Alright mortals, it’s Captain Rob here, with that time again – the most wonderful tiiime of the yeeeeaaar! I’m joined by DJ Smackhead, aka DoomBoy, aka the Face That Launched a Thousand Suicides, aka Eden, if you want to be boring about it, and we are here to craft a Halloween Tale to ruin the cockles of your arse! Now, nobody should ever write sober, that’s the kind of downright indecency that brought us classic snores like Jane Eyre, and wheezing wind-up-toy characters like Tiny Tim, farting out moral lectures until they run out of cliché batteries and have to die a tragic death. So, you don’t write sober. You just fucking don’t. Especially not when your co-pilot’s Eden – I know I shouldn’t say this about someone with a bit of a drug problem, but Eden sober? Jesus he freaks me out, it’s like I’ve landed in a parallel universe where he’s learned to use a hairbrush and taken a sudden interest in cleaning the fridge, until the façade of sanity explodes and he loses his shit completely. I’m not having that mentally unstable nonsense on my world class writing team! So, w—
E – I’m not mentally unstable sober, I’m just overcome! Whelmed beyond whelming limits. Was the world always like this, I wonder, in a daze of tumbling horror? I can go months, years if I’m lucky, without seeing the world in the nuclear glare of scalding sobriety…until it happens. I get stuck in traffic on the motorway, my lighter runs out of fuel, the driving whiskey has been drunk by you, and everything sort of…changes colour. I enter the event horizon of a dark and sinister sobriety trip, and it’s a trip that might never end. What if you never come down? What if I never ever fucking COME DOWN? What if it’s like this FOREVER?!!! Sobriety…the final frontier. I suddenly notice that there’s something gritty in my shoe, and I wonder if it’s a spider, it’s probably a spider, rolling around under my heel with all its legs falling off and its horrible spidery teeth munching holes in my sock. I notice that the car smells like spilled A Positive and stale smoke and, inexplicably, marshmallows. Does the world always smell this bad? Bad smells, seeping into my hair. Permeating me. Sodomising my pores. Faggy the Bleeding Marshmallow Boy, they’ll call me… The cars in front aren’t moving. They AREN’T FUCKING MOVING, and how dare they be here, in my way, all these noxious little humans a fraction of my age, breeding and BREEDING AND BREEDING and scuttling all over the place building Starbucks and McMansions and hipster pubs with ironic Yorkshire puddings served in a coal scuttle – why didn’t I kill more people when I was younger?! If I’d just killed more people, even one extra a week, think how many parents I could have murdered, how many of these noxious little humans would never have even have become a sperm! I should murder more people. It’s the only solution. It’s me against the world, ME AGAINST CLIMATE CHANGE and the destruction of the BEES, I stand alone, an uncelebrated superhero, Global Saviour Boy – need to work on that name though – the only one who SEES THE TRUTH! But…will I get terribly fat, if I try to eat my way right through human overpopulation? It’s a big job… I’ve never met an obese vampire, but I bet no vampire’s ever tried to eat several billion people before, either. I suppose I don’t really have to EAT all of them – there are other ways to commit ecologically sound massacres, after all… But I can’t think about that forever, so I fiddle with the radio, in case it can tell me WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING AHEAD OF ME, and WHEN I MIGHT START MOVING, but I’m bombarded with slimy, patronising radio presenters with their slippery Cliff Richards voices like they gargle goldfish for breakfast, and they’ll either be playing songs that I’ve despised for decades, or songs that I’ve never heard before but hate so intensely my loathing could eclipse the sun, and then the news starts playing and there’s nothing but doom, and doom, DOOM and frustration and rapist senators and Trump’s latest moronic tweets and unending forecasts of economic implosion, and that is the point at which I manoeuvre aggressively onto the hard shoulder, flee my vehicle, run wildly into the fields, launch into the DARKENED SKIES and fly home in a frothing panic to inject every drug I can find!
So, to return to the point, sobriety does not make me unstable, Rob. I’m merely allergic to it. Would you call a man dying tragically of anaphylactic shock after an ill-fated peanut butter sandwich mentally unstable?
R – If he’s running across the motorway smeared in peanuts turning bright red and howling about the fact that Miley Cyrus would never have been born if he’d only tracked down her great grandparents in a prohibition tavern and eaten them in a heroic bid to save the world from an oncoming marshmallow apocalypse, then yeah, I’d probably call him a nutter. But anyway, now you’ve used up half our word count with that completely pointless monologue, what I was saying is that nobody writes sober. So, in the name of good taste and decent literature, I’m going to chug half this bottle of Jack before we start. What’s your poison?
