 200 years and seems to be accelerating replication at an ever-increasing rate.
Why a virus? Because, like a virus, it seeks solely its own replication: it is not just a call for “more” but a call for more of the same, more of me. As such, it is a virus of quantity that, in order to replicate more effectively, seeks the eradication of qualitative states of being, affective experiences.
And, as a virus, capitalism will exterminate its host — viruses are not smart that way. As William Burroughs says, any quantitative system will eventually annihilate itself as it exhausts its environment.
Speed and replication: these are the dominant behaviors of capitalism.
The present economy moves at incredible speeds and is accelerating. The human body, the host, slows things down. In particular, the human propensity for pleasure slows things down. Humans are desiring machines: we enjoy the world. We seek pleasure. And pleasure is slow.
And so we are witnessing the extermination of the human body and, specifically, if its will to pleasure. Let’s look at our lives:
-First, the virus seeks to own time. Be at work, everyday, by 9:00. Leave, if you’re lucky, by 5, 6, 7. The work week is getting longer thanks in large part to technologic mutations and always-on micro computing. The majority of your waking time is accounted for — and accounted for being productive, for producing more capital.
-Of course, there will be no fucking at work. In fact, it’s against the law: there are elaborate rules and regulations and training sessions to ensure that not only don’t we fuck, but that we don’t even discuss fucking — or even look at each other with the desire to fuck. Why? Because fucking is pleasure and pleasure is slow and unproductive.
-While at work, we are not allowed any privacy. Work spaces are now, for the most part, open. No chance to sneak a wank — or even pick your nose, exercise, stretch, no chance to enjoy private indulgences. Even bathrooms are rarely private: we piss and shit in front of each other. There will be not space, no time, for private pleasures.
-We sit all day at work in front of a screen. We no longer need bodies that can lift and haul and operate; the information economy wants a brain to do the computing that computers cannot. The body gets in the way.
-We eat at our desks. And what do we eat? Wraps from Wendy’s: fat and processed corn and soy to ensure we are never feeling healthy. Why? Because a healthy body wants to fuck.
-When we get home, things are no better. Both husband and wife must work now: more more more more. So both are exhausted and dehydrated from their day. The kids are wiped out from being abused at school — made to sit in chairs and memorize nonsense. It is not a pleasant scene.
-So we pop Valium and Xanax and Ambien to sleep. Which makes us groggy and stupid and dehydrated.
-So we wake up — gotta wake up good and early and get the kid to school and yourself to work — completely exhausted. Enter: Coffee and the Starfucks conspiracy. Why is there a Starbucks on every corner in downtown America? Because capitalism demands we work and we are so fucking tired so we neeeeeed caffeine.
-Only we don’t really drink caffeine; we drink Lattes Grandes: high powered coffee dumped in a vat of antibiotic soaked milk fat. Which makes us sicker.
-The rise of coffee shop culture in America is not the rise of leisure and pleasure: it’s the spread of capitalism. Coffee shops in this country are places to work, laptops out and ready.
-And so we have become an increasingly impotent society. Which is the goal. But we still gotta breed — cloning is not up and running yet — so we have to take a pill. Doesn’t it bother anyone that there are ads for impotence all the fucking time? The signs are not subtle.
-Schools have been taken over as well: adolescence and youthful desire must be turned towards quantitative production. So high school students don’t fuck: they join after school programs so they can get into college.
-Once in college, they are recruited, No more taking acid, reading Nietzsche, and having orgies. Now it’s Adderall and internships. The majority of college students major in business.
-Acid has been eliminated. What else do I need to say?
-Of course, we can’t just eliminate pleasure. And so capitalism substitutes consumption: we consume, relentlessly. This drives the will to more: produce more, consume more, on and on and on. There is no delectation, just consumption.
-This virus is aggressively mining its host. The first thing it needs is not fossil fuel but human vitality — as in the matrix, it needs our energy production. The environmental movement is, for the most part, part of the capitalist engine that keeps our eyes on fuel rather than humanity itself. We create green cars. Green cars! That’s insane! There’s no such thing. You know what a green car is? It’s called your feet.
