Idea for a Porno

Brainstorming notes:

• Assuming the following re sexuality:
  • Men desire to dominate women physically, but then to be needed by them physically and emotionally, and woman desire the emotional connection after
  • Men/woman shock each other, re being dishonest to each other about how they feel about each other’s sexual mores; hence to be cross-binary-gender, need to incorporate this, e.g. part1 with brutal porn (i.e. offensive, seemingly), but use, e.g. part4 to show how she dominates him to desire her (nb. The “female gaze” is like gravity, not like a bullet, and thus I do respect to “men’s feminism, being made weak”)
• Thus a 4 part round structure:
  • Part 3 is the “money shot”
  • Part 4, sets up emotional/mise-en-scene continuity
  • Part 1 presents the naive voyeur (aka “the virgin slut discovered by the innocent sleaze”)
  • Part 2 is the ramping-up
• Also:
  • using language as a tool, vs. using language to communicate
    • e. use a tool to manipulate the reader
  • POV’s, and when to take advantage of a restricted sphere. Think about the blind-spot of POV-selection.
• Thinking out loud:
  • Role transitions are abjective spaces implying erotica, e.g. teacher to nurse, i.e. the student’s fantasy re teacher becomes taboo when seen from his fantasy re a nurse
  • recognized motifs (e.g. nurse, bj), vs unrecognized (e.g. yearning for a woman like a bird for pollen, where the innocence of the nurse is here fulfilled by the neutral-purity of nature)
  • possibility of “pushing envelop”, e.g. sexuality based on fucking ears, or conducted by the woman via secondary channels (e.g. as the head is to the vagina, so too is secondary to common-sexual)
  • If, truly wanted to do this right, would connect at least one bridge via options (cf. Choose your own adventure) but would then need to have access to a text section which is selection-neutral to accommodate finite text vs larger navigational routes
  • Part 2 can be school-dress/ass re “him”, and thus part 3 becomes protagonists 69 POV (i.e. alternate stripes, of male gaze, female gaze, along non-intersecting narrative continuous sections), and thus part 4 becomes both emotional, but also a big reveal which rewards the second reading, i.e. where she instructed him in such a way that led to part 1, but through machinations which reveal phen’ chains, not necessarily superficial/material chains.

Part One; or, How I Wound Up With An Ass Around My Cock and A Grateful Submission,  “Daddy, Please Stop, Please Daddy, Thank you, Daddy”

B/s:

• Frame into no-name watching porno this
• Inculculate shock
• End with “male desire” flailing around like hose

It was too late for my mind to stay abreast of the images that were designed to taunt me. Too late, because… well, you’ll see, but also for a second reason: it was late at night, and I’d just walked into an empty apartment after a woman’s yoga class. It felt good to step away from corporate box-farm, and into a space defined by the open minds within its walls (who knew that acceptance is judgment’s better and younger sister, who could have spared mankind their pubescent warring and chest-thumping fetishes).

The elastic clothes make me feel tightly held, like a grip around a curved bow, like how I wish I could feel without makeup. I try and wear for as long as I can excuse, an opportunity to feel pampered without the risk of vulnerability. Not just physically, it reminds me, like an old scent, of the acceptance which I feel when stretching on my mat, knowing that together we are each alone contributing to the others’ journeys.

The tactile serenity which my gym clothes could have been enough to explain what the images were – the context being that I was undressing, pulling black leggings off with the delicacy and patience of a geisha serving tea, every action purposeful, even the half-intended carelessness which scraped the very tips of my nails against my thigh, and the half-accidental disregard, which allowed the sensation to waft through my mind’s window without any special notice or approval – my clothes could have primed me to see what was right in front of my face, but the simple fact is that I couldn’t see what I couldn’t imagine.

I was soon to learn that my inability to see what was heading for my face was the invalid excuse choked by any woman who’d ever entertained an insect seeing their mouth as an open door policy. Foreign biological matter notwithstanding, I’d been blind sighted by a higher game which treated me as an anonymous pawn, picked and dropped with a philosophy which favoured immediate utility over long term bonding.

