They were space soldiers, sent to fight an unjust war on a distant moon. But then it turned out many of the aliens they were sent to fight were six-legged creatures no more intelligent or threatening than a fat dog, so they set up camp and just chilled for a bit with their cache of freeze-dry food. “Hahaha,” they said, playing zero-gravity moon volleyball. “Life is wild!”
Until about six weeks in, when it transpired there was not even one scrap of pornography upon this dumb planet. They were desperate, they were insane. A thirst that could not be saited. Everyone was hella cranky and full of jizz. ‘Yo,’ Private Carter said, one morning. ‘Yo who ate all the freeze-dried Coco Pops?’ They shot him to death with a laser. Something had to be done.
It was one of the space scientists who had the idea. ‘I’ve set a little treat up in the lab for you, lads,’ he said. They ran impatiently to the medical bay, and there they saw it: a medical fridge as a torso, four assault rifles as legs. Arms, amputated and frozen from Private Carter, acted as arms. The head was an especially erotic bucket. For the tits? Freeze-dried yoghurt bags, inflated and taped to the fridge door. The fanny was a rehydrated peach. ‘It’s,’ they said. It’s beautiful.’ And there they would stand, in front of Fridgebot in five-minute shifts, wanking themselves sane on a cold and distant moon.
Sheet rain, lightning, a dapper macintosh. It was olden time days and he was an olden time detective. He flicked a cigarette into the gutter. “Hell of a way to go,” he said, looking at the staved in head splattered across the doorway. “Hell of a way.”
"How are we going to find the killer, chief?" his assistant asked. Young kid, good kid. Stupid kid.
"Same way we always do, kid," he told the kid. "I’m going to jack off down that alleyway and hopefully find a clue.
Yeah, hmm: he had this thing that, when he jacked off, he saw a flash of a vital clue every time he jolted to an orgasm. A face, an address, a driver’s license. A flash of the dumpster where the murder weapon was hiding. “Nngh ugh,” he used to say, in the private wanking booth he had back at the station. “Ug-ugh— I got it!”
This latest broad had been killed with a hammer, but there were a hundred different broads, a hundred different weapons. He was up to eight, sometimes nine wanks a day. “Green car!” he shouted, dribbling to a climax. “The butler did it with a knife!” Things slowed down towards the end of the day. “A… man… did it?” he said. “I… maybe?” These were the days before Lucozade. He was deprived of vital fluids, dried down to a husk, in constant need of lotion. “We need those answers now, chief!” people would say. “The President’s just been shot!”
“I… can’t!” he panted. “He can’t do a magic wank!”
“The gunman’s getting away!”
“I… I must.”
And he did it: one final, gigantic orgasm, the entire police station — heck, the whole FBI — watching as he flooded the desk in front of him, glassy-eyed and distant, babbling out the entire Warren Commission report, his final words “magic” and “bullet”.
There’s no recovering from that. There’s no looking your colleagues in the eye. They retired him on a full pension and gave him a medal, and you cannot find his name in a single history book on earth.
“Why are all those men looking at you?”
It was first date, a dinner date. He: something in finance, I don’t know. He had slicked hair and a rent money amount spent on his suit. She: a catalogue model who had taken one dark job and it had ruined her life.
“Hnngh,” she said. “Fucksake.” Here’s the thing: she was the model that every single sexbot on earth was based on. It was 2024, and there were more than 150,000 sexbots in circiulation. All of them female, pneumatic, went like the clappers. They also had her exact face, voice and body dimensions. Two years ago, when the catalogue off-season was in full swing, she took a week long job at Fuckbot Laboratories, Inc., where she was scanned, prodded and measured in every conceivable way. She was able to put 50% of the money down on a new flat in cash with the revenue, but things had gotten weird soon after. Men stared at her more on the train. Clumsy-tongued men at bars tried to chat her up even more. Once, she saw herself, robotic and distant around the eyes, dining with a 65-year-old dude in a branch of Chipotle. The dude came back from the toilet and put his still-wet hands around her shoulder and not the sexbots. She got an exceptionally drastic haircut the next day.
