His name was Fred, so he was delighted to meet, woo and marry a woman called Wilma. “WIL–MA!” he started saying, when he came home. Wilma is a very rare name these days, is the thing. “WIL–MA!” Not many people name their kids ‘Wilma’. “WIL–MA!” That was basically the only Flintstones quote he knew. “WIL–MA!” he used to say. “WIL–MA!” She would be doing the ironing or something. “WIL–MA!” Microwaving a big lasagne. “WIL–MA!” Smoking a cigarette while pretending to take a shit. “WIL–MA!”
“I’m leaving you, Fred,” she said one day. “I’m leaving you.” He was hammering holes in the floor of an old Fiat 500 ahead of a planned gag he was going to do where he would try and run it to his mother’s house with his feet. “For…?” he asked. “For Barney?”
“No Fred,” she said. “No. We don’t know anyone called Barney. I’m leaving you for a dude called Joe who fits radiators and doesn’t talk about racist old cartoons from the ‘60s.” Anyway long story short: later that day he hung himself with his Flintstones tie.
What do you do when another dude is getting a handjob while you are also getting a handjob? This is a question. This is a question that has probably hounded dudes since olden times, since Back In The Day. Imagine it, picture it: a Neanderthal-ass bro in a leather sort of tunic thing, stealing some moments with a Raquel Welch–type behind a crop of windblasted sandstone. “ME UM GIVUM EXQUISITE GIFT TO YOU OF HANDJOB,” Raquel says. A ram’s bone is threaded cartoonishly through her hair. “ME GIVUM YOU RIGID-ARMED EYE-ROLLING HELLA CRAZY HANDJOB,” she continues. “ME READUM IN OLDE TIME-ASS VERSION OF COSMOPOLITAN THAT I CAN USE TWO HANDS IN A TWISTING MOTION TO MAKE YOU COME ULTIMATE NIRVANA.” And so you let her, even though she seems to be wetting a shoelace in her mouth and looping it around the base of your unit, as though she is about to start a fire on and with your sweet dick. Has anyone at Cosmopolitan done a handjob before? Has anyone at Cosmo heard of the concept of friction?
But lo, over the way a little, behind some scrub: another dude, with a beard and chest hair and a kind of leopard-print toga thing, and at his knees a blonde chick with a firm grip, and his kind of leopard-print toga thing is pulled and hiked up fully, so much so that he is pinching the main of it under his chin to stop it from flopping onto his junk and getting in the way of the wristy, and suddenly you notice him and he notices you and your Neanderthal-ass eyes lock, and… then… is… is he— is he giving you the first thumbs up in history?
This is what happened him, while he waited in a car at Make Out Spot after the prom. His date was chewing gum and breathing in his ear and giving him a wristy, and then he glanced across and saw another dude, across the way, his eyes rolling back with curious familiarity – from the same school maybe. Were they in science class? Didn’t Mr. Richardson make them pair up to dissect a frog that one time?
And then at that moment exactly two things happened: one, he locked eyes with the aforementioned dude, who flashed him a smile and, crucially, winked; and then he sadly and unexpectedly jizzed, in the air and in an arc, all over himself and his rented tux. He drove home in silence and was up until three in the morning going at it with a toothbrush, but in the end admitted defeat. “I’m just spreading it around,” he muttered. “I’m just spreading it around.” £50 soiling charge; incalculable dent in his dignity.
“I just don’t know if I’m an ass man or a tit man,” he said. “I just don’t know!” This was unacceptable, this was unheard of. He was the only human man alive still on the fence about whether he liked asses or tits better. “Asses!” the Ass Campaign For Britain said, campaigning outside his house, all placards and shouting. “As–ses! As–ses!” The Tit Men sent him cakes in the post. “You can’t buy cakes the shape of asses at the supermarket,” the note said. “Enjoy these tits in the shape of a cake. With respect, The Tit Men Collective.”
Finally, a scientist came to the rescue, strapping him to a dentist’s chair and applying electrodes to his Dickinsons. “Do you like this one,” he said, a Powerpoint presentation of some tit-heavy women projected on the wall. “How about this one.” A parade of asses, oiled and gleaming. He was in there for hours, until he was crying and dehydrated, until his legs grew grey and numb, a smorgasbord of machinery making dings and beeps. “Make it stop,” he wept. “Make the asses and titties stop.”
Finally, in a press conference to an awaiting press, he was declared a Tit Man. He was presented with a big check and a laminate certificate saying he loved he some milk balloons, and then Peter Stringfellow tightly shook his hand. “I like them both,” he said, slowly winking. “That’s my little secret: I like them both.”
