(expanded second version)
Recently at orgies I’ve become one of the peripheral people. One of those ravenous middle-aged lugs straining forward shamelessly to get a scrap of what’s on offer. For years I was one of the dreary stars, grappling with the gods at the center, shoving away hands, amazed and annoyed that, every time I wanted to have sex, a crowd of people showed up. Don’t get me wrong, I was never one of the gods but -- I was often slated to position of chief devotee. I had access, understand.
Now I’m one of the guys fumbling on the side, lunging at parts and openings. This may sound like a complaint, but it isn’t really, or else not wholly, because after all -- I’m still at the orgy. It’s not like I have tuberculosis. It’s not like I am gainfully employed. I’m still taking part, giving and receiving parts, and, you know, I am downright fond of parts and I have been my whole life.
I think I could have been a really spectacular doctor. After all these years I remain vitally interested in what everyone has in their trousers. (I understand that the maintenance of enthusiasm may not be all there is to doctoring but -- surely it is integral?) I didn’t become a doctor, or anything else. I was never any good at keeping my eyes to myself. Or my hands. Now I’ve ended up here on the side which, contrary to belief, is not actually such a dreary location.
Many opportunities exist for the peripheral. In fact, I reckon that is likely why the gods created us with such a multiplicity of orifices and interesting places to visit -- so that peripheral people at orgies would not become forlorn or embittered, so that there might be many places to put things, and many places to take hold. We are torchbearers of the electric age, multi-plug adapters, with myriad opportunities for pleasure and attachment, in bodies made for orgies, for multiple loves and disasters.
Today at the orgy, here off to the side, it’s a well above average day because I have been able to secure the pornworthy phallus of one of those near the center. Mind you, this does not mean that I have re-established centrality. The gentleman is 6’5” and Scandinavian and thus just actually naturally extends this far into the hinterlands. Like the long arm of the Lord. Or something.
From this semi-secure location, with the pornworthy phallus stowed safely away, doing my best to adopt, nonetheless, a natural expression -- though it is impossible to maintain an entirely intellectual demeanor at these moments -- let us faithfully survey the area. From here on my knees, I peer left and right among legs and arms, past heads and asses, through the steam.
Although I say I am peripheral at the orgy, there are of course others still further out, starting with those administering to various parts of myself which, I earnestly hope, they will return to me in good time, well-satiated and reasonably unharmed.
How extensive is this orgy anyhow, asks the dogged and determined investigative reporter. How many Rhode Islands? Could someone with a free hand please perform a census?
Excuse me, sir, I mutter to a man impaled nearby. (Remember, I’m talking out of the corner of my mouth, which is otherwise occupied by Scandinavia.) Would you happen to have a pair of binoculars?
He looks at me dazed. Poppers?
No, sir. Binoculars.
He does not happen to have any but he is thankfully very well-connected, like all of us here at the orgy, and he asks someone who asks someone who has associates among the voyeurs and, sure enough, binoculars are passed along. In another moment I’ve located a hand to take hold of them, a hand which may very well be one of my own, or is anyway very amenable.
Looking out as far as I can toward the perimeter, I am see octogenarians in the distance, bald and decrepit, clutching their rock-hard octogenarian pharmaceutical-grade phalluses, aiming moves at the septuagenarians, ready to throw attitude at any centenarian who tries to cop a feel.
The centenarians mark the limitations of the visible, but beyond that I think we must acknowledge (now that death is no longer something in which reasonable people believe) that there is no doubt a horde of invisible beings, pushing in from the sides, brandishing tremendous phantom dildos, slick with astral lubricant, without a speck of spectral terrycloth, determined to locate, for once, a man with a bit of substance.
Contrary to reports, I have not actually been able to sleep with everyone. Animal, vegetable, mineral, spirit. Though, believe you me, I did make an effort. What I can say with confidence, however, is that if you tally up everyone I slept with and everyone they ever slept with, then all of creation is accounted for. Even the most reclusive hermits in the remotest hermitages have been comprehensively sodomized, and probably (sorry!) given a case of the crabs.
