On subway eroticism

Day 44

There is probably nothing quite like reading porn on an 8.30AM train ride accompanied by bleary-eyed,  self-loathing New Yorkers during the rush hour commute.  I say porn and not erotica because this is all cunt and dick, pussy- eating, cock- sucking verbiage.  I believe the interjection of the adjective is requisite for erotica status.  As I judiciously angle pages in order to obstruct the views of potential over-the-shoulder readers (admit it-you’ve done it, I’ve fucking done it, and considered taking up French again in order to diffuse these situations) I wonder to myself what the average commuter would think of such literature before noon.  It is bizarre to be in a semi-conscious state, sandwiched between a metal pole and a 240 lb., nebulously aged man sporting fatigue-themed fashion and silver sneakers, while reading about Bill greasily fingering the post-grad prostitute in some Key West alley.  The syncopated grinds and halts of the train tend to add to the overall surrealism of the situation.

This is day 2 of my latest experiment-one which I originally took up sometime last year but left at the wayside.  That initial termination was due to Marquis de Sade’s decline into pseudo-philosophical, derivative rhetoric on the nature of man and morality.  I wasn’t reading de Sade for his pre-Nietzschean ideas, but for his portrayals of group anal. Basically, I intend to continuously read erotic-themed material for an extended period of time in order to track its effects on my libido and sexual activity.  This all sounds quite objective and scientific, but it’s really a means to see how I can truly go that extra mile in bed.  Also, it begs the question of whether increased sexual stimulation will positively affect other aspects of my life.  More so, it seems like it will be rather fun, no?

-All reading suggestions heartily encouraged and welcomed

Where is my mind: steam from the gutter

Day 39

I think I am approaching some semblance of normalcy-in the sense of reverting to a comfortable level of neuroses versus constantly combating uncontrollable bloodlust and universal disdain for all.  That is not to say the normal dosage is pleasant, but it is habitual.  Without the context provided through repetition the mind would fragment beyond recognition into a soupy chaos.  And no one wants soupy chaos.  Maybe stewed, or skewered.  Definitely smoked.

Speaking of skewering,  I turned off all three of my musically varied alarms this morning in a dream-induced paralytic state.  I was on the operating table.  The anaesthetic caused a warm, dark fluidity that I embraced.  My grandmother was the surgeon.  A rhythmic gurgling lightly penetrated the back of my brain.  It was my new, automatic coffee maker!  Yes, a steamy cup awaited me post-operation, pre-morning commute, and this altogether changed a potentially crappy Thursday morning into a day that held at least a minute chance at something beyond mediocrity.  All because of coffee.  I cannot speak enough of my reforged relationship with this amazing beverage.  This week has been markedly less full of hate because of it, and I am sure someone or something has benefited from this aside from myself.  I can finally drink this dark ambrosia without the yearning for nicotine, and I finally feel almost human again.  Fuck, yes!

Another accomplishment this week, aside from nearly finishing season 4 of Weeds, is playing Joy Division’s “Love Will Tear Us Apar” on the violin.  I know, I know…teenage angst, cliche, bla bla, etc.  But it sounds damned good on strings, so fuckoff.

In other news-my obsessive nature has led to an alacrity in concocting herbal and homeopathic facial masks which I would go on about, but don’t want to sound like some new age, metaphysical type person.  (Reiterating atheism here.)  More interestingly, I have set a new goal: to have sex in a new or outmoded position each and every time.  This may result in some sort of injury eventually, but that will just provide excellent fodder for this blog.

Unrequited rapaciousness: if you don’t succeed, keep trying to fuck

Day 26

Although humorous to myself, not actually following my plotted trajectory of topics is perhaps irksome to you.  I have conjured reveries of explicit sex and satan, but have not yet delivered.  Since the past two nights have in fact been filled with odd sex dreams, I thought it fitting to tie up some loose ends, cover all my bases, and tell you what bases were sadly not reached.

A few weeks ago, at the onset of the bizarre sex dreams, when I was deep in the throws of sexual voracity, I promised to tell of my conquests, regardless of outcome.  I don’t intend to a) betray the privacy of my boyfriend b) get fired c) get socially shunned or d) get dumped.  Also, given the time of day, most of my beloved readers are currently at their respective places of employment and I don’t want to necessitate any emergency bathroom runs.  Save it for tonite, kids.  I will, however, momentarily delve into the past two nights.  I will preface with the following…I haven’t had any sex dreams for 1-2 weeks, which I think is largely unfortunate.  And to worsen matters, most of my dreams have been vivid nightmares involving repressed memories from my youth.  I just stepped down to level 2 patches, 14 mg versus the 21mg of past weeks.  The only differences I’ve detected are a marked increase in intense itching, and the return of that elusive and alluring beast, the bizzaro sex dream.

