SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT

(What is all this? This is the continuing saga of my real New Orleans adventure of spring 2001.

A fictionalized account was written and presented as Peaceful Sleazy Feeling.

This is the real story, as compiled from my filthy, muck-stained journals of days gone by, and girls done worse.

Enjoy. If you're new, then check out the last two posts...oh, and get bent.)
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EPISODE III: SOUTHERN DISCOMFORT.

“One should try everything once, except incest and folk-dancing.”
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,—Arnold Bax, Farewell To My Youth.

After the storm, the streets flooded with flesh again—girls flashed their personalities, while drunken men revealed their lack thereof. After a good three hours of naked flesh, repulsive beer, and spicy food, we retreated to the first strip joint we saw. That would be the Bourbon Street Burlesque.

The clientele seemed sent from hell—mohawked punks with tattered clothes, lesbians in overalls and ball-crusher glares, nodding track-marked trainspotters with hypodermic stares, 400lb black men eating buckets of whatever between girls, and even worse. Mark and I looked like fresh genes in Arkansas—we really couldn’t lose. Being a good tipper and a bad man, I managed to monopolize the better of the dancers. Mark was slowly growing tired and tipsy. He was ready to go; he promised to leave the door unlocked if I wished to stay this out. Feeling the tender Braille of my dancer’s aureole, I would comply.

One certain comely starlet gave me the oddest look when she walked into the hall. It was a light startle, followed by a coy wink.

She acted like she knew me, or needed my attention in some way. She danced in my direction before I even tipped; when I did, she stayed the course of her routine. Some of my fellow pervs surrounding me seemed miffed over the attention I obtained. The other stripper was furious.

After the show, she sat down next to me, introduced herself as “Cherry,” and explained that I was her first non-troglodyte all night. She was truly beautiful—long dark auburn hair and almond eyes, high cheekbones and nice breasts, pouty lips and perfect hips…and she didn’t smell like crack or heroin. We carried conversation near ‘til dawn; we somehow managed this between the numerous free lap dances she gave me. The management had been drinking, and seemed not to notice that she’d spent most of the night with me. She invited me to the backroom—the “private dance” area where the hookers screw their johns. Naturally, I accepted—we even made plans for breakfast after “work.” This was rapidly, with fervent speed, turning into a Penthouse Forum letter.

“What do you need from me?” I asked. “Oh, this will be my pleasure,” she replied. I pinched myself. And then I pinched her. Then I pinched her one more time, because…Sweet Pickled Jesus, this kicked ass.

And upon the thirteenth step, indeed my ass was duly kicked by God’s Own Boot. The manager was not too drunk to greet us at the door.

He was not alone. Cherry seemed more angered than afraid. He asked if I’d “paid for this privelege” yet. Naturally, I had not (but offered to). He insisted that my funds were insufficient, and that the large orbiting mass with the food bucket had paid a good $250 for Cherry’s “private time.” It was now time for her to offer up the goods. It was then explained—after he finished yelling at Cherry—that even if I had enough, I was still second in line. He then opened the vivid red whore-corner door, and escorted Cherry and The Blob inside. The bouncer asked me to wait beside the bar.

I waited. I actually waited.

I had no desire for sloppy seconds—and undoubtedly, they were quite sloppy indeed—but I wanted to at least tell her goodbye. At least two hours passed, as I drank shot after shot, wishing each and every one could be another fired at my temple. Finally, a sad-looking server told me that the Walking Greasetrap had paid for another session, and suggested that I come some other night. “I might as well,” I sneered, “as I won’t be cumming anywhere tonight.”

I sighed and headed back to #23.

As I struggled to fall asleep, I felt like this all meant something…and if it didn’t, then it should. There was something wrong with the world, I thought; there was something wrong with me. There was something wrong…with my world. And as I drifted off, it wouldn’t drift away.

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TO BE CONTINUED...

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WRAPPED UP IN THE MOMENT

(What is all this? This is the continuing saga of my real New Orleans adventure of spring 2001.

A fictionalized account was written and presented as Peaceful Sleazy Feeling.

This is the real story, as compiled from my filthy, muck-stained journals of days gone by, and girls done worse.

Enjoy. If you're new, then check out the last two posts...oh, and lick me.)

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WRITHE & SHINE

EPISODE II: WRAPPED UP IN THE MOMENT

We napped for a mere two hours before hitting Bourbon Street; Mark had just a bit of steam, sustained by that gluttonous zeal of anxious boys on Christmas Eve—that bloodlust where the blood thrusts and butterflies in the gut. I was even worse, creeped out though I was.