My night time ritual hadn’t changed in years, only the days of the week alternated office hours and weekends, and gym classes with runs in the park. Today was no different. Yoga, run run run (I know that I don’t need to lose weight, but was talking to my supervisor, who runs marathons, about the meditative aspect), then wine, then shower, then bed with a laptop and maybe The L Word.

The laptop was on my lap, my lap was enveloped in a blanket, and my whole head felt enveloped by a fuzzy static, undoubtedly derived from the merlot selected solely for its alcohol content. I took another sip.

The email seemed ordinary enough, “Following up on Equal Work Means Equal Workers discussion from meeting, I found this link which we could use as a basis for communication.” We’d had a vigorous discussion at the last group progress meeting. It felt good knowing I wasn’t the only one still thinking about it.

As the link loaded, I realized that I would never allow any child I called my own to wear such arousing nightwear as what I’d chosen. I loved the transition from supple yoga to relaxed shower to pliant bed-goer. It was like being the star on Broadway, hurrying from one glamorous costume to another, each showing another facet of her complicated personhood.

The link continued to load, and I sighed as I realized it was a vain and moot thought. I had no daughter, and the only way I could ever forbid a girl from dressing herself was if I was willing to be honest about my reasons. Which was why it was moot: I can’t imagine telling anyone just how special this high-quality sleep set was to me, and of course, I don’t mean practically. Emotionally. They were from Modern Persia, whose brand name alone evoked the smell of spluttering oil wicks in harem halls, which cast their blinking halos onto an otherworldly festival of sparkling fountains, the most beautiful of woman being fed by bronze genies who fulfilled their mistresses wishes without the slightest pause or question. The specialized clothing was made of a singular complex fabric, alternating elaborate stitching with a translucent gauze, which was designed to hint, not reveal.

It wasn’t the point. The point was that I would not allow any daughter I taught to think that wearing something that looked like this was anything short of extraordinary. Perhaps not “special”, but “not to be given freely over an open heart”.

The point was that the things she’d said at the meeting, and then the way she’s felt dizzy in the shower and wondered if she could call anyone if they would save her, and whether she’d be helpless and forced to trust them as they carried her out of the bath and onto the bed.

The wine is disappearing, and I still don’t know what I’m looking at. Video. HR meeting. Psychologist last week said I needed to be more assertive. I proved that I could be more assertive. The designs our creative team had passed onto the sales team were at the very least, dubious, and possibly, utterly sexist. The designs were borderline pornographic, and if they had a claim to efficacy, it was in their streamlined ability to simplify women into cartoon avatars designed by gazing males; legs and ass, and pretty lips that quivered if a man so much as grunted their way.

I’d done the right thing, I’d done what the doctor ordered, and had done so with respect, even pausing to choose the masculine-friendly “I think”, to the “I feel,” which turned most men into gibbons.

The girl has a nice ass. This was the point (in her mental chatter) to which my study of the moving pictures had advanced. The images were unfolding their timeline in the glow of my computer screen, on my bed, my body partially hidden by blankets, and partly revealed by clothes that (were designed to) seduce by promising what cannot be freely delivered; reluctance.

Is this another marketing video? Because that girl is way too unrealistic. I wish I had an ass like that.

Why is it so awkward? The angle feels like whoever’s holding it is trapped, a limb caught in the merciless jaws of an unthinking lasso. It’s like they’re being made to fit their environment, rather than manipulating their environment to serve their needs. What makes sense of this angle? I remembered puzzles on holidays, starting with corners and edges…

Obviously, this was indoors. How did I not see what that was? It’s the top of a head. Blonde, long and wavy like the honey pot in a 007 film. That’s the back and top of the blonde’s head, and then that must be a glass or mirror behind her?

Slow deductive reasonings drunkenly climbed a lumbering ladder of conclusions, until I suddenly saw the whole scene at once, and realized what was immediately obvious: the glass was nor a window, it was a mirror, hence the back of the woman’s head reflected behind her. The mirror’s showing her… kneeling. Praying? It sounded like a prayer when a soft voice, between a whisper and a weak plea, became the first sound to be heard,  “God, please, oh please. I never ask you for anything, but please, I need this, you don’t understand how I need this.”