It hadn’t helped. Nothing helped. Large sunglasses didn’t help, demure outfits didn’t help, not leaving the house didn’t help. Everywhere she went, she was Patient Zero in a sexbot outbreak. Catalogue work dried up. Photographers approached her with a smirk. “Ugh,” she said. “Fucksake.”
Anyway long story short she went on this just enormous rampage with a semi-automatic gun — just blasting fools in the face, blood just trickling out of busfuls of men — and was eventually arrested and executed by the police.
“Clark,” Lois Lane said. “Clark, it’s 8 o-fucking-clock. Where were you?”
Clark Kent had been at his Fortress of Solitude because good Christ, Lois was in a fucking mood this week. ‘Do the washing up, Clark,’ she was saying. He did the washing up, at the speed of light. Did she let him watch the baseball game after that? She did not. They sat and had exactly one glass of wine each and looked through pages of wallpaper samples. Bed by 10pm. No intercourse.
“Uh,” Clark Kent said. “Um. At the uh… office?”
“I called the office,” she said. “They said you left at six.”
“I sent you a text, did you get it?”
“When,” he said. “When did you send me a text?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“You have laser vision, Clark,” she said. “You can read a book in less than a second. You have superpowers beyond those that my pitiable human mind can comprehend. I know you saw that text.”
‘Fucking hell,’ Clark Kent thought to himself, as he slept alone on the sofa. ‘Women’s dumb minds are my true kryptonite, swear to fucking god.’
The cameramen were in place, the park was exceptionally lit. He knew the routine: walk down the candlelit bridge towards her, strumming a guitar; then, out of nowhere, two confetti cannons explode, before twenty-five of their friends – all on rollerskates, all motioning in perfect unison – would glide out of the shadows. Then, as puppies gamboled towards her from a climate-controlled pen, he would sing a full and acoustic version of Rude by Magic! before falling to one knee and, spectacularly, asking her to marry him. Five cameramen with HD equipment, all stationed tactically in bushes around the park. GoPro taped to the ringbox. Nothing could go wrong.
Except, the week after, when she had said yes and started picking out floral arrangements, the video he’d uploaded to YouTube had only had 12 views. Half of those were from him, at work and on his phone! He had 1,600 friends on Facebook, where he had posted the video, and still only had 12 views. Is this a joke? Was this a fucking joke?
“Hello is that Upworthy?” he said. He had already phoned Buzzfeed, and Metro, too. If all else failed he was going to have to get on the blower to UsVsTh3m. “Did you get my e-mails? Man Proposes To Fiancé… And You Won’t Believe How Many Of His Friends He Got To Practice, In A Church Hall For Six Fucking Weeks, Until They Had The Moves Down, Until Their Dancing Was In Time With Their Lipsyncing?’ Upworthy said they had not received his video, but he had read-receipts. He knew they had.
“Martin,” his fiancée said. “Martin. You have to drop it.” But Martin couldn’t drop it. What was the point in spending £800 in live doves – four of which drowned in the champagne fountain – if nobody would watch his video? He spent the evenings on reddit, the dark hours of the night submitting to digg. He didn’t notice when she left, or when he got fired from his job. “Got,” he said, gun in his mouth, camera already recording in front of him, “got to go… viral.” Single bullet to the base of the skull. 16 views.
Anyway yes turns out Leo did survive the Titanic after all and did clamber upon that big door and was trapped now, jowly and balding, in a loveless marriage with Kate Winslet. “I swear to fucking god, Kate Winslet,” he is saying. “I swear to fucking god. If you ask me about putting that shelf up one more ti—”
"And another thing," Kate Winslet says. She is holding a wooden spoon with some soup on the end of it. She is mad as hell and puce. "And another thing: when did you last draw me like one of your French girls?"
"When did you last steam up the windows of an old-ass rickety-ass motorcar."
"Oh probably THE LAST TIME YOU TOOK THE TRASH OUT UNPROMPTED."
"The only TRASH around here is your SISTER who I SWEAR may as well be legally defined as a TENANT she is here so often."
"Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare."
"Sometimes I wish I drowned in that cold dead ocean. Sometimes I wish I never shared that big, oversized bit of door with you."
"YOU TAKE THAT BACK."
"Sometimes I wish you just MARRIED BILLY ZANE so I could just PORK A LOAD OF IRISH GIRLS and be HAPPY."
"You’re sleeping on the sofa tonight, you know that?"
"Well the hell am I getting in that bed. We all know how stingy you are when it comes to personal space."
“Nngh,” he said. “Eh–yeah.” He had been limbering up for months, now. Daily vitamin injections. Hotbox yoga. Six ribs removed on the NHS. He was ready. He was ready to ‘chuck a Prince’. He was ready to perform ‘auto fellatio’. He was ready to bend his body in half like a pretzel and put his dick in his mouth.
A stunt like this needs preparation and a shopping list. A new hair trimmer (one errant pube and a coughing fit could leave him in traction). An excess of chapstick. Pineapple chunks. “Hmmgh,” he said. “G–ah.” He pouted his lips like a chimp going after a banana. He tilted his body weight back. And there, in one perfect moment, he gulped up his helmet. Curiously warm. Resting slightly on his teeth. Tasted of salty cutlery.
“Why?” his Grandma asked, at Christmas dinner. “Why you all folded over like a paper plate?” Obviously, his spine had collapsed like a Jenga tower and locked in place. Obviously he was now bent permanently over like a deckchair. He scuttled places now, like a crab, his balls, taint and arsehole permanently pointing at his own face, his feet behind his ears. Crowds laughed. Teens jeered. A football team picked him up once and frisbeed him into a bin. Doctors looked and clipboards and looked sad. “You are locked like this,” they said. “You will never need legroom on a coach again. Because… you know. Because you are all clammed up like a calzone. Your body is the saddest pastry.”
But did it bother him? Did it bother him that he needed special apparatus to put his underpants on, or horse tranquilizers for his constant pain? Did it bother him that the Guinness Book of Records contacted him under an entry for ‘World’s Most Folded Man’? “No,” he said, proudly, baying like a wolf to the midnight sky. “NO!” And there he sat, in his room, blowing himself all night, sat especially backwards to the tears could run down out of his eyes.
The IQ Point
"Sir, you have a medical condition," the doctor was saying. The doctor had a shiny silver pen and a lab coat. He had a worried expression and some tablets. "You have a very severe medical condition."
"Severe?" the man asked. "Again?"
"Bad," the doctor said. "Very bad."
"Huh," he said. "What is it?"
Turns out it was this: every time he fucked — every time he fucked — he lost exactly one IQ point. A girl from the hockey team saw that he had to retake his A-levels. A shy girl from his Spanish class meant he had to drop out of community college. And yet he persevered. Until an especially pneumatic lapdancer left him in need of a catheter because he forgot how to piss right, he persevered.
"So what am I at now?" he asked. "IQ-wise?"
"You’re closing in on 70. Do you know what colours are?"
"Some of them?"
"Yeah. You haven’t got long."
"So can I still…" the man asked. "You know: do it."
"Well obviously not."
"Because you will litera— have you not been listening to me at all, dumb-dumb? Because you’ll get so stupid you swallow your tongue and die!"
"Hmm," the man said. "Yes." Which is why we find him, six weeks later, bedridden and in need of 24-hour medical care, his tongue taped to his chin with a bandage. "What did I tell you?" said the doctor. The man looked at him. "Have we even met?”
Months, he lived, on a constant bromide drip in an effort to curb his urges, regular medical handjobs delivered by nursing students in latex gloves. And yet still he tried to fuck things. “Babburgh,” he’d say, drily humping a cushion. “Blurgh.” Until one day, alarms and sirens beeped, pagers went off, doctors and nurses assembled to find him straddled by the lapdancer, a punnet of grapes scattered on the floor. “No!” doctors shouted. “Don’t fuck him!” And yet, through the breathing tube, he spoke: “I… WANT…” he said, a hissing sound emitting his laryngectomy hole. “I… WANT… TO… DIE!” And then he did, blissful and dumb and his arms locked above his head in a brace, jizz just everywhere. Jizz just everywhere.