The streets were pregnant with the spawn of every sin…the offspring of abandon, and abandoned hopes and dreams. It’s grotesque brick and concrete belly heaved off every street-curb, proudly bearing its taut stretchmarks of local color and urban myth—everything you’ve heard, and nothing that you’ll ever fully see. And it was exactly as I’d described the time before—even though I’d guessed at the details.

Local vendors offered suspiciously inexpensive beer in cups; the color and the foam content whispered “Don’t buy me, I’m watered down with pee!” And I whispered back, “I hate Bud anyway!”

We hit the stupid tourist traps like the clumsy cheese-mad rats we were; the more tasteless the shop, the more we spent. I found a combination Stoopid T-Shirt/Deadly Hot Sauce shop. I bought some lurid liquid napalm sauce, which I promptly lost before we even made it back. I bought my famous “Jesus” T-Shirt here. The neighboring shop sold carcass-based jewelry of the sort I often wear, or that wear me.

A condom shop offered cover from a bout of rain (an irony I gleamed in retrospect). They sold Meat-Sheaths of Sodom’s every flavor—and a few that even Baskin Robbins claimed… Wrappers for golf-themed Man-Wrap spouting “Fore!”—though a “hole in one” is unlucky, I’d suspect…. Camouflaged Gristle Missiles for times of love and war… Anti-Stork Pork Corks that glowed in the dark or in the dame… Pecker Pleats for beat cops to serve and to protect… While Star-Clusters for cluster-fucks proclaimed “to boldly go where none have gone before.”

Many willie warsuits came with scents, and made scents when you came. Some of them smelled like soap, but it still felt dirty to me. Some smelled like deodorant—strong enough for a man, AVN-rated for a woman. Some green sheaths smelled like fresh pine trees, for the lumberjack in everyone. Some smelled like the rain we came out of, presumably that we may come the way we came; others like generic bubble gum (Double your pleasure! Double your fun! Baby, it’s a Big League Chew!) Others were too fucked up even for me—who could use these things to screw? Little white hoodies for the Ku Klux Klan… Fearsome spikes for tough bitches and tough love… Gender-bending Over-Benders shaped like tits and nipples… Magick Wands for the magus… Sloganeering insults to our intellects, as if drunken passion has the time to read…. And cigar-shaped Ship Dips with disc-shaped ripples, for probing past Uranus—Unidentified Fornicating Objects, seeking entry and gaining ramming speed.

After we had childishly mocked and fondled its entire stock, I found the right Ribbed Raincoat for the trip, that I may dip my wick in style (or taste, if she preferred). I found a box of Goth Condoms. While there was no tell-tale adlines as to what exactly made them such, the package implied that they would at least be black (because if you can’t have a black cock, you can at least damn well pretend).

And they matched my wardrobe!

TO BE CONTINUED...

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BABYSTEPS TO BABYLON

(What is all this? This is the continuing saga of my real New Orleans adventure of spring 2001.
A fictionalized account was written and presented as Peaceful Sleazy Feeling.

This is the real story, as compiled from my filthy, muck-stained journals of days gone by, and girls done worse.

Enjoy. If you're new, then read the prologue in the post below...)
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WRITHE & SHINE

EPISODE I: BABYSTEPS TO BABYLON.


“The Universe may not only be queerer than we think, but queerer than we can think.”
—J.B.S. Haldane


I woke up on a beer-stained couch; where was I at, today? Where had I been last night? These things seemed less important as the day drew on. Since I lost my squalid flat, I had been roaming couch to couch among my friends. By the look of the spacey grandeur all around me, it seemed I fell asleep at the Professor’s house last night. Technically, I’m staying there—but I need a break sometimes, and just way too many folks pass through for me to keep my things there.

It was spring, and I was blessed: I had been greatly gifted with the greatest gifts of life—unemployment, loneliness, financial devastation, sickness and much more. The greatest gifts of life involved being relieved of your burdens long enough to be yourself for yourself, and best of all, by yourself for every precious moment that was once denied. Work was an odd scenario—my performance declined without Ritalin; my insurance from work disabled me from regularly attaining it (HMO meaning “Hinder Medications’ Obtainment”). Unable to wait one more month for my new appointment, I was fired, so that I would be freed from my insurance, and thus enabled to purchase it illegally from college kids again with a clear conscience. Soon thereafter, I took a hideous trip to the south. Well, sort of. Okay…not really. This did not, however, keep me from writing a biting article of the experience—nor, as many secretly commented, did it hinder my imagination in the slightest. That would be an inside joke.