I was confusing the desperate tenor for biological necessity (life and death, hah!), as if the kneeling faithful was begging for a boon to fix her broken heart (whom all doctors had diagnosed as though it’s break was akin to Humpty Dumpty’s fall).

It was only after being perplexed by the angle of the camera, and by the specific nuances within the trust which the voice seemed to expect from me (how could it expect me to see it?), it was only after these trial-and-error thoughts-and-deductions that I noticed what was most unique about the scene.

What was unique was also not unique at all: Fashion.

I noticed the shades of green and white on the skirt and that was enough. The rest was proof of diligence, such as the range of deep verdant tones on a sweater which read (in reverse, per the mirror, hence her delay in reading), “Class of 2018, because 17 is not the same as 18”. It was the senior uniform from St Ambrosia’s School for Honorable Young Ladies.

It wasn’t the official sweater, of course. I would prefer immolation to being a hypocrite cog in a machine which telling girls to become women without considering their roles as ladies. She wishes she could explain what it meant to be given a market value against their companionship’s worth (it was a dark calculus which progressed indubitably like geometry from Euclid’s axioms, and by similar cause-to-effects, from low self-esteem amongst young ladies to international slavery)

The official jumper read, “Class of 2018, Honor the Work”.

I have two reasons for knowing the slogans of a passing year level amongst schools which are as indistinct as they are varied.

The first was innocent and was an accident. I was looking for tampons. It was way outside normal times and places. I was helping an old friend, providing the skill to which I am least qualified, that is, looking after her children. I had finished putting the younger brats to bed when I saw the older daughter’s school jumper. I admit that I got carried away, but it felt right, like my activist days. I probably shouldn’t have stolen, but I promised that I was doing it for the young lady, even if they would never agree explicitly.

That night I’d taken hedge clippers, cutting the symbol of society’s regression into roughly shaped strips, and sent my ex baby-siter a primer on Wollstonecraft to whet her pre-university teeth.

The second reason for recognizing the motto is not innocent, but it occurred innocently in a fate-willed parallel course. I had planned – irrespective of personal gender political beliefs – on using the destroyed patriarchal sweater amongst my props for stealing the Interior Education client away from the franchise holdings, and then for crucifying a headmaster who was only my client until he was fired. I was the bad bitch at the office, although no one would ever know just how Machiavellian I was willing to lowball.

I had planned on verbally humiliating the school’s principal, who was obviously responsible for greenlighting our creative team’s “Woman are beautiful and so are girls” dried bird shit. I imagined myself barging past the secretary, testosterone filling my throat with the confidence I needed to finish what I’d started. I would never stop marching my own march. I deserve to be sexy without being seen as sexy. Why are pigs so quick to label others as rodents, when they disliked the label themselves… It was a complicated issue, I’d work it all out before any strike.

All these thoughts were processed with the speed of a light beam caught between the refracting lenses of a reflective crystal mind. As I categorized and filed each thought according to my existential logic and prerogative, I felt the alcohol continue its raison d’etre (smoothening the barbs that threatened her, without caring) and snuggled beneath the doona, the goose down forcing its weight with a vocabulary of unexpected density and firmness. Everything would be alright.

It felt as if the world (the warm bed and clothes) were snuggling into me like a conscientious lover, but any such appearance was sleight of hand, and the same palm was slapping me in the face without displaying any dialectical contradiction. It was only my self-awareness that was delayed, buffered by shock and alcohol.

The shame and disbelief struck my chords of self-awareness well before any cognitive explanations voiced themselves within the cacophonous orchestra that was my mind. Something about what I’d seen made me feel small and controllable, like a freak at an old travelling circus, or a lobster in the tank at restaurants.

It was probably ironic – I couldn’t balance the legalese of dictionary definitions with my own sense for the meaning of things – that I was wondering whether my butt would look so perfectly bubble at the same time as I was deploring the silent commodification that was the presumed sexuality of the female form. It was probably ironic that I called it a “bubble but”, which was a plainly diminishing term, but it’s exactly what I would have named those contours of the plaited skirt seen in a mirror, in a video, on my screen, on my bed.