You ever seen sex in movies? Lots of neck kissing. Lots of billowing net curtains. Rose petals come out of nowhere and flutter through the air. Plus they do a lot of fucking in lifts, and so to that end he jammed the emergency stop button in the elevator they were travelling in and did it Benecio Del Toro-style with his secretary. “Unf,” they said. “Ah.” Sexy, right? Hot.
Thirty minutes later the lift still hadn’t moved and the inside of it smelled hot and wet, like a savoury sauna. Like someone had left a load of sausages in a metal bin in the middle of summer. Like someone had sweated into a hot duvet.
“Gary,” she said. “Gary. Have you called the building manager?”
“Yeah I’ve called the building manager, yeah,” he said. “God.”
“Can I just say that you are totally harshing my post-lift sex vibe?”
“Can I just say that if I stand here any longer with my legs crossed I will get a piss infection and it wasn’t even that good anyway?”
Anyway eventually, at ten minutes to midnight and five hours after they did it, firefighters managed to fight their way into the lift using hydraulic claws and an industrial cutting torch. “Woah,” they said. “Haha. Stinks in here.” They looked at them. “You fuck or something? Smells like the dirtiest sock. Smells like someone sat on a packet of prawn crackers by accident. You fuck? You fuck or something?” They paused, the firemen. They paused and looked around. “Seriously though someone should spray Glade around or something.”
It was 15 years in the future, and humanity had everything it could possibly need: hovercars and fuckbots. Why would you ever work a day in your life if you had a hovercar and a fuckbot? “I could be hovering somewhere right now,” you’d be thinking. “I could be either fucking or getting fucked.” Filing? Nah. Accountancy? Nope. Nothing got done. Everyone was satiated.
But it wasn’t all so perfect. Like: you ever have your laptop break for no reason? You ever watch it close all your browser tabs and shut down? Imagine that, but you’ve got your dick up it. Imagine that, but it is ploughing you. This happened, frequently, and long story short a lot of people had to end up calling the hover-ambulance service.
"Yeah," he told the doctor. "Hella frigid. My fuckbot is hella frigid." He pointed to her Real Feel™ touchable boobers, her Lube-U-Like® interchangeable junk. "May as well call her ‘Fridgebot’. May as well use her like a fridge." He leaned close and whispered. "Sometimes her clam opens and snaps shut like a CD-ROM drive." He leaned back. “Can you do anything about it?”
"Well, I’m no doctor," said the doctor. "But have you tried, you know… wooing her?"
"What," he said. "What." But after the doctor patiently explained you gotta be nice to people before they fuck you, he tried it – he took FUCK-A-TRON 920 to dinner, where he had a steak and she quietly recharged beneath the table through the socket in her foot; they walked hand it hand through a dewy meadow, her wearing manufacturer-issue galoshes, him in just jeans and a tee; he bought her roses, using the Interflora website, loaded all up in the browser window built into her eyelids. But it was no good. That night, when they gots to fucking, she shut down and went into sleep mode. The next day, they went to the scrapyard. "I could have loved you," he weeped, watching her useless body get crushed into a cube by a trash compacter. "I could have loved you."
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered. “No. Don’t.” But did she listen? She did not listen. “Excuse me,” she shouted. “Excuse me?” No reply. “Excuse me? Can you stop wanking in the hedges, please?”
Because it was a Saturday, and the sun was in the sky and that sky was blue, and so everyone in London went to the park for a picnic. Frisbee, you know. Wasps. Sausage rolls and egg sandwiches. Men trying and failing to light briquette-based disposable barbecues. Jam-smeared children. Bald dudes with sunburn. Floaty dresses. Tins of beer. And, of course, hoardes of perverts, wanking in unison in the bushes.
“Neil,” she whispered. “Neil, I really have to say something.” And so she tried again: “Excuse me? Excuse me?” Branches ceased their shaking. Dry leaves were crushed nervously underfoot.