I haven’t been to the gym in ages—I owe way too much money. I expect my muscles will atrophy within the week, like some coma patient, quadriplegic, or network TV watcher. I had expected to gain weight as well, but therein was a surprise—far from assuming the god-form of the Eggplant People, or the need to apply for my own zipcode, I have actually lost 12 pounds. The downside, of course, is that it was in muscle-mass, brain matter, remaining virtues, and concern for my fellow man. Oh well. Such is life.

This is not to say that I don’t have fun; like the Happy Hooker, my business is my pleasure. Presently, my pleasurable business involves staging a grand and perilous Endtyme Jihad for an upcoming article. During casual dreck-trek quests along the Humana Superdriveway, I happened upon and had gone by ranting rivulets of sackclothed nutsacks dead certain that the Time of Man is bygone and certainly dead. Some were fierce prophets and prayer warriors with direct links to God and HTML visions of Hell; others claimed to be God—His newest incarnation for the New Age, and the oldest game in town.
As none referred to the other, it became my duty to make them aware of one another. This was done by obtaining hotmail-type e-mail accounts, from which to send chiding testimonies aglow of miracles the others performed. I also scored e-mail addresses with the prophets’ own names; this added to their godhood by lending them omnipresence. Soon, I shall have one challenge another to a duel. May the best Jesii win.

But it’s all on hold for now; my bags are packed. My friend, The Drunken Master (Mark, by birth), had invited me on a trip. To drive home the irony of writing a fanciful story of a doomed New Orleans road trip, he had invited me on a real (doomed) New Orleans road trip. And he would even pay my way.

Like my “trip” with Rick & Co., Mark The Drunken Master did not know I couldn’t drive. He also didn’t know that I was a stranger in that town, and didn’t know my way around to save my life. He drove like the Devil to get us there on time—nearly 13 hours straight. His eyes were red and demon-licked by the time we reached our goal—and I really wasn’t any better off. I’d been hammering away for days on drafts of Peaceful Sleazy Feeling—ironic that it was proofread on this trip. Having been up for three days straight—and hideously out of dope now—I drifted in and out throughout the voyage there—and fell asleep, eyes half open, on my hair. When I awoke at a Mississippi Stuckey’s mart, my eyes were scuffed and bloodshot, forcing me to take my contacts out. I didn’t own a pair of glasses; thus this trip would prove a blindman’s jamboree. This detail will come strongly into play in further events.

* * *

The drive down is such a blur, regardless of my vision at the time. I was still so damn hungover, and my drugs were all long gone. There’s something you all should know: when I wrote PSF, prior to this trip, I locked myself in a room for two straight weeks, and never left. I slept only when my weary eyes blinked out. I’d become a little paranoid, and delusional—thinking that my characters were alive, and out to get me. If any of you feel fooled by Peaceful Sleazy, rest assured that for a time—a Lennonesque Lost Weekend, I believed it all myself, as well. I was a mess at this point, in no condition to go anywhere. And yet, here I was….zipping down the road in Mark’s corvette…

What does still stand out, however, is a place in Southern Missouri known as Lambert’s. It was the “home of the throwed roll,” whatever that meant. Well, apparently, it meant some walking beansprout of a manchild hurled breadclumps like invectives at my head. It was an experience. And then there was the Sorghum Guy. Sorghum Guy moped from aisle to aisle, drawling in a droopy dog of a voice, “Sorghum…sorghum for your rolls…” It was in identicle cadence to Monty Python’s “bring out your dead” sketch from Holy Grail. He sounded miserable. Before we left, I threw a roll back at him, and bopped him on the head. Fuck it, we were leaving the state…

While there, I’d ordered some inedible pig flesh concoction. They were like soggy porkskins, fat off the back of a hog, and smeared in grease. Hey, it looked good on the menu… I couldn’t eat them all, and wedged them in a to-go box in the back. In retrospect, I guess I should have put them in a cooler… But that, too, will come in later on.

* * *

Hope…it melts before your eyes, and not your hands. We were on the way to Babylon, stumbling into sin by inches, shame for miles to come—at least we sort of hoped. I gazed into the blurry sky…it was only a blur to me.
“Every star is out tonight,” the Drunken Master commented. I wouldn’t know; I can barely see three feet ahead. “I guess it’s all perspective,” I said. Just then something bit me on the ankle, while inside something hit me in the chest: there was some strange sort of meaning to be had there, and I’d just let it slip by. But still, I felt hungover, and as such I chose to let it slip until the headache passed.