These weren’t new thoughts and vulnerabilities. I’d once sat on a city bench, watching the eyes and heads swivel and pirouette as they each directed their course way through streets^[1] into doorways. Men’s eyes would always find what they wanted most. Apparently, most men want a perfectly heart-shaped rear, stuffed – I knew it, even if the men didn’t – into skirts and pants that were a least one size too small, and could only be entered by repeated tugs amidst gyrating hips. Or those men’s gaze would find the suddenly exposed inch of cleavage, as a woman knelt to pick up a tissue stolen by the breeze. Or those hungry faces would file behind a pretty-thing, matching the pace of their quarry as though they were hunters seeking fresh meat for their hungry tribesmen.

So it didn’t matter whether it was ironic, or hypocritical, because I knew what everyone was not saying. However, what I didn’t know, and this drove me a little crazy sometimes, was not knowing just how far everyone saw me in those ways.

I wouldn’t trust any boobed creature who denied fantasizing about a builder who catches himself staring, or about the wolves of wall street who trip on the curb when shocked by their own helplessness before their own sexual urges. Which is to say, I didn’t think it was wrong to want (in my own case, far less than average) to know whether my own butt would look so goddamn sexy in the same angle.

What is it about this cushy tushie that has me green with envy? It’s something to do with the way it murmurs suppleness (implied by the taut thighs and calves that peaked above white socks), and the way those murmurs cover a melody written in the morse code of movements (first a mere suggestion, but eventually an undeniable back, and forth, and back and forth, and forth, and forth and back, and forth and back). The movements didn’t announce themselves, but I had stared at their fulcrum’s crevisse for too long and with too skilful intensity to ever not-see again. Whatever its cause, it was only human of me, and good-for-me at that.

That’s when I heard a second voice. It rode a body made of acoustics and timbre and pitch, and these spelt a fear unknown since primary school. The recognition made me feel sick as though forced to cower against a world that didn’t seem to ever care about me. “Do you want to be a good cum bucket?”

It wasn’t the non-anthropic misanthropy which introduced me to a new urge to escape exposure. I felt a new type of naked. Even here in this bed, beneath blankets, wearing my cosiest lazy-wear, I can feel it stripping everything that hides me away.

That sense of dread accompanied the first moment of recognition. That was him. That son of a bitch. Oh no. Fucking pig. Oh god, who sent this to me. What do they want?

“Yes, daddy. Please don’t let mommy drink all your cum, I’ll be a good girl this time.”

Intellectually, I was behaving like an animal, but retrospective reevaluation looks like I was hypnotized. I couldn’t look away. It was one particular area of the young woman’s utterly desirable figure; the patch of skin, between the ends of the skirt and the long socks, as though painting the boundaries of sin and pleasure away from innocence and naive cunning.

If I was talking to my therapist, I would ask whether that patch of skin was an archetype for what I want him to see and feel when he sees and thinks about me. The therapist would probably say that merely by being aware of the vestigial nature of a feeling serves as motivating force for its rectification: men like him don’t look at women like me in that way; men like him look into magic mirrors that hold nymphs that fulfil their every need.

There are some things I don’t share ever, not even when protected by the seal of the therapist’s oath. I refused to share the awareness of a mind’s eye that saw that, even recoiling away from fear of rejection couldn’t stop the warmth from seeping beneath my skin, as though there was a fire spirit which could pull my strings but ignore any I tried to lasso to make my own puppet.

Thus, drooped like Jasmine on a luxurious bed, pining for an unknown and unrealistic prince, but trapped by Jafar… I was at the end of a weird day, one which defied closure, instead leaving me with a talking mind, and neural engines that were clogged as they processed a problem set by an audacious devilry…  thus my tired mind gave up on the thing “today”, presumably expecting tomorrow to be a sufficient cause for existence so as to justify slumber^[2]. Thus, thus, thus, back and forth, thus.

Like the first quarter hour of most work days, I woke with a morphean bliss which echoed freedom from responsibility, like younger days and the summers they had known.

That’s how I  could watch my fingers teasing their way underneath the waistband’s elastic. In later hours, the same manoeuvre was known to need at least a gizmo, and probably batteries. But this morning, in the fresh new, virgin hours, innocent of expectations or trauma, all of the time felt like the fertile moment of creativity, as for example the first man to notice that the hollow of gloves suited the shape of his palms and fingers.

