Our Workout and Why We Do It

It was media I had ripped off the War Channel (née History Channel), like rape ape squads from the new wars that had raged across Africa and Europe, Prime 8’s and child soldiers on mass rape and humiliation B/T/K raids through homes for the elderly. That shit was ill. You’d plug it in for a few seconds and then you’d need a real serious tranq and beer chaser to avoid the fast pukes, or just huff for a awhile and jerk off to something normal like Dutch centipede movies or some nice slow Japanese guro, or a Herschel Gordon Lewis flick, let the CNS fade to its normal smooth black.


I know they say the Snuff Wars were about orgone, but like I asked in my famous mertweet, who the fuck has ever seen an orgone? People have been pulling sick shit on each other ever since the first time somebody had a sharp stick and some raw ideas of physical comedy and there’s nothing that hasn’t happened in the last forty years that didn’t happen in Goya’s Horrors of War, or the Holocaust I or II, except that maybe it’s weird that we pay robots to jack each other off while we do it. Life and horror are sick and repetitive, like pornography, which is why I work in the sick and repetitive horror pornography industry. This is why I am an artist, and this is my artist’s statement while I’m strangling you during weird rough sex in the Kevin Costner suite of the Kevin Bacon Complex.




The Kevin Bacon Complex isn’t really a tesseract, but that’s what they want you to think, but rather just the biggest orbital theme hotel in existence ever since Dubai II fell out of La Grange during the late unpleasantness. The rooms shift around, some have lethal traps, others have HBO –you know, the usual Hilton/Kempinski deal. The whole place was basically a mausoleum for every dead star who did old fiber stuff that your grandma liked with her biker alderman wife. It supposedly looks like Kevin Bacon crucified on a hypercube, but since no one can get out there to look at it, who knows? The concept was a constantly shifting puzzle of endless themed luxury suites with nostalgic media themes and now I am reading the damn brochure to you while the monkey pours movie theatre butter on your back.




But this isn’t about sex, it’s about power, which is the absence of power, which is why you are here, to watch my workout, because, like cheating on you with your girlfriend or fuckbot or barely legal guardian this is what makes it real. Human beings are social creatures and can you see me flexing, because with these veins popping a look like a fucking Sequoia root system and I don’t need you to blow me now, but yes, can we please download another magazine not about dinosaurs defecating in muscle cars? We’re social creatures and we need the love and surveillance and constant connection to be whole as we basically live in glass hive of Borgs/Necromongrers/Cenobites/Kyben that get off on leathery sick shit that used to be called communication.



But it’s not communication any more. It’s what comes after the vanishing point, the transparent society. It’s an x-ray of the Invisible Man’s imaginary friend. It’s not communication for the same reason working out isn’t a sport. Working out isn’t a sport because masturbation (qua masturbation, not like on XXXESPN) isn’t really a sport.



Because neither is the ecstasy of Saints.



Speaking of which, now is as good a time as any to tell you that during sex with you I like to fantasize that I am masturbating. This has been going on for a while and I’ve been meaning to tell you and wanted to break it to you in a sensitive way and have been waiting for more data, but there you go. I thought now, during sex, would be a timely and salient time to tell you about it, which is why I had you put on that bondage gear with all the post-it notes on it. Now that you are secure inside your GIMP-IMAX sensory deprivation/I-GUI helmet it can be told to you, over the sound of seagulls laughing cue seagulls.






My masturbation fantasy is really abstract, like I can’t really put it all together. In it, I am touching myself in an unfamiliar way in an little used part of the house that isn’t real, like the parts of a house in a dream that only exist in a dream. Likewise, I’m touching a part of my body I don’t normally touch or find arousing. I also can’t say what it is. It’s a new part of my body that is also not clear. Also, I’m not touching it directly. It’s like I’m pulling on the dimensional space around my nipples, the geodesics and tensors that lead to the surface of my skin, but not my skin itself. I am masturbating an invisible and unclear organ with a phantom hand.


It goes without saying that it’s really hard to come.


That’s probably what I like about it. My fantasy sex organ is really unclear, like a cryptid glimpsed in a dream. Sometimes I imagine that it can grasp my hand back, like tentacles, or clamp down like a vagina. Other times, it is gloriously numb, like the splinter in a wound, like an arrowhead or bullet, a thorn I am pushing out of my skin.



It’s vague and distant. When I want to come I switch to my usual fantasy, that I am a suicide bomber and you are singing telegram sent by an ancient dead race and we meet in the labyrinth of an already extinguished city, the last ones, the last ones.



Then we meet and it turns out your telegram is a cookbook.





This act alone, and not the cocaine, proves I am a genius.




The universe, I say, is basically a big computer. And like most computers, it is basically full of porn. That’s the deep web, the dark matter, that’s what’s hidden in the cosmic cloud drive we can only observe indirectly. It's porn because like porn, everything is permitted, but nothing is allowed. The sex always happens for someone else, to someone else. No touching. Nothing touches.

In the present, pornography is the dominant form of life, because God is dead (or rather, unconscious) and without God, or something like it, no other form of representation or being is possible.