“Jesus Christ, what is that smell?” Mark sniffed around as he stepped into the car. “It’s smells like someone’s feet…” I waited for the Son of God to answer, and finally sought to weigh in on my own. I recognized it immediately. It was those salty, greasy, pork flaps…they’d spilled out somewhere in the car, and were buried somewhere hard to get to. “Leave ‘em,” we thought. How bad can that get? Oh wait…


* * *


When we “touched down,” Mark handed me his cellphone. I called my then-sorta-kinda-girlfriend/keeper, Nightshade. I’d failed to tell her I was leaving. Whoops.
She wasn’t upset; I knew she wouldn’t be. She was one of the few who understood these things. Of course, she was under the impression that I’d gone back. (She’d read my early drafts of Peaceful Sleazy). I hadn’t yet the heart or testes to tell her what went on (or truly, what did not). I promised to bring her something back, and wield the cock upon my safe return.

Our car parked in a multi-level public pay garage, we drug our bags like drunken miners to a hotel far too many streets and streetlights down.

The hotel was old and falling down; it matched much of my description of the PSF “_otel.” The paint was peeling; the help was rude; the couches were all stained—and drunks and other loiterers convened in tribal battalions in the halls. Mark’s uncle had paid for the room; this hotel had nostalgic value for him. It was certainly a relic—I’ll give it that. The uncle had paid for two rooms yesterday; after a quick call from Mark’s cellphone, an unassuming fellow met Mark in the hallway, and slyly slipped him a key to the second room. Bypassing the front desk, and its haggard Clerk Of The Evil Eye, we ascended an ugly carpeted flight of stairs. The carpet smelled like a porn-store floor—those bits between the restroom and the Anal Hardcore rack. The paint was blue at some stage of its life—now it simply “was,” and that was that. Again…it was eerily like the shanty I’d described. But that was not the punchline, folks.

We (or Mark’s uncle) had been assigned Room 223. But when we approached that blessed desired-of-all-ages plank-with-bad-hinges—sweet asylum with a greasy knob—we observed that something wasn’t as it ought. “220…221…222…” read The Drunken Master, “Here’s our room, and—hey! This can’t be right… I do believe a number’s fallen off!” He smugly flicked the lying entrance, and fumbled for the key. The room had now become “Room 23.” Remember that one? That was our room in Peaceful Sleazy Feeling. It’s also the most haunted room—and center of plot development in my novel, Chasing Phantoms. And in that book, the room partly displays its hauntedness (or cursedness, if you prefer) by rearranging the numbers on the door…from 223 to 23, and back. The hits just keep on coming.

The novel was yet unpublished; the story was a rough draft, having been read by a mere three sets of eyes, apart from my weary, wary own. Synchronous or ominous, incubus or succubus, God the Father of the Bible, or the Cosmic Trickster written of by Fort and Keel, clearly something laughed at my expense.
Clearly something wanted my attention.
Clearly that attention was deserved.
Clearly that attention was procured.

Robert Anton Wilson—an author whom I greatly admire—had a theory of the number “23.” It seems to turn up everywhere, you see. Its synchronicities and occurrence in anomalies are legion, myriad. And they show up in occult phalanxes the moment you take notice of it all. Of course, expectations bring us what we might expect, he’d likely say (he and Keel would be in agreement over this). But “23” is creepy, nonetheless, and not the least because you noticed when you were told.
It was as tribute, or a nod, to Wilson that I chose “23” in PSF. But what—if not the void, and mortal imagination’s want—had chosen to pay tribute, or a nod…to me?


TO BE CONTINUED...


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WRITHE & SHINE

(Due to some interesting new developments, I have decided to postpone further episodes of the "BANG THY NEIGHBOR" series for a little while. Fuck it. I feel like going back to New Orleans...I have to write where the muse is, and we have unfinished business there...I promised you all the truth...and now that time has come. I believe this is a tale you have been waiting for...)

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WRITHE & SHINE : THE MEANING OF LIFE & THE MORNING AFTER

PROLOGUE:

“It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle if it is slightly greased.” —Kehlog Albran, The Profit


Having never been there, I certainly never expected to go back. But this liar was now a liar in wait—as I wearily twitched in nervous ticks as my worn watch nervously ticked, anticipating the hour that Mark the Drunken Master and I would leave for New Orleans. Of course, lying did not make me a bad man—sex, drugs, and rock & roll did that; being an asshole also did not help. Indeed, I left again for the very first time… Perhaps I should explain:

For Mardi Gras 2001, I was set on some doomed 11th hour roadtrip to New Orleans, invited carte blanche by Rick, an odd, muscular yuppie I’d just met. With demon glee of all I’d missed these past years—those swamplands of the soul that whispered busty, spicy winds assuring southern swelter, voodoo helter-skelter, pale-fleshed/black-hearted vamp-tramps, Cajun queens and Cajun cuisine—all swore in wish, stereo dreams to reacquaint my tongue with tastes it had forgotten. Proclaiming my gospel like the angel of what had fallen in this fallen angel’s lap, I collected favors from friends like I had one week to live, and left surely shafted co-workers short-shifted. Horny to rape with grammar’s cock anew—twitching with repressed creative energy—I hoped to spawn new articles and legends from it all. Friends with webspace offered to post it all online. Things were indeed looking up. This much was all true.