The itch was warm, and it carried its own tempo. My fingers already knew the rhythm, which only asked of them to do what they felt right and good.

Finished, I was breathed deeply, but the digits which had met her own yearnings perfectly could lie still. I had began micromanaging the short-to-long-term memory transfer,  reminiscing, comparing myself to my yesterdays, such as those yesterdays wherein I’d awoken the fascination of excelling at a school that taught to touch and feel one’s own skin, and had felt like the first discoverer of bacchanalian oscillations, which later would signpost habituations towards dull disappointments. But, this morning it was fireworks, and those experiences were the most important to document, I’d found.

I was still half-smiling, unknowingly dazed, as I carried soap over my shoulders, and tenderly sponged my latent-shame at being a woman into a pride of cleanliness which preceded (even) the possibility of corruption. The physical relief had relinquished half the tension, but the rest was founded upon petrifying terror, and a looping movement, back and forth, carried by a sexy, beautiful, perfect, arched-so-slightly, back, and forth and back and back,  and “Oh god” and him. Last night refused to erase itself, and the inappropriate attraction which its images sold themselves to her mind only added further allure, as if seduced by her visceral disapproval for being seduced.

How was it him? Was I sure? I seem to have no doubt. It was him. It was him. Of course, he had many women, but why the dress, and what was being planned for her. Did they know how it had caused her sleep to be unsettled, filled by self-obliviating fantasies, each one as full of potential as it is beyond recapture, lost to a world which necessitated the mandating of fantasies into dreams.

I couldn’t believe it was him. How?!

By the time I was in the office, I was protected by being numbed by my Iron Man suit (my joke, on account of Robert Downey Jr because so hunkishly cute, but specifically its the name I give my work clothes, and the way they let me perceive myself as a drone, or any other man). The reprieve would last until the meeting sometime in the afternoon.

The meeting was after lunch, and I didn’t bother attempting to concentrate, instead, counting the hours crawling. It wasn’t just worrying, or fear of rejection (even the subtle rejection of unannounced acceptance). And yet despite the pointless back-and-forth inside my skull, I kept justifying a sidetrack, as I fantasized how I would speak to a sales clerk, “Yes, I need a skirt and blouse. They’re for my daughter… No, ^{(too risky, what if she has a daughter at the school too)} they’re for my niece. Yes, I know her sizes… Yes, socks too….” I think I’d look good. Not that anyone would guess. But I do work out, and….

“Meeting, five minutes.” I didn’t even get to see the face that was ramming its clock against my plans as if forcing me to acknowledge that just because a challenge was more than I could handle, did not give me any extra power to choose against it.

I was the last to arrive at the meeting. I sat in my usual chair and took my usual notes as the project head instructed his vision for our next campaign. “Girls are beautiful” was the slogan for the head staff (managerial paper pushers, behind the scenes, doing what was needed, but not caring about the deeper issues), designed to slip our expertise into a society that rewarded perfidy with a whipped cream made with salt instead of sugar. The thing we were not saying publically^[3] was that we were sexualizing girls whom the law deemed to not be women. We were pretending to not be pretending that we believed sexual freedom for woman implied some similar freedom for their younger ranks.

Our production team  would launch via a sports festival – some inane umbrella co-op which united a set of schools and youth movements with flimsy, jingoistic, team hullabaloo – for a revolutionary market-shaking product, which (as my project supervisor explained, as if though we were imbeciles, needing tedious rote reiterations) both material (e.g. school uniforms) and cultural (e.g. youth culture takes back from the patriarchal-subtext of the-Judeo-Christian-family-blueprint by refusing to accept their attempts at prostituting vis a vis “chastity” etc). I despised the tone he used in delivering this business management 101 meets media studies intro as if he were revealing mystic secrets promising eschatological freedoms, and all with that dickins-smile that always made his face so intuitive and comforting, and thus so often the imagined other in my private struggles and imagined confidants.

The other men on the team – there were three of them, (and one other woman) – were always fascinated by the pictures in the powerpoint, which ostensibly were there to establish our campaign’s scientific credibility.