-Is there a cure? Is there resistance? Capitalism is very good at infecting resistant bodies incredibly quickly. It folds whatever emerges back into what Guy Debord calls the society of the spectacle. John Lennon’s Instant Karma sells a bank; Vincent Gallo sells Vodka. No sooner does resistance emerge than it is turned towards quantitative production and consumption.
All is lost. Head to the hills. Find the scraps of land still left, set up camp, and fuck and fuck and suck and read and draw and fuck some more because the end is neigh, dearies. There is no cure.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Miscommunication Wilts the Willy
Few things throw a wrench in the cog of eroticism more than miscommunication. There you are — or I am, as the case may be — lying sprawled across the bed on my back, a lovely minx between my legs, tending passionately to my cock with her mouth. Oh, the pleasure is intense — and rising. In the heat of the moment, despite entering a place where language no longer functions, I manage to moan or mumble or murmur: "Oh, yeah, lick my balls."
She, of course, can't hear me: she's got a cock ramming in and out of her mouth. So, polite interlocutor that she is, she removes said cock, looks up, and asks: "What?"
The moment is gone. My willy wilts.
She, of course, can't hear me: she's got a cock ramming in and out of her mouth. So, polite interlocutor that she is, she removes said cock, looks up, and asks: "What?"
The moment is gone. My willy wilts.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Why I like buying sex
The demands of contemporary heterosexuality are untenable, exhausting, and emasculating. How the fuck are we supposed to fuck when we need to be not just friends with our lovers and spouses, but punching bags, sound boards, structures of support for every banal anxiety. We have to listen to each other moan about the assholes at work, the attending angst, the pimples and dimples on our rectum, the endless list of soul deadening tasks — bills and house cleaning and car and future and payments and and and and....
And so thank goodness for the discrete encounter — an hour and 2 Benjamins later and I've been treated like a goddamn king. No discussion about our anxieties and fears, no seething resentment, no repressed rage: just generous strokes and nibbles and napes and no hesitation in asking her to lick my bunghole or let me lick hers. Nothing but desire consummated.
And so thank goodness for the discrete encounter — an hour and 2 Benjamins later and I've been treated like a goddamn king. No discussion about our anxieties and fears, no seething resentment, no repressed rage: just generous strokes and nibbles and napes and no hesitation in asking her to lick my bunghole or let me lick hers. Nothing but desire consummated.
Monday, July 13, 2009
The Disease of Designers
The coastal cities — New York, Boston, San Francisco, LA, Seattle — have birthed a most wretched spawn, an insidious, deranged, and grotesque thing: the so-called "creative" job.
For those of you who don't know to what I refer — and if you don't, count yourself as lucky and head now for the hills — go! run! faster! — the creative is the person who makes corporations look and sound pretty. These are the people who, for money, film the ads, design the logos and websites and brochures and signs, those who write the taglines and the dialog and name shit all sorts of wacky things. In the industry — the marketing industry, that is — these are referred to as "creatives" to distinguish them from business wonks and computer engineers.
But do not be fooled by the name: there is nothing, and I mean nothing, creative about it. People who write taglines and web copy actually call themselves writers. Writers! How did they come to take possession of that mighty word? Writers, for fuck's sake, as if they were Melville or Nabokov or Borges. Those, dearies, are writers. Coming up with "Better service for your needs" is, distinctly, not fucking writing.
These people relish what they call an interesting project. That's what they'll say: "I'm working on an interesting project." "And what, prey tell, is said interesting project?" I'll ask. "Oh, we're designing a brand book for the new Nike Air Jordan." To which I have been known to respond — and which has resulted in my exile, "That's interesting? Seriously? You want interesting, read Kant's 3rd Critique. Now that's fucking interesting."
Splat.
These creatives are a class unto themselves. They dress well — not in suits, mind you, but in jeans so cool you've never heard of them; in Paul Smith glasses (they all have glasses because they sit hunched over their computers for daze on end) and Prada shoes. They drive VWs, mostly, although today they may drive a Prius. Why? Because they are all what we call liberals — they make knowing jokes about "W"; they all commiserate over the passing of this or that state proposition; they all had Obama inauguration parties — and cried. In earnest!