Here it gets sketchy: just two hours before I was to leave, my phone rang with Hell’s Bells—one of our travel-mates had been arrested. Travel-mate #2—our apparent benefactor—was still willing to go, but only if Rick was still game. Sadly, Rick was all game—the “imp” in impossibility—and no longer wished with the same lamp. He had met a girl, you see. Only two hours before departure…I was finished. And so it would be on that weekend, that one man would be laid, and another would be screwed.

But more serious issues than party favors existed: I had procured an awful lot of true favors that I could never repay. Many friends made notable sacrifices for me to make this damned trip. Co-workers traded shifts like musical chairs for me; even my manager—weary of my fitful begging—bent the rules so I could go. If any caught wind of this misfortune, no one would ever go to such lengths for me again. I swore vengeance against Rick; and I so needed to write something… Then I got a truly wicked idea…

In fact, about 23 pages of wicked ideas came to be called “Peaceful Sleazy Feeling.” In this, I could exercise my creativity and smugly avenge myself—in a way that hurt none: Few in my circle knew Rick anyway; his “partners” (Carl & Jesse) were sheer products of my imagination. Yes, I planned to reveal the truth all along—but not until I tested the credulity of my readers. It was quite a tale I was telling…

Now it gets funny: The story was a hit, making rounds far beyond my usual readership. Strange magazines took interest. But to quote my own story, “I swallowed first my coffee, then my pride.” I freely confessed the truth to all that wrote me. I may have conducted a mischievous experiment on my readers…but I was an asshole, not a huckster.

Weird things were happening: People would not believe me when I told them not to believe me. The only “lie” I moved any to accuse me of was that I had lied about lying. Many believe I am lying now—that I am lying about not having lied about having lied...or something. I began receiving e-mail like the following:

“Dear Gabriel, I’ve been reading since Sensory Assault! I love the new stuff…[blah blah blah]…I just want to offer my support and say that I totally believe you. But why are you saying it didn’t happen now? I just can’t believe that.”

“Dear Mr. Zolman, [blah blah blah]…I trust your word. I never doubted you one second…[blah blah blah]…So why do you mislead people into believing it was all a hoax?”

“Dear sir…[blah blah]…It was so unreal so as to convince of its reality…you wouldn’t joke about…[blah blah]…We know you don’t just joke around…[blah, etc.]…Hoax? Doubtful! You must be joking…”

The joke's on all of us, I'm afraid. But wait—it isn’t over: Many events that I described began to occur—and this phenomenon continues. Randomly-chosen street names and guessed-at city details turned out to be dead on. Also, note that the story’s supernatural pieces were largely drawn from unsettling real-life memories of my own haunted youth. I have rarely had to face such things in recent years—not to say it never happens, be it a flashback, sleep paralysis, or a maybe something "out there" after all... Long dormant, it returned often after my 1st draft was completed. This I swear. Worse, the experiences felt “tailored” in ways—each “attack” strangely mirrored each that I described. Forces That Be were reviewing my work. Then, to further sink my grey-matter Battleship, Mark the Drunken Master invited me on a real trip to New Orleans…and this would also be paid for, if necessary. My brain hurt.

Soon, I would have time to sort it all out: I lost my job. Ironically, early “PSF” drafts contained the line “I would be back on borrowed time when I returned.” Even erased, it was prophetic. It was The Bomb: a radioactive glow of despair—village-sweeping mushroom clouds of unanswered questions and unpayable bills—wrought to blister my blank stare and blinking eyes with poverty. Yet I was unmoved. It all spelled financial disaster in all caps, italics, and underscore, but I felt strangely liberated. Every brain cell bloated with projects I now could finish, books I could write, and those I finally had the time to read.