E – Well, personally, I want to grow my seed of creativity into a world tree of copiously fruiting genius, so I’m going to stuff this vapouriser with a probably unwise quantity of fresh-from-the-Dam NYC Diesel. One of us shall be vomiting by midnight, Mr Berkeley, and that someone shall not be me. I will awake fresh as a stoned daisy, while you crawl out of the bin dripping with sick. Onwards to adventure?
R – I take that as challenge, mate – if I’m puking anywhere, it’s all over you. Let the games begin!
— INTOXICANT INTERMISSION!!! —
E – You know they’re calling it Sober October now?
R – Who are? I don’t know anyone who’d curse themselves for a whole month just because of a shit slant rhyme.
E – It isn’t even a slant rhyme. Stop trying to sound clever. I’m talking about the same soul poisoning bastards who made idiots grow vile charity moustaches in November, and then they invented Dry January and Smoke Free fuck-knows-when, and now they’re trying to do it to October too! Why can’t they just admit that they’re complete fucking alcoholics if they have to ruin everybody else’s life just to give their liver a few days off between Christmasses? And they call ME a junkie! ME!! At least I don’t slap labels on whole months and tell everyone else what they can and can’t inject tomorrow!
R – Don’t complain too loudly, mate, you know Samuel’s just itching for a reason to give your life some structure and purpose.
E – Oh god, it isn’t my fault! You KNOW it isn’t my fault! It’s autumn. It’s what I do in autumn! What could be more autumnal than curling up by the fire with nice warm syringe filled with beautiful golden smack? And besides, the quality gets so shit in winter – it’s only sound common sense to get absolutely cunted before November hits. If Samuel institutes Sober October, I am leaving home!
R – Ah, “home is where I lay my needle” – I can just see that written in quaint pink and yellow cross stitch, hanging over the bin you’ll be living in when he freezes your bank account…
E – I am more than capable of living on my wits for a month to escape Sober October, Rob! …what were we actually talking about, anyway?
R – We weren’t. You just started harping on, and apparently you didn’t even have a point. We’re writing a Halloween story!
E – Oh god, what the fuck? You told me I was here to write a brief opinion piece regarding the atrocious carrot cake Kate got from Tesco last week! Was that a lie??
R – Seriously? You seriously thought Men’s Health magazine wanted a fucking opinion piece from an undernourished vampire who ate a bad cake this month in Clent, England?
E –Well, not when you put it like that – that sounds very derogatory! Just because I don’t inject steroids into my bollocks and emit a perpetual cloud of protein farts doesn’t make my male magazine opinions on food any less valid! And just because I’m not a testosterone-fuelled narcissistic muscle worshipper doesn’t mean I won’t BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU IN A MINUTE!!!
R – Ahh, ‘undernourished vampire finally reveals prized secret of his patented, never beaten, eye-watering New Rock boot to the knackers manoeuvre’ – Men’s Health might be into that one, I reckon, but alright, I give in. There is no opinion piece. That was a lie. You’re writing a Halloween story, with me, your favourite person!
E – For fuck’s sake, Rob. Is it a horror story? Here you go – I am sitting here with Rob. He lied about the explosive trajectory of my journalistic career. Instead of imparting PITHY COMMENTARY ON SUBPAR BAKED GOODS I am sitting here with an ARSEHOLE who wants me to tolerate his ‘writing skills’ again, and as the terrain of fart jokes and Grandma’s Dildo Goes Squelch monologues unfurls before me, I am HORRIFIED. I am SO horrified that I spontaneously combust, leaving behind a grisly corpse with [INSERT AMPLE AND LURID DESCRIPTORS HERE]. The End. That do?
R – See, now you’re just wasting your creative juices, like an obese internet troll jizzing lazy swimmers all over his anime pillow! We’re not writing a horror story, not this year – that’s too obvious! I mean, we might still want to veer in an eerie direction, but this time we’re going for something much more lucrative. Tonight, we’re going to take on the booming erotica market, and write the next Fifty Shades of—
E – DON’T YOU SAY IT!! DO NOT FUCKING SAY MY NAME! I haven’t had to tolerate a word about that heap in a pleasant few months. I mean, do you realise how close I could have been to actually being called Christian Grey? My father probably angled for it, as far as my mother’s barmy religious naming ideas went – I only narrowly escaped being Moses! I may have loathed and despised my ridiculous fucking name for the entire duration of my childhood, but Jesus. I got off easy. Can you even imagine the shame I could be suffering at this precise moment if I was called Christian Grey? I’d have to move to the North Pole and speak to nobody except especially dim-witted penguins for the next four decades. So, to appease my barely controlled fury, if we’re writing erotica, I want to give somebody else the same uncomfortable feeling. Our character must have an unnervingly familiar name, paired with something…odd.
