How I Used to Write

Here was my writing process, before decay settled in. First, I'd visit the video store and pick out three to five videos, each promising some tidbit of true eroticism (this was pre-web) or at least a girl who had that look, like perhaps she was not insane, stupid, and/or drug addled. Next (after depositing the videos at home, of course; that's a whole other reckoning—carrying pornographic films home clanking clumsily in their boxes stuffed conspicuously into my coat, hoping some homeboy doesn't think I'm packing a gun and wacks me there on the street, Tranny Surprise #8 tumbling to the pavement along with my bullet drenched body and any remnant of dignity), I'd visit the coffee shop and order a depth charge—coffee with a shot of espresso—and a chocolate fudge brownie, jet fuel. I'd then retire to my apartment, the coffee already streaming through my veins, putting mind and cock equally at attention. I'd pop a video in the VCR, turn the TV to face the desk, and set to work.

Assuming my throne, the computer would beckon with the promise of the well-turned phrase, the deft curve of argumentation, while the TV winked with the promise of the deft curve of breasts and the well-turned blowjob. Soon, my pants would wind down to my ankles, one hand working the keyboard, the other working my aspiring cock. And, o, did it aspire. Between coffee, brownie, Merleau-Ponty, and oral cum shots, my cock would never be so hard again, so full of itself, so proud, my prose so lucid, so prolific, so incisive. My erectile prowess and my intellectual prowess acted synergistically: pre-cum and phenomenology streamed from me in equally fine proportions.

After some time—the sounds of the keyboard seamlessly intermingling with the sounds of on-screen slobbering—I'd find himself teetering at the point of frenzied mania. At this juncture, this apogee, I'd jump up, pull my pants to their rightful place, tuck my bulging erection into the elastic briefs, turn off the moaning of the TV, and head over to the peep show across town—the Lusty Lady, alas, and a fine alliteration at that—where for a mere five dollars worth of quarters, I would view the nakedness of 20-something girls whose bushes had not yet been groomed to contemporary standards. And there, in the solitude of a cum-drenched booth, nothing between me and the four sets of breasts that dangled a mere yard away but a piece of glass—there, I would ferociously tug my meat until, as the last of my quarters dwindled away, I'd expend myself, emptying a gallon of semen on the floor where it would mix with my exhaustion, guilt, and the sperm of those who came before, awaiting the sullen, male jizz jockey who would mop it up with god-knows-what thoughts streaming through his head.

That period was the pinnacle of my health, a concentration of sensory input orchestrated just right to drive the organism—me—to a rarified and glorious productivity, all words, ideas, concepts, and cum. All pistons were blazing, a well oiled machine churning at full capacity.