But not only are they the most conspicuous consumers of all sorts of shit — iPhones and iPods and gadgets and gear and cars and vacations and shit and shit and shit — but they make consumption more palatable. That is their fucking jobs — to make people not only want to buy more and more shit but to let people justify to themselves the buying of more and more shit.
It is all so fucking obvious. But these nimwits have the ultimate disease of the weak: self-righteousness. They assume what they do is so cool, so hip, and so right — yes, they claim the ethical high ground as all liberals do. It's maddening: the people who sweat their days away pushing product for the Man are sanctimonious in their morality! They imagine themselves doing good because they recycle the wrapping of all the shit they buy. It's enough to drive a man insane.
I have, on occasion, tried to point this out to these self-appointed creatives. This has proven a poor economic strategy on my part as, well, now no one will hire me.
Because, yes, I too am a creative. But I don't call myself that. I call myself what I am: a whore and a pusher. At least I used to be. Now I'm just poor and hungry.
For those of you who don't know to what I refer — and if you don't, count yourself as lucky and head now for the hills — go! run! faster! — the creative is the person who makes corporations look and sound pretty. These are the people who, for money, film the ads, design the logos and websites and brochures and signs, those who write the taglines and the dialog and name shit all sorts of wacky things. In the industry — the marketing industry, that is — these are referred to as "creatives" to distinguish them from business wonks and computer engineers.
But do not be fooled by the name: there is nothing, and I mean nothing, creative about it. People who write taglines and web copy actually call themselves writers. Writers! How did they come to take possession of that mighty word? Writers, for fuck's sake, as if they were Melville or Nabokov or Borges. Those, dearies, are writers. Coming up with "Better service for your needs" is, distinctly, not fucking writing.
These people relish what they call an interesting project. That's what they'll say: "I'm working on an interesting project." "And what, prey tell, is said interesting project?" I'll ask. "Oh, we're designing a brand book for the new Nike Air Jordan." To which I have been known to respond — and which has resulted in my exile, "That's interesting? Seriously? You want interesting, read Kant's 3rd Critique. Now that's fucking interesting."
Splat.
These creatives are a class unto themselves. They dress well — not in suits, mind you, but in jeans so cool you've never heard of them; in Paul Smith glasses (they all have glasses because they sit hunched over their computers for daze on end) and Prada shoes. They drive VWs, mostly, although today they may drive a Prius. Why? Because they are all what we call liberals — they make knowing jokes about "W"; they all commiserate over the passing of this or that state proposition; they all had Obama inauguration parties — and cried. In earnest!
But not only are they the most conspicuous consumers of all sorts of shit — iPhones and iPods and gadgets and gear and cars and vacations and shit and shit and shit — but they make consumption more palatable. That is their fucking jobs — to make people not only want to buy more and more shit but to let people justify to themselves the buying of more and more shit.
It is all so fucking obvious. But these nimwits have the ultimate disease of the weak: self-righteousness. They assume what they do is so cool, so hip, and so right — yes, they claim the ethical high ground as all liberals do. It's maddening: the people who sweat their days away pushing product for the Man are sanctimonious in their morality! They imagine themselves doing good because they recycle the wrapping of all the shit they buy. It's enough to drive a man insane.
I have, on occasion, tried to point this out to these self-appointed creatives. This has proven a poor economic strategy on my part as, well, now no one will hire me.
Because, yes, I too am a creative. But I don't call myself that. I call myself what I am: a whore and a pusher. At least I used to be. Now I'm just poor and hungry.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Impotence: The Limp Canary in the Mine
Turn on your television. Just for a moment. Leave it on any channel for, say, 10 minutes. Notice anything odd? Any of the ads surprise you? No, not the ones for "green" cars that are miraculously good for the plants and animals (what the fuck is a green car? A green car! Jesus, we're stupid). And not the ones for this or that so-called food that exhausts your intestines with an unsettling vigor. No, I mean the ones — and there are multiple products — that help limp dicks get it up.
What the fucking fuck? What is wrong with these people? Why are these ads so prevalent? Because we are an impotent fucking culture, literally. Our hard ons are being systematically bred out of us.
We're made to sit very, very still for 10 hours a day in front of a glowing screen, ensuring our bodies and brains atrophy. In order to maintain our attention on said screen, we get Starfucked with cafe latte after cafe latte — which is to say, we drown our coffee in loads of fat and antibiotics which drain our bodies further of any whiff of vitality.