One item sought refuge in mind scant hours past dismissal: En route to elsewhere, we had stopped to see Keith—a mutual acquaintance I rarely saw. He was always uncommonly kind to me—yet I barely knew him. He had fixed my guitar for near to precious nothing…and never complained that I rarely returned calls, or went ages without paying. I was just so short on time…

He greeted us in bitter absinthe pallor, different than I recalled: bearded, grizzled and sad—still utterly nice, but as if his joy or very life had bled away in streams. Grieved, I wondered if others had taken him for granted as I had. I stammered sorries; but he was just another kind stranger, denied the time to be a friend—all for an employer never satisfied by anything. I left renewed, with intent to invest some newfound free-time in those who deserved it, and all I had neglected.

Recently, a friend felt slowly pressed to powder beneath the burden of a home wrapped more in mortgage than in wallpaper. I offered to fix the place up to sell, and show prospective buyers through. In exchange, I had access to a computer and workstation, situated in an upstairs hallway corner. Thus I existed, circa 2001.

Preparing a home to be shown, and then showing it, are two endeavors best left with one delegated. People only dropped by the house when I was at work on it—with no grasp of words such as “appointment.” After repulsing fistfuls of yuppies with cascading irrigation channels of sweat and evolving, sentient armpits, I kept extra shirts handy—so I would be less the creep when crept up on.

My sales pitch was fine-tuned—years of drama, church and retail taught me how to work an audience, and how to read them. Thus, it puzzled me when one such “audience”—a priest with some clingy female associate—seemed reviled by my every word, frequently dispensing odd, piercing stares.

Floundering, I attempted friendly chatter about various religious texts we had—I was very careful. But no matter how I tried, I grew more anathema by the moment—as my guests grew more unsettled. As priest and mistress strutted snottily outside, I was enlightened by window-glare reflection: 1.) I’d forgotten to change my shirt. 2.) The shirt read, “Jesus Loves You! But the Rest of Us Think You’re an Asshole!” Oh well; they didn’t have any money, anyway.

Battle-worn from a bent and blurry day of reading weird e-mail and shopping “PSF” around, I beat the withered odds—and managed to impress one moneyed couple who’d bless us with pleased and eager presence. Then, giving my usual spiel, I referred to our alleged “attic ghosts.” The Mrs. shook her head, sighing, “No…no. There’s nothing up here. I’m very sensitive—I’d know.”

“Really?” I inquired, “Did anything in the house catch your attention?”

“Yes—over there,“ she pointed, “It’s like something horrible happened—I feel violence, wicked and sad—Something malevolent is produced there.” Hell’s Corner just happened to be my work-space.

She seemed open-minded; I described the vile vowel movements of my numerous insane projects, even my top-secret Weird Jihad project. “I think angels or spirits are unhappy with something you’ve recently done.”

“Yes,” I muttered, “I’m sure they are.”

She asked, “And what do you plan to do about that?” “Keep busy: As long as my sick thoughts offend the Unseen around me, I am surely in the company of angels. But if it offends none, then the Devil may be near—because nothing offends him.”

As the couple departed those already dearly so, I sneered in long, rude gazes into the Abyss—that Black Vile Hell behind the modem—muttering, “Malevolent? Oh, just wait. The angels are unhappy, the natives are restless reprobates; and the Devil just got DSL. So watch, be still, and pray—Take up your cross or take off your coat. For I will write; I will howl; I will play—and fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.”


TO BE CONTINUED...


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WOMB WITH A VIEW

“I see the end…I see THE end—it was open, so I crawled inside…”

—from the song “Death Wish,” by Christian Death.

I felt like such a hypocrite—here I was, a rogue amongst my own. But that’s what makes us shady Blackadder types exactly what we are; we don’t play well with others. We can pick another of our sort out in a heartbeat. But here, placed in the position of potential victim—pretending to be a female on a clearly male-heavy singles site—I finally began to realize what I’d been doing to other women all along, and exactly what that feels like, or nearly so. It was a weird sensation—like being taught a lesson, even though you (deep down) knew it all along.

Don’t get me wrong: my mysogeny never faltered for a moment. I still remembered every cheerleader and Pretty Girl who shunned, taunted and tortured me as a pale and awkward fat kid growing up; and to an extent, I’ve made every woman pay their debt since I came into my own.

It’s scary to look so deeply in the mirror, razor-scraped as it is. But then I’ve been there before, haven’t I? But none of this is the point. The point is that while I’m a flawed and conflicted mammal, I’m at least good at it. We all know that people lie to us, perhaps even daily. Hell, half of us are lying to ourselves. But the worst among them all is the bastard who refuses you the dignity of even a plausible lie. It’s sort of like the Bush Administration—with all the tools at their disposal, they don’t respect the American people enough to even provide a decent subterfuge. They’re open, and blatant, like muggers. And the Average Lonely Male is just that kind of mugger, I would find.