I was smarter than the three of them combined.

What did a comparison of three different cleavages provide, except illustrating our campaign’s founding principle: sexy sells.

How could they think that they needed a visual comparison of socks-on-crossed legs.

And, clearly, whoever had commissioned the computer modelling for simulating the relationship between shoes and the sway of a hip’s gait, had sacrificed fiscal integrity for personal titillation.

It would be poetic, maybe… Maybe I should try some of these “uniforms” for myself. See just how degrading they are, see the calibre of animal I am ordered by HR to treat as equal!

Except for him. He smiled as he finished, holding my gaze as I swallowed the saliva which had been building up, tapping its fluid form against the reflex which could compel me to gag, no matter whether I was perhaps too shy to be seen in its subservient posture. I could just imagine what would have happened if I’d actually coughed, or even spluttered; the other woman would have been all over it, making sure to catch his eyes, and making sure to give him a knowing look, as if I had been thinking of the video, and as if the video had made me almost-gag. It wasn’t, it was because I’d been focused on his presentation.

“So that’s all. We’ll update progress in a week.”

Everyone left. Except for me. And him. His chair was next to mine. I’d chosen it on my first day, and it had been proven to be an advantageous gambit, securing a line of ascent within the politics of corporate intrigue^[4]. Being close to him had always been good, until today, when I wished that I could slink underneath a file cabinet or into the secret loos in the basement.

“We have our first client meeting now. Taxi’s downstairs. Be a good gal and make sure he waits, I’ll be one phone call then you’ll have my full attention for whatever you were hiding during the meeting. Don’t think I didn’t notice that you kept your mouth closed just one day after launching PC grenades into the HR meeting.”

Which is how the blur of a morning, became a blurred car ride, and it was the unwelcoming sight of my boring shape in the front door that awoke me, rudely, to the unsurprising fact of my locality: St Ambrosia’s. We stepped into an office behind the front reception, but after handshakes and small nothings, he excused himself, “Don’t worry, this is our best woman. There’s nothing she can’t or won’t do to make our team happy. Great to have you on the team.”

Which was the second rug pulled from underneath my feet in as many hours. First was knowing that I’d heard his voice, and would be sharing a cab-ride. And now this, second, realizing I had no idea who had sent the video.

I discussed hollow mission statements and projections with the headmaster, who presented himself with a greater class and degree of cultural inheritance than I would have credited him – him who had taught girls to be spinsters blessed with youthful figurines, eager to play with their toys in the sandpit.

The source of my determination, which kept my head upright, and proved my professionalism for a team whose members could include a malicious traitor… wherever I found the inevitable capacity to walk each moment into the next, it should have been the cause for a real pride. But in addition to ignoring my strengths, I had missed the most important questions: not just, “Why is this my problem?” – after all, I didn’t send the video, nor would I ever make such a thing. Those impossible to pin-down wandering worries could also have served as another source for self-esteem, which sounds crazy, but is my suspicion that I’m slightly telepathic during my period. How else was I right to close my mouth when blindfolded? Or to move forward not knowing how far I would be expected to take it.

By the evening, I was back in my silky bedwear and checking my email.

I literally expected a ransom note (against whom though?), or another video (I couldn’t not hope for another instalment).

The room was dumb testimony adumbrating my inner yearnings. Folded beside me were skirts and shirts, the former too short on self-respect, and the latter too short on the wit it pretends to have mastered.

The principal had insisted I take them, “Just so you know what you have to work with.”

What do I have to work with? I imagined him pointing at me, as I stood on the large wooden table that served our conference room, “Yes, you see how it’s pointing outwards as if defying its material depth and intensity. That’s exactly how I want it to look on the girls.” In the fantasy, I couldn’t care less what he thought, instead was brimming at a pride which knew that he was lucky enough to be gifted my serpentine profile. The nonsense coming out of his mouth was merely-redundant proof of how they tried to constrict my feminine spirit into scientific measurements and tallies (“36DD”, “bubble”, etcetera etcetera back and forth again and again).