“Yeah?” one of the perverts said, from inside the dome of a weeping willow. “What?”
“We were just wondering if you could stop your wanking?”
There was a pause. Frisbees stopped flying. That one douche who bought a cricket set with him started to slowly pack it away.
“The wanking. We’ve had to send our children home. A man over there had to cancel his proposal. He had fireworks lined up and everything.”
“There’s seminal fluid going everywhere. Wet flapping noises abound. Plus I think one of your party is crying—“
“I’m not crying,” another pervert said.
But there was no reasoning with the wanking perverts. Slowly, a chorus of one-handed applauses started up, the grass near the tree line growing curiously dewy, and everyone was just too British to say anything until the police were called and they led the perverts, trouserless and by the thousands, into a series of riot vans. “I HOPE YOU KNOW YOU’VE RUINED SUMMER,” one of them said, unzipping his gimp mask to bellow. “I HOPE YOU KNOW THAT.”
“Augh,” he said. “Mmngh.” He was in a coma, you know. He had not moved for eight straight years. He had skied head-first into a tree in 2006 and he hadn’t done much more than dribble twice a month since. Serious medical bills. Insane bedsores. “Where am I?” he said. “What? What? What?”
And so, it was explained to him: a lizard king wearing a ham-made human suit was now prime minister; the month was April, the day was the 14th; Leona won The X Factor, Italy won the World Cup. That sort of thing.
“Yeah,” he said. “Cool.” They shaved him and they dressed him. Physiotherapists told him not to run before he could walk. “Heh,” they said. “Because you can’t do either.” Doctors looked at his head and at his heart. Nurses washed him with sponges.
“But seriously,” he said. “I have a question.”
“Yes,” they said. His family was gathered around, unwilling to leave his side. New cousins he’d never met. A mum who wouldn’t stop weeping. They were so happy he was back, he was with them. They were so happy he was alive and with the living. He was cognate! He was lucid! “Yes,” they said. “What is that question.”
“Has,” he said. “Has anyone jacked me off since I got in this coma, or is my dick going to go off like a hose?” They called a specialist long distance in Germany. They called long distance and waited. “Hose,” the specialist said, solemnly, efficiently. “Y’all dick going to spray off like a hose.”
How did the first lesbians happen? Good question, and you asked the right man: the first lesbians happened in cavemen times, after all the cavemen got mauled to death by a mammoth. “Hey,” the cavegirl said, leaning her arm on the side of her friend’s cave. “Hey. So, ah… hmm. How to say this? I’m feeling pretty horned up. Feeling pretty horno.”
"Ha ha, right?" her friend said. "Like: yeah."
"So I was thinking…" — she did a kind of pointing motion with both of her hands — "… you know maybe you and me, do it."
"How would we—?"
"You know scissoring, or something. I’ve not really thought about it. Or some basic digital insertion. Something like that. I’ve not really thought about it."
"Like I, like, sit on your—?" but it was too late, because she had taken the bone out of her hair and shaken it loose, and she had taken her lionskin toga off, and she had kind of pinned her down and was clambering crotch-first over her face. "I can’t get the—" she said, muffled somewhat, yelps of pleasure echoing around the cave. "I can’t get the angles right!"
"TURN YOUR HIPS!" she shouted. "TURN THEM! YOU’RE ON MY NOSE!"
So anyway yeah after 20 minutes of that they were basically spent and if not that then both their knees were tired, so they stopped. “So, uh,” she said. “Yeah.”
"Okay." And so they had the first ever post-scissoring conversation, their mouths still coppery and salty, their words more like nervous laughs.
"So you uh… you wanna meet up this week? My friend’s got this DJ night?"
"Oh yeah I can’t I’m busy Thursday."
“It’s on Friday.”
"Yeah I’m busy Friday too."
Then they were attacked and killed by a sabre-toothed tiger the end.