MYSTERY MEAT FANDANGO

So, realizing that I was attracting too much attention--cockmagnet that I clearly was, I deleted the majority of my profile. It had no photo, and now, very little—if any—description of what I looked like, what I liked, or what I might be looking for. I was Jane Doe. That ought to stem the tide, eh? Or not.

I began receiving e-mails such as this one:

Bend_u_Over69: _you sound mysterious i would like to learn more email me back_

Stubborn? A bit. Even creepier was this one:

Vladtestes: _hi here goes my contact you can read my profile and see how to contact me i did my part now im looking to here from you ,i can hardly wait you very intriging and have captured my attention _

The best one, however, was this (with my reply, as “Angelmeat”):

RumpRanga67: _Hello sexy- Your picture is totally hot and I would like to get together with you. What area do you live in? What are you looking for from this web site? Email me back.
See ya..._

[NOTE: My profile did NOT include a picture.]

Angelmeat: Dear RumpRanga… You are living proof that what you don’t see is far sexier than what you do. As such, I am about to fulfill your fantasies by becoming the sexiest woman of all time. In other words, you’ll never see me. Love, Angel.


SWEETENING THE DEAL

Okay…so, if I make myself into a hag, I get hits upon hits upon desperate wolf-date hits. If I make myself vague and distant, I’m mysterious...and get even more attention. How is it that we rule the planet again?

Back to haghood, it is. At some point, I was now not only 350lbs., hirsuite (hairy), and Baptist, but I now also had a lazy eye, and was epileptic. I still refused to post a picture, though—that would be too easy. I also decided to up my age to 43. It seemed like a nice, random number. I also implied that I bathed only intermittantly, and that I liked drinking blood—but only from Irishmen, and only after they’ve had a few. And, still ever the mad Armenian at heart, added at the end, “No Turks.”
Well, call up for your shots, and cue up another round—because no sooner than I made these changes, I had a new round of adventurous gentlemen lined-up at my rounded porkdoor like fleas upon my very ankles. These were extra-special:

Xoxoxox: _My name is xoxoxox who is very hot n horny 4 u for an adventure with you. I am a very passionate, sensual, very open-minded, easy-going, very sexual, humorous, and fun to be with man who would like to get together with you. Msg me back and lets get started.._

Angelmeat: My name is Mbutu Rajneesh I work in the International operation department in local bank here in Nigeria On a routine inspection I discovered a dormant domiciliary account with a BAL. Of 36,000,000 (Thirty Six Million USD) on further discreet investigation I also discovered that account holder has long since passed away (dead) leaving no beneficiary to the account…(blah blah blah)

Ah well...it never would have worked--I'm not sure how I'd ever pronounce "xoxoxox" anyway.


IT WAS POINTED RIGHT AT ME…

Chocodaddy124124: _ok i'm game whats up?_ Sex acts I enjoy: Receiving oral sex, Anal sex, Giving rim jobs, Receiving rim jobs, Manual masturbation, Threesomes, Fun with food

[NOTE: His profile included a picture of an erect penis instead of a headshot. It was pointed right at me—accusingly. Eek.]

Angelmeat: My dinner.


FIRST IMPRESSIONS ARE ALWAYS THE HARDEST

HoagiYogi: _Well firstly I like red hair and brunettes, they look great especially from behind while you take them from the back doggy style, I love to have a woman that way you bend them down a little arch their back and they will feel that all the way like it is in their stomach all the while you are just strokinh in and out. I love to finger a girl to her first orgasm, then let her come down a little then start all over I like it when I can make them begin to shake and they just go wold and start to nibble my neck and tongue my ear. That drives me to the point where I will go down on them and eat their sweet sweet pussy till they are cuming again. I love to treat a lady like a lady then when we are in bed I like her to be a woman........._

Angelmeat: “When we are in bed, I like her to be a woman.” I’m sorry, Yogi, but I don’t think we’re terribly suited for one another, as I prefer to be a lady during the day, and then when we are in bed, be the man. Hideously sorry, Angel.