R – …
E – What?
R – Well, I just think you’re missing the fucking point a bit here! No one cares about the wanker’s name – when you start writing erotica, you don’t fanny about for a lengthy paragraph working out the naming details, and whether your character prefers Darjeeling or Earl Grey, or whether you should give their pet cat an interesting little quirk like a fear of butterflies or a tendency to fart during tense sexual moments – you don’t need that shit in erotica! It’s all about FUCKING. Lots, and lots, of filthy fucking. All we’ve got to think about, is FUCKING.
E – This is rapidly becoming intensely homoerotic. I’m not sure I signed up for this, if I’m honest. If you’re having problems in that department, and this is your perverse cry for help, I’m sure I can Google a sex therapist to surreptitiously hand you the number to, while never, ever telling Clara, nor leaving Viagra lying conspicuously around the house, and I certainly wouldn’t leave a bouquet of tiny little midget condoms on your pillow while laughing and laughing at your impotent plight. You want that number then, Floppy?
R – You want me to move into your wing and stage a week long orgy?
E – *Homoerotic vibes intensify*
R – Look, there’s nothing I can do about that, you blushing virgin weirdo, it’s erotica, it’s meant to be sexy! And don’t start pretending we haven’t shagged in the same room on more than a hundred occasions, or that we haven’t shagged in the same woman on a good few of those. Couldn’t always afford separate rooms at the brothel, now could we, back in the day, and don’t you forget that! If it makes it easier, focus on the Halloween stuff – a spooky porno with lots of plot is easier to watch with your trousers on, if you’re going to be all coy about it!
E – I’m not being coy about the intercourse, Rob, I’m merely protecting my NOTORIOUS VIRILITY from having to hear graphic sexual acts described with the luridly heinous atrocity of your writing technique. Frankly, I think I need to be stoned beyond all limits of human endurance before we get going with this, so when it’s over I can pretend it was all just a weird, weird dream…
R – Well, I’ve got a gram of Columbian in my sock drawer – spark up that vape while I dig it out, the more drugs we throw at this, the BETTER IT’S GOING TO BE!
E – Oh Christ… Is that thing even clean?
R – Course it is – we used it in the bath, it’s waterproof! For the readers out there, I have attempted to elevate the erotic vibes of this table by laying out an inspiring array of sex toys. One Hitachi Magic Wand, some shiny red anal beads, and the current jewel of our personal collection, a vibrating Dragon Dick dildo – it’s black and red and FUCKING ENORMOUS, with a curious shape that causes all manner of unpredictable and thrilling sensations! I’m inspired already!
E – My arse actually hurts just looking at it. What on Earth is wrong with you? I mean, I thought I was the one with the fucked up childhood. Is there something we need to talk about?
R – Yes – you’re 195 years old, and you still won’t stick anything up your arse. Tied up and beaten to a pulp, that’s fine, shooting up smack during blowjobs, bring it on, but oooh nooo, don’t touch my bloody arse! You’re a fucking weird one, Vanilla Bean, and I think that’s going to limit our erotic prowess tonight. Are you going to start this thing, or am I?
E – Fine, fine. I think I’ve achieved the desired state of psychedelic disassociation required. All I am is a levitating brain and some strange wiggly fingers. Fingers before me, dancing out words, and yet…are these fingers really mine? Gosh…do my hands always look like that? I feel I’ve never really noticed them before. They’re not unappealing, as hands go, just disconcertingly unfamiliar. One never really looks at one’s own hands, does one? I sound like the queen. There are a maximum acceptable number of ‘one’s in a sentence, and I just exceeded it. My punishment will no doubt be the arrival of an obese flatulent Corgi on the doorstep tomorrow, adopting me as its guardian, curling up at my feet and farting and farting until it sounds like a rousing trombone rendition of the National Anthem. But anyway, look at my hands! Appreciate my skilful wiggling fingers! I couldn’t have picked them out of a line-up, a line-up of hands, not yesterday, but now, now the veil is lifted. I truly see them. Welcome, hands, to the spotlit pulpit of my conscious mind. You have my full attention. Nice veins, if you’re into that sort of thing, and of course, I am. That ring looks fucking filthy though, I lost it for most of the 1930s, as an interesting aside, and then it turned up in the bottom of an old sock in my wardrobe, and I never did remember why I put it there. Safe keeping, I suppose, but still, good luck to still have it. Hmm. That was more of a tangent than an interesting aside, if we’re being honest. Knuckles are very strange, aren’t they though? All those wrinkles. Do you think Angelina Jolie gets botox injected into her knuckles? I bet she does.