Does David Cameron know what sex is? “It’s something poor people do to make money.” Does Nick Clegg know what sex is? “I have put my penis inside exactly 30 women,” he says. “And no, not really.” Does Boris Johnson know what sex is? “Something about wiffles?” he says. “Something about my wiffle?” He calls his penis his ‘wiffle’. “Can someone touch my wiffle? Am I allowed to touch my wiffle? My wiffle hurts. I put my wiffle between the sofa cushions.” And so the question is this: Does any politician know what sex is? A single hand in the back of the room. A spotlight angles to the centre of the shot.
"I know what sex is," says Ann Widdecombe. "I’ve done a sex. Sometimes I even do it for fun." You’re thinking about it. Like a rotisserie chicken yawning itself inside-out, you’re thinking about it. Like a binbag full of frogs jumping and croaking in unison. You’re thinking about Ann Widdecome naked. "Oh," Ann Widdecombe says. You’re thinking about it. "Ooh."
Ann Widdecombe, lying prone and splayed on a sheepskin rug. Ann Widdecombe, running one gnarled finger down the smoothest, softest part of your neck. “Ann,” she whispers, luridly licking her teeth. You’re thinking about it. “Widdecombe.” Ann Widdecombe tying a cherry stalk in a knot with her tongue. Ann Widdecombe slowly deepthroating a Rocket ice lolly. Ann Widdecombe taking her bra off without removing her orthopaedic tunic. You’re thinking about it.
Ann Widdecombe, warm and hairless like a bodybuilder, pink and thick like a wrestler. Ann Widdecombe’s buttocks slowly, varicosely bloom into a blush, wobbling slightly beneath the slap of a young intern. Ann Widdecombe is moving near now, moving faster. Ann Widdecombe is pointing to the entire Tory Party Conference in turn. “Come on, then!” Ann Widdecombe is saying. “Come on!” Ann Widdecombe is drunk and gleaming and wailing, her eyes on fire, the party conference aghast. “I’ll take all of you on!” Ann Widdecombe’s hot breath is on your spine. Ann Widdecombe is shoulder barging with all her might against Bruno Tonilli’s dressing room. Ann Widdecome has never felt so sexy, so alive. Ann Widdecombe is touching herself in places she’s never been touched before. Ann Widdecombe is being led away to an ambulance. When Ann Widdecombe approaches climax she screams, “I’M ANN WIDDE-CUMMING!” Ann Widdecombe is outside your window, watching, waiting. Ann Widdecombe is making you think about it.
“Baby, I want to try something new tonight.” Eight words that can irreparably change the shape of your butthole, or the way you look at fruit. But no. No banana play tonight. No douches necessary. He reached under his mattress and pulled out two cool, white boxes. “Baby,” he whispered. “I want us to try fucking with Google Glass on.”
At first, fucking with Google Glass on was at best haphazard, at worst erratic – they kept having to pause to go through the half-hour alignment tutorial, and he kept turning the sound on on his by accident. “Gary,” Google Glass said. “I’m not getting any results for: ‘Fuck offGoogle Glass and just let me get it in.’”
And so but finally they got a rhythm going, and, in unison, two graceful arabesques in the sexual ballet, they pressed their hands to the top right corner of their Google Glasses, engaging video mode. He was watching himself fuck her. She was watching herself getting flatly laid by him. They were staring past each others’ eyes, into their own eyes, at their own personal sex faces. Like jacking it in the mirror but somehow better. Sunbeams dappled through the curtains. Harps played high upon the air. Their muscles melted, their bodies a whirl. “Woah,” Gary said. “It’s just like they said.”
And then, abruptly and catastrophically, they both got motion sickness and started vomiting. “GETVH IP OFF,” Gary shouted, clawing at his face; all he could see we his own frenzied motions, broadcast from her Google Glasses, as he turned the duvet into something that looked like a lasagne. The smell was vivid; the smell was tart. “GARY,” she screamed, spraying dinner through her nose. “GARY, IT HURTS. IT HURTS GARY. MY BODY HURTS.” He fell into the toilet; she ran naked into the streets. They sent their Glass back to Google for a refund but, after a review of the footage, were entirely denied.