When we finally get home, there is no respite from the fray. We are greeted by our deranged spouse who has had the identical day to yourself because, these daze, everyone works — and is proud of it! the madness of it all! And then come the even more deranged children who have been forced to memorize idiotic nonsense while they sat in their chairs for 8 hours — why are they sitting? They're kids, for fucks sake, they should be playing with mud.
But you know what? Your day ain't even over yet, bud. You can't just kick back, smoke a joint, and sully the ass of your sweet wife. Nope. Thanks to technology, you are always on, as they say. Your Crackberry whines and wheezes, your computer screen blinks and beckons. No doubt, there is something more important than fellatio that must — must! — be dealt with. Capitalism knows no bounds.
Come sleep, sleep doesn't come. You turn to your wife for a little nooky to help usher slumber but she's dead asleep, 10 mgs of Ambien pumping through her lifeless body. And so you follow suit, only now you have to take 20 mgs.
You wake to the same nonsense as everyone readies themselves for another day of sitting still and being inundated with shitty food and asshole co-workers.
And soon you begin noticing that you're not having any morning wood. Everyday of your life, you woke up with a nice juicy hard on. Now it comes less and less. Maybe I'm getting older, you think to yourself. But is 38 that fucking old?
No, dick wad, you're losing your hard on. It's being bred out of you, out of us all. Sex — desire — gets in the way of capitalism, gets in the way of sitting still for 10 hours a day in front of a fucking screen, surrounded by other morons doing the exact same thing. So no wood for you. No wood for any of us.
Sure, they pump porn down the pipe to make us think our lives are still sexual, that our bodies are still sexual. And so we sit even longer in front of the fucking screen, desperately tugging our half-limp cocks to another anal cum shot video and with each stroke, your hard on wanes just a tad more.
Still, we have to breed. We must have workers. Oh, but our cocks don't work. Enter Viagra. We need a goddamn fucking pill to get it up. And not only is there no shame in it, not only is it not something we try to keep quiet, we broadcast it far and wide on every fucking tv show.
The signs are not subtle. We sent the canary down the mine and it came back, sure, but it came back with a limp fucking dick. And we're too fucking impotent to do anything about it.
What the fucking fuck? What is wrong with these people? Why are these ads so prevalent? Because we are an impotent fucking culture, literally. Our hard ons are being systematically bred out of us.
We're made to sit very, very still for 10 hours a day in front of a glowing screen, ensuring our bodies and brains atrophy. In order to maintain our attention on said screen, we get Starfucked with cafe latte after cafe latte — which is to say, we drown our coffee in loads of fat and antibiotics which drain our bodies further of any whiff of vitality.
When we finally get home, there is no respite from the fray. We are greeted by our deranged spouse who has had the identical day to yourself because, these daze, everyone works — and is proud of it! the madness of it all! And then come the even more deranged children who have been forced to memorize idiotic nonsense while they sat in their chairs for 8 hours — why are they sitting? They're kids, for fucks sake, they should be playing with mud.
But you know what? Your day ain't even over yet, bud. You can't just kick back, smoke a joint, and sully the ass of your sweet wife. Nope. Thanks to technology, you are always on, as they say. Your Crackberry whines and wheezes, your computer screen blinks and beckons. No doubt, there is something more important than fellatio that must — must! — be dealt with. Capitalism knows no bounds.
Come sleep, sleep doesn't come. You turn to your wife for a little nooky to help usher slumber but she's dead asleep, 10 mgs of Ambien pumping through her lifeless body. And so you follow suit, only now you have to take 20 mgs.
You wake to the same nonsense as everyone readies themselves for another day of sitting still and being inundated with shitty food and asshole co-workers.
And soon you begin noticing that you're not having any morning wood. Everyday of your life, you woke up with a nice juicy hard on. Now it comes less and less. Maybe I'm getting older, you think to yourself. But is 38 that fucking old?
No, dick wad, you're losing your hard on. It's being bred out of you, out of us all. Sex — desire — gets in the way of capitalism, gets in the way of sitting still for 10 hours a day in front of a fucking screen, surrounded by other morons doing the exact same thing. So no wood for you. No wood for any of us.