I felt stood up, as though another message had been promised sincerely. Disgruntled by my lack of certainty of my right to be dissatisfied, instead, I distracted myself, flipping a few channels on the TV, then relinquishing the image I drew for myself, watched the video from last night. And again.

This time I allowed the reel to reach its crescendo, “Daddy, please stop,” and then “You’re a good anal slut, aren’t you?” and waiting until the last visuals was replaced by untextured blackness, and the sound replaced by the hum of silence for another dozen seconds, until finally, “Thank you daddy,” “thank-you for what?” “Thank you for fucking my arse, daddy” punctuated by whimpers that sounded equally pained and pampered

I couldn’t sleep again. Thoughts of her crouched over her desk. Of her leg resting on top its sister [alt: its chiral twin]. Of her tight silhouette, which can transform a white blouse, otherwise not much different from my own button-down, into a feeling of a spatial awareness which was somehow able to provoke me, as though it were a spiritual duty to grab and bite (consequences be damned against the missions sacred terms). I had imagined calling her with a personal problem, and imagined her admiring my ships-in-bottles collection, sending a teasing jab with her eyes, as she stroked the bottle opening, as she tore me open by merely hinting at the intimate knowledge to which she was privy, and against which I would be outed as a vulgar and debauched, balding excuse for a (faux-)masculine attempt at individuality.

The censor judged me not a real man because of being too much man. It was a fool’s court, and it behoved me (like so many of my generation) to exchange the shame and insecurity learned in younger years, for the quick release and self-contained solubility of a rapid, faux-urgent, auto/cis-pampering.

Which is to say: average day, had a wank, then went to sleep.

Part Two; or, How My Sexual Vices Became An Asset Once Depravity was Included As a Recognized Olympic Sport

Outline:

• A new character, Y, talks about having met X (a woman from part 1), and how they are kindred sisters
• De-masculinize Y by faux-rape (i.e. teaching Y to enjoy sex against her will)
• End with almost being caught by a daughter (Z), fulfilling some debauched wish for?

Part Three; or, Why Good Girls Swallow

Outline: [Editor notes: next round firing begins Monday, all writers expected to attend scheduled evaluation]

• Z at psychologist (U)
• Z dominated by X (i.e. woman feminizing each other, to assert their masculinity)
• End with montage created from non-sequential snippets, which create what is a sequence erotically-speaking, I.e creates an ordered set on the basis of the melody of sexual ideation

Part Four; or, Why Daddy Never Looks At Other Women Without Mommy’s Softening Her Grip on His Collar

Outline:

• W (X’s sister) on a date with V (X’s supervisor)
• W uses U to trick X to risk all for love, but in the end, X is just some slut who was tricked (ends up as a sex slave to children who use her sexuality as though it were an allergy or double-jointed knuckle?!? wtf, challenging much)
• But if so, need to recast ?? so that can read a scene that sounds like “X cuddling V” but is actually “W cuddling V”
• End with an ironic erotic point: Principle is dominated by sexual students and doesn’t like it. (A child’s deconstruction of adult sexuality – children would use sex as a toy like any other, and use its internal logic like any game’s internal logic, e.g. X sexiest P’s penis as he gives a speech before the PTO, and both are being blackmailed for various reasons – thus the true foe of meninism is not women, but their own penis, which the women had merely found a way to employ in the great war X chromosome vs Y).
• Afterword: Why do all this? Because the X vs Y has not ended, and no less than gog/magog, or children/parents, this is a great battlefield ingrained into our material code and thence to our spiritual aethercables (from which we hang as puppets).

^[1] Unique only according to the myopia dazzled by an ontology which confuses the cartographer for proof of nomenclature. i.e. “The first street is the first street since it is called so on the map” is not a great basis for identity.

^[2] Like a baby allowing itself amniotic fluid.

^[3] We played idiot savants, claiming that our flexible morality an inevitable outcome of a scientifically rigorous (esp. by being exclusively “scientific”) epistemology, and thus we were helpless against any conclusions which might sound offensive, but only to those stuck in the past’s blinkers.

^[4] Internecine population control by slaves of wages? We were the gladiators of post-Marxian slavery, which made me ask if masculinity even made sense when danger-assessments were for protecting luxuries (most necessities being free).