TRUE PORNOGRAPHY IS GIVEN US BY VASTLY PATIENT PROFESSIONALS
Sometimes I will use my body's natural limitations to my advantage.
Once you learn how to tweak the internal dynamics of pain and fear, you can have a truly inexhaustible source of energy. A personal perpetual motion machine, without defying too many of the laws of physics.
One of the shining stars of his revolutionary program is the notion of piss tension. Hold it all in until whatever you are working on gets absolute focus, out of necessity to keep your mind off the more pressing physical concern. Excellent for last minute bursts of attention to get all the work done on time.
Mission accomplished, I stopped by the little bathroom down the hall in my work.
I flung the door open, and the image hit me before my line of sight could fully swing eyes front and center.
When I say the image hit me, I speak in literal terms. The sight was no so much passively observed as it was the force of a jarring concussion.
There, standing a good two or three back from the toilet was what looked like a young man, pants hanging around his ankles like shackles. This would normally be pretty embarrassing enough in its own right. But he just didn't have his pants down. His underpants were down as well. And his shirt was up, exposing his distended beer belly, the lattices of the abdominal muscles pushed back and away from his bloated organs, culminating in the gnarled bulge of his belly button, knotted and protruding like the flesh colored knot of a poorly tied party balloon.
His shirt held up IN HIS TEETH, mind you.
This gave him full use of his hands.
He didn't take this for granted, and put them quickly to work.
One hand was firmly clutching his genitals. Not just his penis. His entire sexual reproductive system.
Bait AND tackle.
Bits AND pieces.
Clutching isn't the right word. One conjures the image of wrapping one's hands around something, as if to keep from dropping it, when you use the word. This wasn't a matter of grabbing and holding on. This looked like a matter of extinguishing the structural integrity by reducing the hiterhto solid to a righteous paste. Deciding to make wine from the fruits of his loins.
It seemed like a transformative gesture, with heavy disciplinary overtones. The other arm stuck out from his body, in what I could only assume was for balance.
There didn't seem to be much light behind his eyes. Sonambulistically staring ahead, if he noticed my intrusion, he gave no external sign of it. He just stood there, unwavering, all the more freakish in the bleached white of the garish fluorescent lighting and the nauseating shade of baby blue tile he stood in sharp contrast in front of.
All this sensory information was accumulated in the blink of the eye, with the image that is embedded in my memory filling itself out second by second, like a shaken polaroid picture, in the mind's eye as I drove off.
Any one component of this was bad enough. You throw them together and you get a stark image of pure, unadulterated terror.
True horror doesnt come in blood and guts and death. It comes from an overwhelming sense that SOMETHING AINT RIGHT. And there is no proper explanation for why things have gone suddenly awry.
.Why didn't this sicko lock the door? If this was just some highly stylized self pleasure routine, why not wait for the comfort, and relative privacy of your own home? Was the act of observation by some other party essential for this ritual? Holding the shirt up, was that to observe the results of his dirty work? Did he have to stand in the corner? If you are going to mash your gonads until they pop like ripe fruit, at least have the decency to do so over the toilet. Something tells me this yard ape is the shit smearing monkey who wipes his ass on the toilet seat while making water on the toilet paper.
"Oh...UH...um...sorry there...." I muttered, and closed the door.
I was struck at the instantaneous, surreal power of this image. It was like having a ghost sighting.
Maybe he wasn't real. Not in any corporeal sense. Just some spookshow apparition forever doomed to haunt public johns like George Michael on so many lost saturday nights.
Just some phantasmagorical shithouse spook following the same tired, mechanical routine in the unending hell of a constantly recurring loop.
Deciphering what drove this poor soul to attempt this maneuver would take much better minds than mine. The color of his unfortunate junk I can only fathom in veiled references in my nightmares. I ran out to the car and drove my full bladder home.
One thing is for sure, this little image is a hell of a wild card to pull to keep my fast going for yet another day.
Thirteen days, bitches.
Once you learn how to tweak the internal dynamics of pain and fear, you can have a truly inexhaustible source of energy. A personal perpetual motion machine, without defying too many of the laws of physics.
One of the shining stars of his revolutionary program is the notion of piss tension. Hold it all in until whatever you are working on gets absolute focus, out of necessity to keep your mind off the more pressing physical concern. Excellent for last minute bursts of attention to get all the work done on time.
Mission accomplished, I stopped by the little bathroom down the hall in my work.
I flung the door open, and the image hit me before my line of sight could fully swing eyes front and center.
When I say the image hit me, I speak in literal terms. The sight was no so much passively observed as it was the force of a jarring concussion.
There, standing a good two or three back from the toilet was what looked like a young man, pants hanging around his ankles like shackles. This would normally be pretty embarrassing enough in its own right. But he just didn't have his pants down. His underpants were down as well. And his shirt was up, exposing his distended beer belly, the lattices of the abdominal muscles pushed back and away from his bloated organs, culminating in the gnarled bulge of his belly button, knotted and protruding like the flesh colored knot of a poorly tied party balloon.
His shirt held up IN HIS TEETH, mind you.
This gave him full use of his hands.
He didn't take this for granted, and put them quickly to work.
One hand was firmly clutching his genitals. Not just his penis. His entire sexual reproductive system.
Bait AND tackle.
Bits AND pieces.
Clutching isn't the right word. One conjures the image of wrapping one's hands around something, as if to keep from dropping it, when you use the word. This wasn't a matter of grabbing and holding on. This looked like a matter of extinguishing the structural integrity by reducing the hiterhto solid to a righteous paste. Deciding to make wine from the fruits of his loins.
It seemed like a transformative gesture, with heavy disciplinary overtones. The other arm stuck out from his body, in what I could only assume was for balance.
There didn't seem to be much light behind his eyes. Sonambulistically staring ahead, if he noticed my intrusion, he gave no external sign of it. He just stood there, unwavering, all the more freakish in the bleached white of the garish fluorescent lighting and the nauseating shade of baby blue tile he stood in sharp contrast in front of.
All this sensory information was accumulated in the blink of the eye, with the image that is embedded in my memory filling itself out second by second, like a shaken polaroid picture, in the mind's eye as I drove off.
Any one component of this was bad enough. You throw them together and you get a stark image of pure, unadulterated terror.
True horror doesnt come in blood and guts and death. It comes from an overwhelming sense that SOMETHING AINT RIGHT. And there is no proper explanation for why things have gone suddenly awry.
.Why didn't this sicko lock the door? If this was just some highly stylized self pleasure routine, why not wait for the comfort, and relative privacy of your own home? Was the act of observation by some other party essential for this ritual? Holding the shirt up, was that to observe the results of his dirty work? Did he have to stand in the corner? If you are going to mash your gonads until they pop like ripe fruit, at least have the decency to do so over the toilet. Something tells me this yard ape is the shit smearing monkey who wipes his ass on the toilet seat while making water on the toilet paper.
"Oh...UH...um...sorry there...." I muttered, and closed the door.
I was struck at the instantaneous, surreal power of this image. It was like having a ghost sighting.
Maybe he wasn't real. Not in any corporeal sense. Just some spookshow apparition forever doomed to haunt public johns like George Michael on so many lost saturday nights.
Just some phantasmagorical shithouse spook following the same tired, mechanical routine in the unending hell of a constantly recurring loop.
Deciphering what drove this poor soul to attempt this maneuver would take much better minds than mine. The color of his unfortunate junk I can only fathom in veiled references in my nightmares. I ran out to the car and drove my full bladder home.
One thing is for sure, this little image is a hell of a wild card to pull to keep my fast going for yet another day.
Thirteen days, bitches.