Amateur Armature of an Alarmingly Cocksure XXX Nature 18 +
I often find myself stopping in crowded intersections to audibly ask myself “Rebecca, if you had 1,000 nerve endings, 57 hours to kill, a cat and a monkey, how would you regale yourself?” The answer is clear. But that’s not what I’ve come to discuss, nor should you consider it my duty as a lady to divulge such vitiation. I come to fertilize this land, not to build a dam over it. I come to speak truth, not to muddy the minds of my readers… yet. But let’s start at the beginning. My first name ain’t baby, so stop smothering me with a blanket. It’s Rebecca. Ms. Rebecca if you’re nasty or unfamiliar with the colloquialism of my culture. I want to welcome you to the introductory edition of my X-rated erotica column. It’s been a long road leading up to this point. Long, hard and sandy; full of scorpions, and AIDS. And don’t presuppose that that road was a one I traveled alone. No, I had many gamete companions on my royal road to the unconscious egg with which I was unionized and under whose command I shall ever joyfully languish. You might also be wondering “Rebecca, what could you possibly know about vile, vulgar venery and the profligate paraphilia I so desperately wish to understand which could possibly warrant you worthy of this column?” I can comprehend your disbelief. I am, after all, young and innocent, sweet and savory. But don’t worry. I’ve done my studying; I’ve visited the basest of back-alley bacchanals and crepuscular, underground underwear-optional parties. I have learned to speak the language, I have exercised my native wont to dissolve my person and dissipate in a certain style, with a specific number of retainers, under a cherry moon in a hilltop pagoda, with a shamisen and pink silk kimono embroidered with plum blossoms. This I wish to share with you: my journeys in the field. Investigative reports on the heart, and the loins. As a people, we must come to accept, appreciate and in time, give our eyeteeth o’er the inherent eroticism in everyday tasks, such as making a sandwich, walking down the street, talking to your friend, or taking out the trash. It is my goal, throughout the indeterminate period of forthcoming time we shall spend symbolically in each others bedrooms, wearing each others clothes, strewn out atop the hardwood floors, writhing and drooling, that the process towards normalizing our daily perversities may make its commencement. In this section, you can expect to live vicariously through my daring exploits and shamefully sex-positive menial labors. Soon, you will be made privy to a whole world of sinfulness, from comprehensive accounts of canoodling with my cat to meals I have made and mystics I have known. I will, in debauched detail, limn the ladies of Tribeca and verbally delight the unsuspecting immigrants of Flatbush. Believe me when I say: none of it will be safe for work. So make sure you toggle it off, so that you, like Lord Jim, can into the destructive element immerse yourself. Stay tuned!
Part One: The Torrid Cry of the Hungry Undermonied
My poverty, but not my will, consents to your desperate request for a skinny vial of fatal mayapple distilled to blue liquid, from my humble apothecary of wattle bark and old smelly anemones on the shanty side of the beach, the side untraveled o’er by those unmoored by want of money and crustaceans for lunching or bonelets for crunching into my mayapple toxins.
The rigorous humbleness of poverty bids me sell my euthanizing wares to you and your lot, the intermittent onslaught of hopeless, solitary sad sacks, victims of romantic undoings and unswerving pain. They issue themselves pathetically forth to my apothecary door, spent, unkempt and smothered with seaweed and tears begging and sobbing for a swift death for their broken hearts.
I am kept barely financially afloat by dispensing fatal drams. Though I am obliging on account of penury, after each customer flees horrifically from my apothecary door and makes maniacally for the sea, I slump down to the floor and drift in and out of sleep, watching the swooping seagulls and rusted yellow-green sand till the next desperate drumming on my door requires my answer.
Crawdads lie dead all over the sand dunes, ill-starred romantics in Hawaiian shirts swim at the bottom of the sea. I grow hungry from witnessing so many deaths and so crawl through the sand dunes outside my shanty door, wearing only a long swath of seaweed and an empty dram ‘round my neck for collecting sea water. My only companion, a skittish young kit named Lamington, trots dutifully by my side, stopping to lick my face and gnaw at a lifeless cadaver en route to a shady spot where we munch on dead crawdads as the incoming tide dispenses mutilated bodies and empty ampoules of mortal drugs.
My hunger is not sated by this insubstantial meal and gruesome scene. Alongside my kitty, who joins in my plaint, I utter a torrid cry for the hungry undermonied.
The Torrid Cry of the Hungry Undermonied