For example, when scientists in Hispaniola discovered an entirely new genus of solendon, we were all meant to be impressed. But actually my buddy Bill dated that venomous shrew in the Eighties. Kinky little prehistoric bastard, grooved-teeth and all.
Bill’s long gone now, of course.
Some people say we are wasting our time, here at the orgy. But fucking and getting fucked by everyone turns out to have been excellent preparation for the world we live in now. We understand well what it means to be connected as the world goes over a cliff and almost everyone pretends otherwise. In this fragile fuckstruck world where absolutely everything is connected to absolutely everything else, trilobite to troposphere, exhaust pipe to Arctic ice, Troy to Diego.
But where was I?
And where am I now?
Damn.
Wait. Damn. Oh, nevermind.
I’ve gone and done it. Did it. Made it. The critical mistake. I’ve fallen prey to the principle peril of orgies, the number one reason teenagers are warned against them, the reason you must always remain vigilant at all times, or at least keep your locker key on that stretchy cord around your ankle.
I got so busy looking into the distance, surveying and enumerating, that now I’ve entirely lost track, gotten turned around, taken my eye from the ball, from the cock, from the point, from the curve of the Earth, and thus lost sight of what must always be kept in mind.
Excuse me? Could someone please tell me which body is mine? Was mine? Was allotted to me?
As I recall, I was somewhere on the periphery. Where is the periphery now? I was servicing some Scandinavian, perhaps that one that looks like a sailboat in the distance, swarmed with gulls. Which one was I? I was promising at first, I remember. Later I was lackluster. I relied at all times on a highly unnatural enthusiasm, which bordered at times on hysteria. Still, my hysteria was precious to me, the world was worthy of it, and I would not have traded it for any amount of dull good sense.
I was a man. I was a man, wasn’t I? In some regards. And in other ways I was a porno theater. This was before or after the time I was a hospital for veterans, a gazebo, a dog pound, a phone booth. Not necessarily in that order, of course. For a long time I was a church. Not a bad church. One of those churches that take the command to love your neighbor very seriously indeed.
(Tokyo, 2014)
Recently at orgies I’ve become one of the peripheral people. One of those ravenous middle-aged lugs straining forward shamelessly to get a scrap of what’s on offer. For years I was one of the dreary stars, grappling with the gods at the center, shoving away hands, amazed and annoyed that, every time I wanted to have sex, a crowd of people showed up. Don’t get me wrong, I was never one of the gods but -- I was often slated to position of chief devotee. I had access, understand.
Now I’m one of the guys fumbling on the side, lunging at parts and openings. This may sound like a complaint, but it isn’t really, or else not wholly, because after all -- I’m still at the orgy. It’s not like I have tuberculosis. It’s not like I am gainfully employed. I’m still taking part, giving and receiving parts, and, you know, I am downright fond of parts and I have been my whole life.
I think I could have been a really spectacular doctor. After all these years I remain vitally interested in what everyone has in their trousers. (I understand that the maintenance of enthusiasm may not be all there is to doctoring but -- surely it is integral?) I didn’t become a doctor, or anything else. I was never any good at keeping my eyes to myself. Or my hands. Now I’ve ended up here on the side which, contrary to belief, is not actually such a dreary location.
Many opportunities exist for the peripheral. In fact, I reckon that is likely why the gods created us with such a multiplicity of orifices and interesting places to visit -- so that peripheral people at orgies would not become forlorn or embittered, so that there might be many places to put things, and many places to take hold. We are torchbearers of the electric age, multi-plug adapters, with myriad opportunities for pleasure and attachment, in bodies made for orgies, for multiple loves and disasters.
Today at the orgy, here off to the side, it’s a well above average day because I have been able to secure the pornworthy phallus of one of those near the center. Mind you, this does not mean that I have re-established centrality. The gentleman is 6’5” and Scandinavian and thus just actually naturally extends this far into the hinterlands. Like the long arm of the Lord. Or something.
From this semi-secure location, with the pornworthy phallus stowed safely away, doing my best to adopt, nonetheless, a natural expression -- though it is impossible to maintain an entirely intellectual demeanor at these moments -- let us faithfully survey the area. From here on my knees, I peer left and right among legs and arms, past heads and asses, through the steam.