Sure, they pump porn down the pipe to make us think our lives are still sexual, that our bodies are still sexual. And so we sit even longer in front of the fucking screen, desperately tugging our half-limp cocks to another anal cum shot video and with each stroke, your hard on wanes just a tad more.
Still, we have to breed. We must have workers. Oh, but our cocks don't work. Enter Viagra. We need a goddamn fucking pill to get it up. And not only is there no shame in it, not only is it not something we try to keep quiet, we broadcast it far and wide on every fucking tv show.
The signs are not subtle. We sent the canary down the mine and it came back, sure, but it came back with a limp fucking dick. And we're too fucking impotent to do anything about it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
The fading light of a once great luminous asshole
Few things make me sadder than knowing that a once potent memory has begun to fade, not in its factuality—I may remember all the details—but in its affective resonance: it no longer gets me going. I pine for the pining, long for the lust. There is a great pleasure, a tortuous pleasure but a great one nonetheless, in feeling your body overtaken with a memory, to have the butterflies flutter in your stomach, the lips tickle your neck, to taste the shadow of a tongue in your mouth. You will never touch that flesh again, you will never know the scent of her on your fingers. But at the mere thought of it your body still quivers.
This thorough kind of thought comes less and less as one ages. Soon, this longing resonance is exiled for good, replaced by relentless distraction which is, really, the abstraction of desire. It is the desire for the desire that takes the place of longing. And it is a pale replica, a poor substitute.
This is why Tantric sex is reserved for middle-aged horndogs; it is an attempt to find pleasure where there is pleasure no longer. The popularity of Tantra among middle-aged northern California hippies is a desperate plea for longing, for total immersion in pleasure. And you know what? There may be a kind of thorough delight there. But it will never be, never even compare to, that unbridled abandon of yesteryear, when you rolled in the proverbial hay with your 15 year old sweetie, her flesh so pure, your desire so innocent, flesh merging, and there was nothing but great seething delight. No, nothing will replace that. Tantra tries, perhaps admirably, to turn its disadvantage to its advantage. Now, sex will not be abandon at all but absolute and total self-consciousness. We will not surrender to the unabashed melding of flesh; we will, on the contrary, amplify the awkwardness between us. We'll buy a book, study the pictures, read the idiotic prose; we might even take a class: 'Tantric Loving for Couples,' $375, please. This is admirable. This is the final attempt, the last gasp, of a libido on the wane, just before true sexual pleasure is all together gone.
I tried the Tantric thing. I masturbated and breathed and pushed and pulled my kundalini up and down my spine, in and out of this and that chakra and while it was nice it's not even in the same ball park as eating the pussy of my exquisite high school girlfriend, half Chinese and half Indian and one hundred percent pert and hot with big tasty tits and the most luscious cunt imaginable and my finger half way up her ass and my swollen jew cock spurting across her belly and eight minutes later I'm hard again and pushing that cock into her pussy while I suck her perfect tits and I know—know—that 10 minutes from now I'll be doing it again. That is the pinnacle of man's delight; that is the apogee of existence. Everything else, however meaningful and delightful, is descent. All the sad hippies with their grotesque bodies and ponytails and impressively illustrated books will not persuade me otherwise. Fuck Tantra. Give me my 16 year old self, give me my 16 year old hard on, my 16 year old readiness to be overwhelmed by desire. I dedicate myself now to mining the web for an image of what I once knew, some semblance of unbridled youthful lust, and I want to puke.
I can still barely make out the taste of my sweet Asian 15 year old's asshole. Man oh man, I loved sticking my tongue up her asshole. I'd never seen porn, not really. This is long before the internet when all I'd seen was a few moments of Marilyn Chambers giving a blowjob on a pool table. Don't misunderstand—watching those few moments, packed in a sweaty living room with 12 other adolescent boys, I came in his pants. But when I would stick my tongue up little Joy's ass—her name was Joy! I'm not making this up—it was not an attempt to resuscitate desire that had waned. It was not as if I'd tired of her perfect, tight, tasty pussy or her impossibly firm breasts or her luscious, delicious lips—oh, fuck, I could kiss her all day and be happy, happier than I'll ever, ever be again; no, when I would slide my tongue up her ass it was because I was so enmeshed with her flesh that eating her ass was continuous with eating the rest of her. I can see that perfect little asshole now and it makes me want to scream in the hope that if I just scream loud enough, I might reverse time and find that impeccable ass perched inches from my big jew nose where I could inhale it with utter and complete satisfaction.