How many muscles does Hulk Hogan have? “Over 60,” says Hulk Hogan. “All of them strong. Apart from one: my heart.”
He explains: “Seriously, doctors tell me my heart’s all fuck up. And if I fall in love – with a woman or my reflection or a vegetarian lasagne – I could collapse and die like a mountain falling into the sea.” Does that impact his sex life? Not one bit. “Not one bit,” says the 12-time champ. “I still take Cialis and fuck two strippers at the same time, every night without fail, no matter how rough they look or smell.” He jokes: “I just hope I don’t fall in love with one of them!” We do too, Hulkster! We do to. Please be alive forever.
READER’S NOTE: ‘Squelching it to’ is a fun new euphemism I invented that means ,‘sex’.
“Ungh!” he said. “Ah!” He was squelching it to his girlfriend, during daytime no less, and right by an open window, to boot. “Ah!” he said. “Mm!” A dog licked him on the bottom. A dog licked him on the bottom. A dog – his dog, specifically, a Labrador named Benji – dog-kissed him on his secret rose. He jizzed extraordinarily.
The ensuing experiments to get Benji to ring his prostate like a church bell mainly failed. One day he offered himself up in a frog pose, front-side-up, his tassle coated in peanut butter and mince; another evening he performed lewd squats over a tin of Pedigree Chum. He tried to get the smells Benji seemed to like – garbage, chicken wings, cats – on and up his tender estuary. But Benji would not lick him. He would not lick his butt.
Months went by, seasons changed, the years turned into dust, and still Benji would not lick his butthole – until finally he was old, his tired little dogs’ legs folded underneath him, his eyes sad and white. Benji was nearing the end. “I will miss you, Benji,” he cried. Benji slowly, carefully, stuck out his tongue. “Do you–?” Benji seemed to nod. He reverently dropped his trousers and turned. Lick. He jizzed extraordinarily, tears in his eyes, then wrapped Benji’s body in two bin bags and hid him in a skip. “Goodbye, my old friend,” he whispered. “Goodbye.”
Here, a thing
I wrote like an actual short story. You can read it here.
He was Prisoner #64–614 in letter after letter after month after month until they met, finally, hands smeared against the protective Plexiglass, kisses on the screen, in a Correctional Facility a four-hour drive from her home. “It’s good to finally meet you, penpal,” she sobbed. “Please,” he hissed. “Please. Tell me you bought cigarettes. Please.”
They romanced through the medium of biro-written letters on folded lined paper and bi-quarterly conjugal visits until, a mere seven years after they first met and on good behaviour (he shivved: zero humans, while in prison), he got out. They moved immediately in to a trailer and started having that kind of howling, harrowing sex that only the very drunk and destitute can have. All shouts, all sweat so heavy in the room you can slip on the air. Two sets of genitals locked in an essentially loveless wrestle for supremacy. Like two horses fixed to a wall with hooks, desperately racing to flay themselves to death.
But as with all love between a HotMurderers.com power user and a hot murderer, theirs was a doomed one. “Lance,” she said (his name was Lance). “There is an awful lot of unmarked meat in the freezer, Lance.” And then: “Lance,” she said, “Lance, where is the newspaper, the one with the headline about all the disappearances? I hadn’t done the ruddy crossword!” And then: finally, when he came home at 4am with blood under his fingernails and scratchmarks on his face, when he dumped a shovel with unnerving finality on the porch and walked in, she lost her own personal shit. “LANCE,” she said. “YOU’RE STOMPING BLOOD THROUGH ON THE FUCKING CARPET. I JUST CLEANED THAT FUCKING CARPET.” She really loved that carpet. She stayed at her sisters for the weekend, sobbing throughout, calling him a “pig” and “just like every other man” (i.e. ‘a pig’), and in the meantime the police shot him to death with guns.
"Hmm," he said. He picked her up by the stalk. "Huh." Someone had carved an especially sexy jack-o’-lantern. Let me explain: ‘especially sexy’ is the exact word pair he used when questioned by the police. "She had a perfectly round mouth and rouged cheeks and sultry, if hollow, eyes," he told them. "She was an especially sexy pumpkin.” He fucked that pumpo dry, fucked it for one straight month before neighbours complained about the wet compost smell plus the grunting plus low, rhythmic, persistent murmurs of “hm” and “oh yeah” and “oh hell yes baby gourd-like squash”. The police broke his door down with a violence and destroyed the pumpkin on the spot. Council burial. Five-to-ten years.