Although I say I am peripheral at the orgy, there are of course others still further out, starting with those administering to various parts of myself which, I earnestly hope, they will return to me in good time, well-satiated and reasonably unharmed.
How extensive is this orgy anyhow, asks the dogged and determined investigative reporter. How many Rhode Islands? Could someone with a free hand please perform a census?
Excuse me, sir, I mutter to a man impaled nearby. (Remember, I’m talking out of the corner of my mouth, which is otherwise occupied by Scandinavia.) Would you happen to have a pair of binoculars?
He looks at me dazed. Poppers?
No, sir. Binoculars.
He does not happen to have any but he is thankfully very well-connected, like all of us here at the orgy, and he asks someone who asks someone who has associates among the voyeurs and, sure enough, binoculars are passed along. In another moment I’ve located a hand to take hold of them, a hand which may very well be one of my own, or is anyway very amenable.
Looking out as far as I can toward the perimeter, I am see octogenarians in the distance, bald and decrepit, clutching their rock-hard octogenarian pharmaceutical-grade phalluses, aiming moves at the septuagenarians, ready to throw attitude at any centenarian who tries to cop a feel.
The centenarians mark the limitations of the visible, but beyond that I think we must acknowledge (now that death is no longer something in which reasonable people believe) that there is no doubt a horde of invisible beings, pushing in from the sides, brandishing tremendous phantom dildos, slick with astral lubricant, without a speck of spectral terrycloth, determined to locate, for once, a man with a bit of substance.
Contrary to reports, I have not actually been able to sleep with everyone. Animal, vegetable, mineral, spirit. Though, believe you me, I did make an effort. What I can say with confidence, however, is that if you tally up everyone I slept with and everyone they ever slept with, then all of creation is accounted for. Even the most reclusive hermits in the remotest hermitages have been comprehensively sodomized, and probably (sorry!) given a case of the crabs.
For example, when scientists in Hispaniola discovered an entirely new genus of solendon, we were all meant to be impressed. But actually my buddy Bill dated that venomous shrew in the Eighties. Kinky little prehistoric bastard, grooved-teeth and all.
Bill’s long gone now, of course.
Some people say we are wasting our time, here at the orgy. But fucking and getting fucked by everyone turns out to have been excellent preparation for the world we live in now. We understand well what it means to be connected as the world goes over a cliff and almost everyone pretends otherwise. In this fragile fuckstruck world where absolutely everything is connected to absolutely everything else, trilobite to troposphere, exhaust pipe to Arctic ice, Troy to Diego.
But where was I?
And where am I now?
Damn.
Wait. Damn. Oh, nevermind.
I’ve gone and done it. Did it. Made it. The critical mistake. I’ve fallen prey to the principle peril of orgies, the number one reason teenagers are warned against them, the reason you must always remain vigilant at all times, or at least keep your locker key on that stretchy cord around your ankle.
I got so busy looking into the distance, surveying and enumerating, that now I’ve entirely lost track, gotten turned around, taken my eye from the ball, from the cock, from the point, from the curve of the Earth, and thus lost sight of what must always be kept in mind.
Excuse me? Could someone please tell me which body is mine? Was mine? Was allotted to me?
As I recall, I was somewhere on the periphery. Where is the periphery now? I was servicing some Scandinavian, perhaps that one that looks like a sailboat in the distance, swarmed with gulls. Which one was I? I was promising at first, I remember. Later I was lackluster. I relied at all times on a highly unnatural enthusiasm, which bordered at times on hysteria. Still, my hysteria was precious to me, the world was worthy of it, and I would not have traded it for any amount of dull good sense.
I was a man. I was a man, wasn’t I? In some regards. And in other ways I was a porno theater. This was before or after the time I was a hospital for veterans, a gazebo, a dog pound, a phone booth. Not necessarily in that order, of course. For a long time I was a church. Not a bad church. One of those churches that take the command to love your neighbor very seriously indeed.
(Tokyo, 2014)
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