you fuck a giant gelatinous blob by staying towards the red spots. yes, it’s just that easy. the orgasm is a two-minute muscle contraction that could conceivably kill you if you’re in too deep. so to speak.

tentacles are worse, but not the worst, so count your blessings. while it feels like you’re surrounded by a swarming of muscled blunt objects just searching for a hole to disappear into, there are really only about four or five tentacles that are working you, depending on the creature. the rest just wrap around you and hold on tight while the lucky, selected limbs force their way into you. and what is your part in this? well… lay still and hope for the best.

there isn’t much to tell about the actual situation that you come across. any advice i have is common knowledge, yes, but that doesn’t mean you’ll run into that one exception and totally screw everything up. it’s better if you just roll with the punches.

it’s a big, throbbing world out there. minds are working around the clock, trying to find new and exciting ways to jerk off and get off. there’s always going to be something new, something strange, and yes, something dangerous. it’s all part of the fun. uh, at least, i think it is.

okay, so maybe it is a little weird. with the media twisting the truth around everything there’s no telling what is true and what is a tall tale. chances are, if it’s funny, it isn’t true. life isn’t really this exciting.

you hear stories about the chick with dicks coming out of her nipples but they’re great in bed if you’re limber and can multitask, and as long as you watch out for the one that comes out of her throat. has this really ever happened to you? and do you really wish it would?

i ask too many questions.

you’ve got curious teenagers in this world, curious about sex and power and how they’re going to change it all, how they’re going to be the savior of humankind, and what you’ve got to wonder is if they know that it’s highly unlikely they’re going to live past their first real fuck. after that, it all changes, and a lot of them can’t take it after that.

i mean, where is there to go after you’ve seen everything? it’s a paradox; they try to do everything, but when they have, do they expect a big prize that somehow keeps their boredom at bay?

so, what if this is the prize? an inexhaustible search for knowledge. we’re never bored, we’re always tired, and the game will never end. and sure, why can’t it be sex. it’s how they’re so many moving bodies, all with sweaty and bright pink genitals. we couldn’t have just been here forever. someone had to mother and father us, to create us. and hell, if not for the greater good, then why not for a selfish indulgence?

however, no one really cares about this sort of shit any more. since news is entertainment and the public condition can be analyzed by what they are entertained by, they’re just bored of all of this shit. the sad truth is that corporations, television, newspapers, radios, movies, books, and the ones that put them all together… are out of ideas. it was inevitable but we were all optimistic, hopeful that we’d be creative enough to keep thinking of new things, but we can only go so far. fat chance of recovery, oh well, tough luck. now it’s only a matter of time before the entire world figures it out.

the game does have to end someday.

and then what?

hell, by then, even that will be boring. i won’t need to think.

what a great world.

but currently, i have my own bullshit to deal with.

Sonic won’t talk to me anymore. once he figured out that me and Tails had figured out the meaning of life without him, he got a little sore. Tails, on the other hand, couldn’t have been happier, not necessarily because i fucked him, but because he had finally figured something out. he experienced an epiphany, so far above mere inspiration. the cliché thing for him to do now would be to steal my teaching job, continue to fuck Sonic in a dirty hotel room, and forget about me entirely, and hey, i’m only out two assets. a victimless crime, because i deserve whatever comes to me.

it’s okay, though, really. i never needed them to live. i never needed anybody. as long as i have a roof over my head, money, and drugs, i’m fine. i’ll eat, shit, masturbate (maybe rape somebody) every once in awhile for kicks, but the rest of my life will be routine, and with luck on my side, i’ll die a sudden death that i won’t see coming, which is the only thing that can realistically happen to me.

in a sense, i’m already dead. what sense? fuck you, shut up, i don’t have all the answers.

the end of an era. no more fucking two idols, beloved by millions, and no more creating new rumors about them either, now that i don’t have their consent. i can’t go home and chuckle about it anymore. i can’t muse about keeping their semen in my mouth until i can store it safely in a jar and wait for cloning to be legalized so i can grow my own sex slaves and fuck them too. no more deliciously sore ass, no more raw dick, less laundry to do. Sonic and Tails are the top of the heap in ass, and in a month they’ll be having all of the tabloid-covered sex they want. i’ll be forgotten as their former master and teacher. a new scenario: they kill me because i’m the last link to their past. the past is always too painful to remember.

but i can forget it. it’s easy, too easy, to do it. if i can ignore my sister’s body floating down river somewhere, then i can ignore my ties to fame and fortune. i can do it. i can move on.

i need to get wasted as soon as possible.

huh. this is a weird feeling. like i can rest.

i can finally rest.