The Love Bench
The Love Bench is a little old place where, after an especially exhausting fingering session, someone in a tracksuit and with a permanent marker once wrote the words ‘love bench’ – strokes firm, carved deep into wood, a wobbly and post-orgasmic heart drawn around them. And thus The Love Bench was born; a haunt for local teenagers to lose their second base virginities on, favoured spot for especially low budget proposals. If The Love Bench could talk, it would say “please, for the love of God and all else that is holy, for the love of Shiva and all those dudes, wipe me down! Wipe me down with surgical spirit and a coarse cloth!” But The Love Bench cannot talk. It can only sit there, stolid, while couples smooch wetly, passing a chewed and unchewed piece of gum from one mouth to the next, hands in pants and knickers, The Love Bench dreaming always of the day that a tramp would come and shit himself to sleep on it, dreaming of a day when it is too rainy for teenagers to try to unpeel their first condom wrappers on top of it. The Love Bench stood for 17 years and was host to three conceptions before the council came and destroyed it with a flamethrower. R.I.P., The Love Bench. A memorial bench has been put up in its honour.
He had died, he was dead. “Oh man what,” he said, surrounded by clouds and blinding light; angelic harps plinking quietly in the background. “This is some absolute bullshit.” He had run over a lawn mower cable with a lawn mower. Idiot.
“So what’s the process, here,” he said. There was a non-denominational man in front of an ethereal gate holding out a whole mess of paperwork. “Fill these out,” he said. “Fill these in. We’ll need your birth certificate, driving license, National Insurance number and reason for death.” Admin, you know. It needs doing, even if you did electrocute yourself into piss jolts and death in front of your wife, dog and kid.
“How are my wife, dog and kid?” he asked. The non-denominational man looked up from filling in a basically archaic looking database an administrative look, without patience. “Oh, huh, what?” he said. “Oh, they’ll be fine. They’ll be with you in, like, 80 years or so. Until then just chill ou–“
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
He paused, he looked at him and paused. He stamped his four-page A3 Death Registration Form and turned to him all eyebrows and frowns.
“Listen, buddy. Listen. Everybody wants to ghost-fuck Marilyn Monroe.” He pointed to a queue that stretched off into the infinite, into the horizon, of men licking their lips and rubbing their hands and rocking half a boney. “This is the line of dudes who want to ghost-fuck Marilyn Monroe,” he said, and then he held up a little paper raffle ticket, like the type you used to get at deli counters in supermarkets. “And if you want to join it, you best fucking take a fucking number.”
"Hey," he said. "Hey. Can I get a Big Mac, a quarter pounder with cheese, another Big Mac, some fries, and two more Big Macs please?" And then boomph: raptured. “Hey,” said the lifeguard. “Hey!” He was blowing on a whistle. “No dive-bombing!” Then boomph: raptured. Presidents were raptured. Prisoners were raptured. Small and especially charming dogs were raptured. Boomph, boomph, boomph. And essentially this went on for about four months until everybody on earth had been raptured but them.
"Hey so uh," he said. "Uh, I guess I’m the last guy on earth?" "Yes," she said. "Uh-huh." "You wanna do it?" They did it. They did it twice. It just didn’t work: all elbows and knees, all leg cramps and bashing teeth when they kissed. "Uh yuk you know what?" she said. "You know what? Let’s not do this.” The last people on earth were sexually incompatible.
And so he retired to a nearby palace and she took over the luxury suites of a nearby skyscraper, and they both grew old and died. “Thanks a lot, God!” he said, shaking his old, callused palm at the sky. “Thanks a bunch, dickhead.”
Science had put a Nazi baby inside of her. Science had put a Nazi baby inside of her. It was Brazil, it was the ‘40s. “Hey yo, why is there a baby inside me,” she asked, Aryanly. “Who put that in there. I did not put that in there.”
And so after a sweaty labour staffed by creepy doctors in beards with eye-scars, she gave birth to a sweet little baby: Wilhelm. “Stop shaking a rattle at the sweet baby Wilhelm!” they would say. “He’s genetically Nazi!” They would slap pots of fromage frais from her hands and stoically hand her jars of cabbage. They would replace his little lullaby records with tapes of squawking, Germanic shouting. “RABH BLAB BLAB NEIN,” the tapes said. “RABH BLAH-BLOO NEIN NEIN.”
But, try as she might, despite men with semi-automatic weapons telling her not to, she loved him. “I love you, little Wilhelm,” she would coo. “A coochy-woochy-woo.” He looked up at her with perfect blue eyes. “I love you too, Mama,” he said. Then he reached the age of 13 then shanked her Achilles’ tendons to ribbons. Nazis.
