So, it's just another day. I've just gotten home from the salt mines, and I'm ready to sit back and pound some brewskis. I grab my beers and sidle on over to the sofa, where I park my ass and hop on the Internet. Whaddya know, first thing I see is that my buddy has emailed me a link to this treasure-trove of SWEEET shokushu goukan, commonly known as tentacle porn, somewhere on deviantArt.com. If you've never heard of shokushu goukan, it's this terrible, bizarre Japanese artistic tradition of depicting naked Japanese broads getting donkey-punched by the tentacles of a...uh...tentacular sea monster.
Now, I'm not into that sort of junk, not usually, anyway. But these aren't the traditional hentai porn, which is a crime against art, done in two-toned soy-ink-on-rice-paper. Nor are they that anime crud (bleh!). No, these specimens are photo-realistic masterpieces. They're not shokushu goukan - they're SHOKUSHU GOUKAN!!! as imagined by a Renaissance-era master. Botticelli or somebody, know? The women are just perfect—for my Western tastes, anyway. Most of them look vaguely like the Venus de' Medici, only with actual tits, and doe eyes, and no modesty...oh, and skinny, too. (Alright, they look NOTHING like the Venus de' Medici.) One of them - a particularly smokin' blonde—is depicted lounging in an abalone shell, surrounded by the raging foam and rampaging clouds of a white squall, with a look of supreme ecstasy as the sea monster enters her from beneath.
Once again, setting the scene: me, home from the salt mines, sprawled on the sofa, icy brewski in hand, with the laptop on the coffee table rocking some of the most spectacular shokushu goukan ever made.
You can probably guess where this is going.
Of course, there are tissues and hand lotion nearby. (This is my apartment, and I'm single. Where do you think I'd keep 'em? The gun safe? The refrigerator?) I don't know whether it's the beer or the fact that I'm so tired that I'm half asleep, but for whatever reason, this jack session is turning out to be a pretty special one.
Now, if you've ever wanked yourself, you probably just read that and said, "OK, yank-yank-yank, climax, snore. What's the big deal?" I certainly have no idea. It's like I'm having a synaesthetic seizure on each power stroke. The rich deep color of the walls; the sinuous Berber texture of the carpet under my feet; the early-dusk of the low sunlight, beaming askew through the open window; my own pulse, pounding in my ears...each of these things is screaming at my senses, and I can taste and smell them, and see flushes of words and colors, too. I can taste the notes of the birds outside, singing one last time before sundown, as I rock the sofa violently too-and-fro. It's spectacular. It's almost better than sex. And it just keeps getting better. As I motor, faster and faster, the glow of the shokushu goukan pops off the screen in the fading sunlight, and it almost looks like it's in motion.
By now, I'm really getting into the process. I'm lunging up and down on the sofa like a Mexican jumping moth and giving Mr. Howdy the workout of his life. I've heard of people having strokes or rupturing their penises whilst doing things like this, and yet I don't care. Mr. Howdy's connective ligaments are gonna get the ultimate test of their strength. At some point, I decide to start slapping myself with my free hand, on the back, and the sides, and...you know, on my rear. (I've shed all my clothing by this point.) It feels excellent. I can't be entirely sure, but I may or may not be yelping like a small poodle on each return stroke. The walls are echoing and thundering from the bouncing I'm doing on the sofa.
And this is the point where I look up.
Now, I may have forgotten to mention that I live in an apartment...that's across a ten-foot-wide walkway...from another apartment...that has a front window which looks directly into my front window.. A nice, professional, bland, upwardly-mobile, sorta-cute married couple in their late thirties lives over there. They've never introduced themselves to me or anything, but we nod and say "hello!" pleasantly as we pass each other on the walkway. And hey! Whaddya know? There they both are, at this moment, staring out their own front living-room window, right into MY living room window, with these twin expressions of horrified...I don't know what it is. Fascination? And there I am, mid-wank, levitating about two feet in the air. Yeah.
Of course, this all would probably be slightly less awkward if either of us were to stop what we're doing. Me? I'm not stopping for pie, or an earthquake, or fire. Or an earthquaking pie that's on fire. I'm so involved, I'm only dimly aware that there are two shocked and horrified WASPs staring at me through the wide-open window. As for them, I have no idea what the fuck they're thinking.
- "Is it performance art, Shawn?"
- "I don't know, Susan!"
- "Oh, God, what is he doing to himself?!"
I'm expecting that any moment, they'll whip the blinds closed, or stab out their eyes with whatever comes to hand - a pencil, or a letter opener, or a marital aid, or SOMETHING - just to end the horror. But they don't. They just stand there, gawping, as the sofa collapses and I simultaneously tear one out like a champ. And then it's all over.
A couple of sweaty minutes later, I'm still gasping and chewing the air because it tastes like sparkling rain drops of ecstasy, and what can you do to sparkling raindrops of ecstasy but chew them? And I look up again. There's Shawn and Susan, or whatever the fuck their names are, and they're still staring, dumbstruck, like two children who have been watching the world's most horrible puppet show. The kind of puppet show that might feature rape and incest and thoroughly realistic-looking intestines being unslung through gaping abdominal wounds, and anything else you can think of that would horrify children.
Whether I'm pissed off that they kept watching, long after normal people would've stopped, or whether I'm still so pumped with endorphins that I just don't give a shit (which seems more likely), I hop up off the sofa and give Shawn and Susan a triple-middle-finger salute. (Only, one of the middle fingers isn't a middle finger.) Then I whip the drapes shut and go off to clean up the mess, and throw out my broken sofa.
Anyway, this was last Tuesday. It's Saturday now, and my sofa's out by the trash. I just got an e-vite from Josh and Joanna (I knew their names started with the same letter!), which consists of a picture of just Joanna, wearing nothing but one of those leather ball-gags. It says, "Come to our XXX-tra special party this Saturday evening. It's BYOB!" There's an asterisk after the "BYOB", but I don't want to read the small print. It probably stands for "butt-plugs" or something. I saw them on their balcony just before I got the e-vite. Josh waved. I didn't wave back.
I'm flattered that they were impressed by the show, I think. But I'm totally not going over there.
- ↑ Mmmm, porn sluts.....what were we talking about?
- ↑ Pfft, get a life, loser. ONLY TEH 13370r5 LIVE IN DA BURBS! FSCK Y4H!
- ↑ It got a score of 6.0, 6.0, 6.0, 5.9...and a 5.1 from the Russian judge.
- ↑ Probably. Or maybe not.
- ↑ Which, in a way, they were.
- ↑ Wait. This would make an awesome puppet show - if only you could pull it off. I bet they used to do it at the Moulin Rouge.
- ↑ It's a peeeenis! HAHAHAHA! I RULE!