      ___           ___           ___
     /\  \         /\  \         /\__\        the glorious hogs of entropy
     \:\  \       /::\  \       /:/ _/_             present unto you
      \:\  \     /:/\:\  \     /:/ /\__\               issue #175
  ___ /::\  \   /:/  \:\  \   /:/ /:/ _/_
 /\  /:/\:\__\ /:/__/ \:\__\ /:/_/:/ /\__\    >> "A Horrible Imitation of
 \:\/:/  \/__/ \:\  \ /:/  / \:\/:/ /:/  /           Henry Miller" <<
  \::/__/       \:\  /:/  /   \::/_/:/  /  n
   \:\  \  o     \:\/:/  /     \:\/:/  /  t          by -> Skinhorse
    \:\__\  g     \::/  /  f    \::/  /  r
     \/__/   s     \/__/         \/__/    o p y      oink you, foo'.

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        I get all tangled up in her twat. Its lips throb harder, turning all
 gradients of warm infrared and purple as I stare into it with all the
 impulse of will I have learned since I was in the 1st grade. We have a
 reciprocal relationship. We get wrapped up in each other, and blood flows to
 us as we sit here, in a mutual trance, not really doing anything. At least
 I'm not conscious of moving. I could be jacking off, for all I know, but I
 don't feel that much right now so I couldn't say for a fact that I am. I do
 know for a fact that she is simultaneously gushing and not moving. 

        The stasis, the standoff, the state of mind that comes from my
 completely reverse-engineered idea of sexual arousal. Just like Xerox to
 MacOS to Microsoft, the people who use my brand of sex are only vaguely
 aware that it has been stolen outright with a few slight and probably
 misconceived modifications. They don't care. It's what they use, if only by
 convenience; it does them well.

        Sexual trance is a beautiful thing, it's present in everyone to some
 degree. When you move into the mental state of erotic excitement, you are
 in a trance. Your workaday interests don't matter much at that point. 
 People with creative powers lesser than me refer to it as "primal instinct;"
 people with real creativity wouldn't refer to it at all and would let the
 situation speak for itself in the mind of the reader. It's not something
 that we all have in common, but it's something that a lot of people can
 grasp and hold onto, and it's totally obvious to the point where I shouldn't
 even be devoting a single word to it. Our world is fragmented.  Sex and
 sports are the only things that you can consistently talk about with another
 human being in the Western world. I don't know a fucking thing about sports.

        When I put a woman into a trance, it's simultaneously more and less
 subtle than the standard techniques of removing the responsibility to one's
 implanted moral code. We lie together on the bed. She listens, I croon, and
 soon she's relaxed, and she thinks that I have some degree of control over
 her, which she finds arousing. The thing is, I don't have a bit of control.
 If she didn't want to be fucking me, she wouldn't be lying on my bed
 allowing herself to be put into this position in the first place.

        Nonetheless, she has allowed herself to be hypnotized. She has
 hypnotized herself through me; she lets herself think that this is me
 talking and not her own body and mind. She thinks I can do things to her
 that no man has ever done, and I do.  I turn her into a virgin, I make her
 a six-year-old girl with a 30-year-old libido. I wave the magic wand and
 turn her into nothing but a clitoris with limbs. I flick her earlobe gently
 with my index finger; she comes. And she comes again and again, as she lets
 herself be taken deeper in. A mere brush against her nipples turns her cunt
 into a trash compactor. I place my tongue on her, and the contractions cut
 up my bottom lip. She has set herself free. She thinks that I've done the
 job for her. All I really have done is planted a suggestion, a seed that
 will make her come back for more. She probably would have anyhow, because
 she's under the false impression that I have a secret known to no other
 readily available man.

        And she wakes up, groggily and unwillingly, and we have nothing in
 common again, but people don't really need to have anything in common on a
 conscious level to fuck. As educated as we consider ourselves these days,
 this is a fact that we completely overlook. This is how shit always used to
 get done. If you have a connection on another level, it's completely and
 immediately obvious. Whole relationships, whether brutally volatile or
 mind-numbingly conventional ending-in-marriage-happily-ever-after fare, have
 been forged time and time again around nothing but the fact that two
 people's genitals fit really well around each other, right to the level of
 penetrating the psyche and fertilizing senseless love out of nowhere.
 Everything else, really, is meaningless bullshit.

        Friendship is BASIC, fucking is assembler.

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   * (c) HoE publications.  HoE #175 -- written by Skinhorse -- 12/30/97 *