They were doing sex noises, you know. They were having sex. Some of the following noises came out of their mouths and their bodies: “Unfgh,” “oh yeah,” “uh” and “sq–t.” They were doing it, you know. It was getting raunchy.
"Hey baby you know what would make this really hot?" he said, panting, wiping sweat from his face. "If you wore some… some kinda mask thing."
"You mean like a masked ball-type of mask, thing?"
“Yeah, no,” he panted.
“Like if I pretended to be for example Scarlett Johansson, and wore a Scarlett Johansson mask?
"No, nuh, sort of," he said, holding up the actual mask from Jim Carrey’s The Mask, which he had bought at cost from eBay. “Sort of like this.” And they did it, her haunted eyes staring out from within the strangling green mask, her face immobile but her teeth bared, and he was just pumping away and writhing around all crazy. “UG–GUUUUH,” he howled, ejaculating. “UG–UUHGHHGHGH.”
It was the future, and the only remaining OKCupid username is ‘big_dild_liker_696969’. He knew this because he had spent over a day-and-a-half entering possible usernames into the homepage, going through the spectrum of emotions, from optimistic horniness to technology-induced rage through to just crying and holding his forehead while the website politely suggest ‘big_dild_liker_696969’ might be a better and more available alternative to ‘nice_guy_1000007’ or ‘kiss_from_a_rose_quadrillion’. “Hey so do you like big dilds?” came the first message, within seconds. “Like, in you? Up you?” Delete. “HEY,” came the next, all-caps. “HEY, SHOW ME YOUR DILD COLLECTION.” Delete. His profile said explicitly, it said: ‘I am not a dild-liker,’ it said. ‘I am just looking for a nice girl. Please do not put anything into or up my sweet tush.’ But it was too late: thousands upon thousands of men with neckbeards and adult undergarments were messaging him now, using words like ‘toys’ and ‘anal play’ and ‘Last Tango In Paris’. “No,” he said. “No. I am deleting my account.” “Oh, right, yeah, no,” said the girlfriend he found – organically, by getting drunk and shouting at her – later. “Yeah, no. That’s just what OKCupid is like anyway.” They lasted: six months.
The year is 2025, and the man about to be sworn in as President has a mondo, mondo embarrassing picture on his Bebo page. So does every single idiot person in the entire world. “We have to shut down the Internet,” say Congress, holding up futuristic iPad things displaying photographs of themselves as younger, all MySpace selfie-ing in a bathroom mirror, all straightened hair and eye-liner. “We have to end this. This… this is a bad thing.” One of them flicks through a swathe of Sonic slash fiction. “This is an awful thing.”
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
Bruce Willis runs down a street. A car explodes behind him. He is old.
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
“We have to pull the plug,” says the President. “On… the Internet.”
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
Bruce Willis is chatting in a chat room to old_sexy_lady_9. He is typing with one finger because he is old. “lol,” he types. “Damn I think I’m falling in love,” he thinks.
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
“Seriously,” says the President. “This old Internet is lame.” A Scientist stands up. “WHAT IS IT, NERD?” says the President. “W–wha-wh–what about Internet 2.0,” says the nerdlord Scientist. Congress makes that sort of murmuring noise of agreement.
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
A map of America. The logo of websites are being blacked out, one by one. Facebook: boomph. Google: boomph. Some as-yet-uninvented social media: boomph. Oh and also Twitter.
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
Bruce Willis is sweating. He is old.
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
Bruce Willis is running down a street. He is old. Two entire cars neatly explode. “I gotta find her,” he says. “I gotta find old_sexy_lady_9 before they reboot–
[INCEPTION HORN SOUND]
Bruce Willis is tied to a chair, bleeding. “The Internet”.
[INCEPTION HORN NOISE. ENTIRE STREET FULL OF CARS EXPLODE. A CHILD LAUGHS. BRUCE WILLIS FALLS TO THE GROUND IN A VEST. A HAND LETS GO OF A RED BALLON WHICH FLOATS ABRUPTLY UP INTO THE BLUE BLUE SKY. BRUCE WILLIS IS OLD. THE CAMERA ZOOMS OUT ON A PERSON UPDATING THEIR FACEBOOK STATUS AND FAILING. TWITTER GOES BLACK. A DOG BARKS, AN OLD WOMAN GYRATES IN PANTYHOSE. BRUCE WILLIS IS OLD.]
INTERNET 2.0. FALL 2014.