What a luxury that I can still conjure that luscious little gaping corn hole! The light of it is waning, I can barely make it out. But the fact that I can catch even the slightest glimpse is a source of incomparable delight. This is what is left to me, what is left of me: the fading light of a once great luminous asshole.
This thorough kind of thought comes less and less as one ages. Soon, this longing resonance is exiled for good, replaced by relentless distraction which is, really, the abstraction of desire. It is the desire for the desire that takes the place of longing. And it is a pale replica, a poor substitute.
This is why Tantric sex is reserved for middle-aged horndogs; it is an attempt to find pleasure where there is pleasure no longer. The popularity of Tantra among middle-aged northern California hippies is a desperate plea for longing, for total immersion in pleasure. And you know what? There may be a kind of thorough delight there. But it will never be, never even compare to, that unbridled abandon of yesteryear, when you rolled in the proverbial hay with your 15 year old sweetie, her flesh so pure, your desire so innocent, flesh merging, and there was nothing but great seething delight. No, nothing will replace that. Tantra tries, perhaps admirably, to turn its disadvantage to its advantage. Now, sex will not be abandon at all but absolute and total self-consciousness. We will not surrender to the unabashed melding of flesh; we will, on the contrary, amplify the awkwardness between us. We'll buy a book, study the pictures, read the idiotic prose; we might even take a class: 'Tantric Loving for Couples,' $375, please. This is admirable. This is the final attempt, the last gasp, of a libido on the wane, just before true sexual pleasure is all together gone.
I tried the Tantric thing. I masturbated and breathed and pushed and pulled my kundalini up and down my spine, in and out of this and that chakra and while it was nice it's not even in the same ball park as eating the pussy of my exquisite high school girlfriend, half Chinese and half Indian and one hundred percent pert and hot with big tasty tits and the most luscious cunt imaginable and my finger half way up her ass and my swollen jew cock spurting across her belly and eight minutes later I'm hard again and pushing that cock into her pussy while I suck her perfect tits and I know—know—that 10 minutes from now I'll be doing it again. That is the pinnacle of man's delight; that is the apogee of existence. Everything else, however meaningful and delightful, is descent. All the sad hippies with their grotesque bodies and ponytails and impressively illustrated books will not persuade me otherwise. Fuck Tantra. Give me my 16 year old self, give me my 16 year old hard on, my 16 year old readiness to be overwhelmed by desire. I dedicate myself now to mining the web for an image of what I once knew, some semblance of unbridled youthful lust, and I want to puke.
I can still barely make out the taste of my sweet Asian 15 year old's asshole. Man oh man, I loved sticking my tongue up her asshole. I'd never seen porn, not really. This is long before the internet when all I'd seen was a few moments of Marilyn Chambers giving a blowjob on a pool table. Don't misunderstand—watching those few moments, packed in a sweaty living room with 12 other adolescent boys, I came in his pants. But when I would stick my tongue up little Joy's ass—her name was Joy! I'm not making this up—it was not an attempt to resuscitate desire that had waned. It was not as if I'd tired of her perfect, tight, tasty pussy or her impossibly firm breasts or her luscious, delicious lips—oh, fuck, I could kiss her all day and be happy, happier than I'll ever, ever be again; no, when I would slide my tongue up her ass it was because I was so enmeshed with her flesh that eating her ass was continuous with eating the rest of her. I can see that perfect little asshole now and it makes me want to scream in the hope that if I just scream loud enough, I might reverse time and find that impeccable ass perched inches from my big jew nose where I could inhale it with utter and complete satisfaction.
What a luxury that I can still conjure that luscious little gaping corn hole! The light of it is waning, I can barely make it out. But the fact that I can catch even the slightest glimpse is a source of incomparable delight. This is what is left to me, what is left of me: the fading light of a once great luminous asshole.
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