I must admit that the past two nights’ dreams were enjoyable, but also frustrating in a blue balls sort of way.  The first dream involved a bartender I’ve never spoken to before, nor found particularly attractive in any way.  I’m not sure why he appeared in my dream.  I don’t even go to that bar very often at all.  Anyway, he was a stripper in the dream. The setting was a sleazy, neontastic club with the appropriate amount of dark and dank.  The major problem of this dream was: I didn’t get to fuck.  There was an ever present need and want, but no follow through.  And he was acting kind of bitchy and playing hard to get.  I don’t need that in a fucking dream, jesus christ.  But, when I woke up and thought of the events, I wasn’t altogether displeased.  The second dream involved a colleague who will go unnamed, and no, does not sit near me, or even on the same floor.  This dream was better than the first, to the extent that when I woke up to my first alarm (3 total) I quickly tried to fall asleep and continue the conquest.  I at least got to make out, and dare I say, go to second or third.  I don’t think much beyond that happened, and I really want to know why the hell my dream lovers are such prudes.  I haven’t seen this person at work today, but in the dream his girlfriend was kind of pissed, so maybe that’s for the best.

I believe the overall point of this is that I am not getting satisfied in my dreams, but I’m getting closer to popping someone’s cherry.

A city without seasons.

A city without seasons.  Here, there is warm, cold, wet and dry.  This was pointed out to me the day I was in a place where there are trees and hills, a place where silence ran palpable and the train tracks ran motionless into the mountains.  Away from the city, where distance is measured by air, the quiet sits on your tongue.  It is the first time you’ve been clean of speech in months.  The first time you didn’t want home, but rather the motionless, first -changed leaves.

-from Day 21

First Friday of October: on satanism and the sequestration of coney island*

Day 19.  October 3, 2008.

Today, my dear friends, is an exceptional Friday.  Not only is it the first Friday in October, which happens to be an excellent autumnal month mostly associated with All Hallow’s Eve, it also happens to be the day of Coney Island’s First Annual Freaktoberfest.  Coney Island, in my opinion, is fucking awesome.  It holds the kitschy glam of a 70’s carnival, the punk allure of sideshow freaks, and the promise of potentially encountering used needles while making one’s way along the Atlantic.  The rusty splendor of historically protected rides such as The Wonder Wheel and The Cyclone, built in 1927, cannot be matched.  (Nor can the “oh fuck I really might die” factor when riding these.)  For those of you who are not Coney Island connoiseurs, it has a rich cultural history and has served as the backdrop for uplifting films such as “Requiem for a Dream” and “The Warriors,”  as well as literary stalwarts such as Ferlinghetti’s “Coney Island of the Mind.”  And if you don’t know what a Coney Island Whitefish is I recommend you pause and look it up this very moment.

At the turn of the 20th century Coney Island and its amusements were vastly different from what we encounter today.  Nothing remains of the original parks, Dreamland, Luna and Steeplechase, that were destroyed by either fires throughout the first half of the century, or torn down by a series of real estate bastards.  My personal favorite, Dreamland, existed from 1903-1911.  The elaborate architecture and lighting instilled a majestic, other-worldy feel, much like shrooming on a lakeshore while mindfucking some Miller and Baudelaire.  Some of the exoticisms, such as the large pagoda in Dreamland, were most certainly characteristic of the popularization of Asian and other non-Western cultures at this time. This is evidenced in early 20th century art movements such as Primitivism and Orientalism.

The evolution and decay of Coney combine to create its overall allure.

And I am going to be amongst the horror rides, beer in hand, raptured** in dayglo this very eve.  Also, I will try my damndest to not smoke, but how can one not smoke at Coney?

Note for future post:  Due to the long nature of this blog Satanism will have to wait until next time.  Just to keep you anguished and starving for more: author R.L. Stine and the high priest of the Church of Satan are in the lobby of my office at this very moment.

http://history.amusement-parks.com/lunapark.htm

*I am indeed using “sequestration” in an incorrect manner as Coney Island is not being seized for the benefit of state or creditors. It was sold, but to its many beloved fans, its rich cultural and historical significance has been seized with this sale.  This is authorial insolence and I’m gonna wield it.  Also,  my awareness of sequestration is brought to you by mcp, who so very elegantly proved to be correct without spilling a drop of blood.

**i can make up any damn words i please.