**********

a week after fucking Tails in the ass i’m fired from my job for disobeying my editor. out of two jobs. i can already feel my cash dwindling even as i stand perfectly still in my apartment, controlling the rage, trying to stay calm…

okay, rationalize, think, survive.

first thing’s first: move out of the apartment and get a cheaper dump across town. next, sell myself or my abilities to anyone who wants to buy, and live with my head above water long enough for me to die quietly in some hole, making sure to leave as much of a mess as possible for the poor bastard unlucky enough to clean it up.

my life is suddenly a clock being spun forward by the hands of… god? time? fate? i suddenly have to be quick on my toes in order to satisfy my instincts, and oh my, time is running out.

at the same time, it occurs to me that this is just my body finally finding something new to do. before, my obsession was fucking two superstars and writing lies about them. i had a practical vice, which is probably the most difficult task to accomplish, ever. and i did it, and now it’s gone, so what now? my subconscious let me relax for a week and now the break is over, and it’s time to run.

my new vice is, of course, of the deviant kind. always is, always will be. it’s the last way to be original or interesting, and its value is dwindling rapidly. so i need to ride it hard, fast, and milk as much out of it as possible, quick, before someone else does it. my mind figures this out, and as with any other situation, rapidly accepts the consequences. death, imprisonment, torture, all good. bring it on.

relaxation coats me, warming, and i begin the preparations. bare essentials: two changes of clothes, one suit case, wallet and id with atm card, pen, paper, address book. i cut up all of my credit cards, burn my tax returns, and eat all of my food in a rush so i don’t feel like it’s wasted when i’m starving in one week. the rest of my shit, the material possessions and such, they can all catch fire and burn for all i care. in a half an hour i’ve reduced my life to nothing but still, something doesn’t feel quite right.

thus, i don’t leave. i just stand in the doorway, looking at the rubble, smelling the burning smoke. i’m frozen. what the hell is the matter with me?

…

it’s not dangerous enough.

this is already dry and uninteresting. a hermit, a wandering anti-hero. gee, what a change. i’m so fucking stupid. i can’t even write my own life right. i’d fire myself if i could. no wonder i’m so-

…

got it.

solved. i put my suit case down and walk to the television, the 30 inch noise box that i hardly ever watch, except for inspiration, and i pick it up and yank it off of the entertainment center. my dvd’s, my artful decorations, they all come crashing down onto the carpet. some of the more fragile stuff breaks, but no matter, i don’t remember why i got them in the first place. just the way i want to think.

outside, on the balcony, all twenty stories of High Rise apartments stand below me. i’m on the tip of the dweller phallus, and it’s cool and windy and there’s no smog in midday. worth every penny, yet worthless. below, insects scurry around.

i wonder if Tails ever thinks about me, while he’s sucking Sonic in the same way i would do it, and ignoring the heart-wrenching guilt eating inside of him. i wonder if he has second thoughts. i wonder if he would say something if the sex organ weren’t forcing itself into himself.

Sonic the hedgehog has a dick, and Tails is choking on it. god i’m petty.

i was so comfortable with it that i called it sexperimentation.

the solution to my new life came to me when i realized the smell of the smoke had gotten more powerful. somewhere in my apartment, a fire was growing larger and larger, spawned from my tax returns and smoldering papers. and unless an outside force stopped it, it would engulf the entire dwelling.

somewhere far below me, next to twenty stories of multi-level dick, someone won’t see the irony of their world coming down on top of them. someone far below me is about to die. most likely, anyway. if they’re lucky.

without hesitating, i drop my television and i don’t watch it fall. i exit, and when i reach the elevator is probably where the poor insect was hit. i’ll hear it from somewhere that they had to find all of his teeth in the plastic bits of boob-tube. all he was doing was jogging, too. completely innocent closet pedophile.

the cops are after me, now. my life is in danger. this is shaping up to be too perfect. i love my new life already.

**********

The room is awful, therefore great. My bags are unpacked as soon as I open the case and unpile my shit. The phone numbers go on the nightstand, next to the phone and coin operated bed and the coin operated bible. I’m surprised they don’t put a fucking phone booth in here just to milk it as much as possible.

nothing is on television, of course, but the colored noise actually helps me think.

i checked into a familiar hotel. it’s dark outside. I’m so bored that I decide to make a list of all the drugs I’ll need to cope with this incredible loss. The pile of cash in the case, my savings, is just burning to be burned.

But here is where it gets weird.

I don’t make a list of drugs. I don’t make a list of anything at first. I’m just frozen, staring at the pad of paper in front of me. The lines start to blur as tears form in my eyes from not blinking. I don’t know how long it is before I finally start writing.

And I write.

And I write.

It’s sunrise when I stop, my systematic chicken scratch all over the notepad. It’s coherent, for sure, but the reason doesn’t make sense.

Surveillance equipment.

EXPENSIVE surveillance equipment. More than just an empty glass put up against the wall.

No drugs. No alcohol. No sex toys.

Spy ware.

What for?

And it hits me. Where I am. The fuck spot, the safe fuck spot, where we-three came to come. As far as I know, they’d still use it. They’re blind sheep without me.

I search my brain and I can’t find the motive for wanting to do this. No petty bitterness. No malicious intent. Nothing.

There’s no reason why I should be doing this.

Against all will, I start writing again.