I am genius because I am untimely, because I am probsolete –I am format that is no longer supported or will not exist for years to come. My medium is my message and my message is the golden record on Voyager VI, which is to say, I am to be first read and truly received, not by this generation, nor the next, but by a vast alien machine intelligence that will misinterpret yet enable my mission and send me back to you, as V’ger. This to and fro is what is meant by dialectic, which is to say I am a destiny, which is to say I am going to come so we need to put it somewhere no, not there, though possibly on the Venus flytrap by the Georgia O’Keefe.



I am probsolete. I am replaced by myself, by what came next, what the fashion designer supercomputers had already planned last season. It wasn’t your great grandfather’s
cyberpunk or your grandfather’s steampunk or your bio-dad’s transhuman fascism . It was something unbearably ugly and potent. It was the merging not of living matter and technology, but of marketing and necrotizing fasciitis, of disinformation and cancer. I could not compete or dialog.



Which is good because I really had started to freak out a little because my sex fantasies were getting really borderline normal. And at first, I thought, that’ s cute, but then it wasn’t cute. It was kitsch. It was all sunshine and puppies and first time anal sex in your pre-teen bedroom –really vanilla normal unmodded hetro stuff. And kitsch is the first sign of true decadence. The contest between Nietzsche and Wagner never ended: we are their syphilitic children. Kitsch is always the beginning of fascism and not the sexy hot kind.


And this above all, is why I am a genius, a humanist genius in world with no humans,
and long after the last man, keeping the totalitarian world safe from fascism.

This is our workout and why we do it.

New Sodom, New Gomorrah, Part I

This would be the last series of injections into my penis before the orgy. Watching the three large needles go in I regarded the latest modification to my glans. The head now had an acute alien shape, like an African mask. I felt myself becoming aroused and blanked my mind, withdrawing into meditation, though aware of a heavy velvety sensation in the shaft, as though it were being pumped full of lead or mercury, held up by the penetration of the three needles. Though the room was white and cold, I felt a small sweat break over my naked body.

There were eight locations on my body where poisonous spines had been secreted: the left heel, the right elbow, the shaft of the penis, the urethra, the nape of the neck, the spine, the anus, the roof of the mouth, each tucked in a sheath of engineered smooth muscle that would shoot them out at the moment of orgasm, which I could control wholly at will. The spines were translucent, the poison a blackish purple. The scent was very faint and not unpleasant. It was not lethal: it only caused paralysis. Once the twins were paralyzed I was to begin work.

The Sex Wars were not about sex. Like all wars, they were about power. The Blue Revolution had intended to save industrial civilization by marrying it to an inexhaustible and organic power resource. Orgone radiation, however, had sexualized and perverted most of the earth’s animal population, which now lived in a constant state of preorgasmic arousal. Orgasm, however, was now possible only under the most extreme circumstances and usually led to death. Most cities had large spectacular torture centers in an attempt to channel the near constant outbreaks of sexual violence and orgies that now made daily life almost impossible.

Castration had absolutely no effect. The orgone radiation acted directly on the brain. The most marginally effective treatment combined heavy sedation, sensory reduction and an electroshock collar. People were told the collar was designed to help them redirect their thoughts by administering a corrective shock in response to sexual ideation. In reality, the collars simply shocked randomly; however, since most people could think of little else, people believed in them. X awoke, as always from frightening and violent sexual dreams. He realized, vaguely, that he was crying and playing with himself. The first morning shock brought him to the floor.

Upon recovery he made his way to the bathroom. Brushing his teeth, he recalled the details of his dream and vomited. Collecting himself as best he could, he rezipped his anti-sex suit and anti onan mittens, pouring into his pockets the rattling doses of sedatives he would need for the day, fighting the urge to lube the shaft of his toothpaste tube with toothpaste and shove it in his urethra. He vomited again over breakfast, but this was a normal effect of the drugs. He was glad he lived alone now. Before he would awake to his wife’s clawing kisses.

She would gnaw at him like a sick maddened animal and then rub at him furiously through their heavy padded anti sex suits, crying and screaming obscenities. They would grapple with each other from the moment they came home like trapped animals, finally collapsing in the early morning hours, their heavy wool suits torn and soaked with sweat and streaked with blood. Her face was now always bent in an expression of insane lust, indistinguishable from agony as she battered against him. He realized she had become dangerous when he awoke to find her masturbating with a pair of scissors.

He did not have the courage to report her. He still loved her. Sometimes, when the heavy evening downers were still working, he still loved to hold her tenderly, wrapped in a thick comforter. Her sleeping face was soft and childlike and held all the personality he remembered of the girl he had loved. He would fall asleep listening to her heavy drugged breathing, reminding him of their life together before sex had ruined everything. One day she finally cut herself out of her suit entirely. She stood there naked before him covered in sweat and blood like something just born.

She gave him a single look and then ran away like a fleeing animal into the city. He knew he would never see her again. She would be dead in a few hours. He locked and barred the door and began weeping and masturbating for three days at the end of which he had to go the hospital as he had skinned and bruised his penis beyond recognition. The waiting room at the emergency room was a nightmare. The man next to him needed to have a folding table removed, but could not restrain himself from attempting to pleasure himself with it further, until he disemboweled himself.

The twins were the alpha and the omega of eros. Small children usually could not be restrained from chewing pictures of their faces out of magazines. They nearly identical, with strange subtle differences that were complimentary. They were the faces and figures that had launched a thousand masturbating ships.