LOOKIN4LUV IN ALL THE WRONG PLACES

Lookin4Wife2Luv: _hi im a clean very handsome mwm executive in this area, 6 ft 200 lbs waist 356-37 in nice dark hair average bod (not fat), looking for fun safe descreet sex with no strings. can only play during the day but could drive to you most days. if interested i can send pics, you may mail me have a nice day hope to hear back from you._

I didn’t originally respond to this one. Unable to cope with my silence, he sent me a copy of his riveting introductory letter twice. Then a third time… Without my even acknowledging his existence, he then sent me several e-mails over the course of a (very aggressive) two weeks. In a bit of irony, this "young, hard executive" had a handle which implied he was searching for a wife; however, upon inspection of his profile, it would appear that he is already married! Finally, I responded:

Angelmeat: I take it you are looking for someone else’s wife? Fortunately, you are in luck—I prefer my sex without strings as well. Now twine…twine is another matter altogether!

And thus was the irony, dearest readers: Weeks of me not responding made him write more often… But when I finally respond to him? He never writes back. Hmmph.


RECREATIONAL GYNOCOLOGY FOR BEGINNERS

In retrospect, maybe I was a little hard on this guy—hey, he’s only trying to get lucky like the rest of us, right?

DOCTORPROCTOR: _u sound very sexy! i am a doc in washU med center. i am looking for babylike you. i have lot to give you so email me soon or call me, DOC_PS do you like pills?_

Angelmeat: If you can’t find a baby, you’re a poor excuse for a doctor. Perhaps you are looking in the wrong slot? You might have a lot to give; it’s a shame one of these things can’t be a clue.


MEN OF FEW WORDS (IN THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE)

I didn’t bother responding to these:

StLSTUD: _Let's discuss it,James._

(NOTE: My name is not James, and his was not either, according to his profile.]

PrinceCharming4U: _contact me_

[NOTE: Creepy, eh? This guy was from somewhere called "Roach, MO." How…charming.]


FIRE IN THE HOLE

This hangover isn't leaving, and yet the fun--it never ends! I’ll leave you all with my personal favorite, and we'll get back to all these Stupid Human Manwhore Tricks later on...

Firedude: _I saw your profile and you look like a lot of fun! Ever think about playing with a muscular well-hung fireman? If interested, I am anxiously awaiting your reply! Firedude_

NOTE: Like “Lookin4…,” before him, "Firedude" would go on to contact me several times, despite the fact that I never replied to him once. The most disturbing element of this, is that these were all three and four page letters! Ultimately, it all culminated in the following, final, creepy message:

Firedude: _Hello, I thought I would share a little fantasy with you and see if you'd like to play with a muscular fireman sometime? My ideal meeting with you would to come over and when you open the door we hug and kiss passionately. My hands begin to explore your body as I slowly move you over against the wall. You feel my body pressed hard against you as we kiss and explore each other with our hands. My hands begin to massage your breasts through your blouse and bra as my tongue and mouth begin to move down your neck. I open your blouse and lift your bra and begin to massage your breasts with my hands as my tongue lashes out on your nipples feeling them get hard in my mouth. While I begin to suck harder and nibble on your nipples my hands slide under your skirt with my fingernails lightly scratching the inside of your thighs until they reach your hot pussy. I begin to massage your pussy through your panties until I feel your heat and moisture leaking through turning me on more and more. I then drop down to my knees and raise your skirt up over your hips and run my tongue up your thighs as you spread your legs begging me to bury my face into your heat. I rub my nose and tongue against the flimsy fabric seperating my tongue from your pussy as you begin to move your hips forcing them into my face. I then lower your panties and go right to your pussy with my tongue. I lick your slit and feel your clit getting larger as my tongue slides through. I then stand up and kiss you deeply as our tongues dance against each others sharing the sweet taste of your juices. You turn me around with my back to the wall as you take off my shirt and kiss your way down my neck and across my chest as your hands rub my cock through my jeans making it hard and wanting you. You drop to your knees and undo my pants and underwear and slowly begin to lick my cock turning me on incredibly. I raise you up and kiss you again and walk you over to the couch and lay you down. I pull your hips to the edge of the couch and begin licking up the inside of your thighs until I reach your hot dripping pussy. I slide my tongue inside you and taste your warm musk and then begin working on your clit circling my tongue around it until you cum on my face. I then turn you over onto your hands and knees and cum up behind you and rub my cock head against your tender pussy. I then slowly start sliding it in and out of waiting for you to beg me to fuck you harder as you grind your hips back against me. I then begin to fuck you harder pounding that tight pussy until we both cum again. You then begin to play with my cock trying to get it hard, and when my cock returns to its full length again, I lay you on a towel on the floor and raise your legs and slide my cock into your pussy and pound hard as we work each other into a frazzle. Sound like fun? Hope to hear from you soon, Firedude_


This is all still only the beginning. Yes…it all gets better—or is that worse? To this day, I still don’t know…


TO BE CONTINUED…


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