R – Mate, can I have a whisper behind the curtain of your creative process for a minute here?
E – *unfurls curtain* What’s up? You got stage fright? I was just easing myself into it – it’s a big jump from highbrow commentary on carrot cake straight into my first porno. I’m a bit at a loss for words, actually…and yet I have so many of them! Words, I mean. Isn’t the lamp beautiful? It’s so stern and sepia, like a lovely old lamppost when you’re walking home from the inn wondering whether you’ve got any more whiskey left, or whether it’s about to become one of those nights when you have to upgrade to laudanum, with that tingly sarsaparilla stench that truly is an acquired taste, read: totally loathsome, yet somehow I miss it, and you end up sitting in the bathtub with one shoe on, trying to write an aggrieved letter to parliament, except you’ve forgotten how to spell it. Pahlehmunt. Parleemoont? And then the next thing you know it’s morning and somebody’s been sick all over you. That’s what the lamp makes me think about. Ahh… Nostalgia.
R – …
E – I don’t even care.
R – Right. I clearly need to break it right down for you here. First, you went off on such a waffle about your own hands and how nice they look, I really thought you were launching into an erotic post-modernist realism piece on a one-man wank show, and I wasn’t entirely feeling the vibe of your artistic direction, mate, but I’m now getting the feeling you’re just going to put your sexy hands on the keyboard and spout off complete bollocks at any given opportunity, would that be correct?
E – I would hate to prove or disprove any theory originating in your mind. I’m above language. I’m beyond time and space. There’s an entire universe orbiting my consciousness, out there, beyond the ramparts of my eye-sockets, and you’re really just a small, peeved moon to me. Nobody cares about the moon, Rob. Especially when there are billions of them out there. They come, they go, orbiting the sun that is my brainstem. Will I explode if I look in the mirror?
R – Right. Well, it looks like I’m steering this ship. Now, I know I said we don’t care about the bloke’s name, but can you at least give me that so I can pretend you did something useful? Familiar, but odd, you said?
E – Mmhmm. Exactly. Familiar… Toilet Duck. No, no, not a name. Not even a porn name. Scratch that. Familiar… Adam. Everyone knows too many Adams. Thank god I wasn’t one, I bet I came close, though no doubt she’d rather have stuck me with Eve… Anyway, Adam. Adam…Earwig. Does that make you feel uncomfortable?
R – Mr Earwig. Adam Earwig. No, it’s shit – sounds like a bloody CBeebies character. Too cutesy. Make it worse.
E – Adam Ruptured Prolapse With An Earwig On It.
R – O…k. I sense these ideas aren’t going to improve, so I think that’ll about do it. We’ll shorten it to Adam RP-Wig. Sounds like a terrible 90’s rapper. I’ll set the scene:
Adam RP-Wig is a kinky bastard. That’s why we’re writing about him. Erotica needs all the kinky bastards it can get – no one wants to read about normal dreary sex between lardy middleaged people in a three-bedroom semi with floral wallpaper, and we’ve decided we’re not doing a post modernist wank piece either, thank god, so I PRESENT TO YOU, Adam RP-Wig, the KINKY BASTARD. He was born with a dick that wasn’t just big, it was FEARSOME, and by the time he was 21 – that’s a good age, fully legal everywhere, can’t get into trouble for talking about a 21 year old having sex – Adam RP-Wig had pounded pussies all over the UK in his career as a millionaire pornstar. But by the time he was 25, Adam RP-Wig was having doubts about himself. Was he over the hill now, in porn terms? Was he about to become another sad old bastard popping Viagra and going bald and having traumatic nightmares about getting lost in a maze of bleached vaginas, just like his dad? Adam RP-Wig didn’t want that for himself, so he decided it was time to become a porn star like no other! His dick would be UNFORGETTABLE. His dick…was about to have…SUPER POWERS!
Right, Garden Boy, you can’t go wrong from here, TAKE THE REINS!
E – Oh fuck, this horse is a malformed octopus…. I don’t think I want it, but at the same time, I’m enjoying having the keyboard back – ahh, there they go, my wiggly fingers, scampering around like Thing from the Addam’s Family, neat little words appearing by magic on the glowing box before me! I am in control! The theatre of dreams is all mine, and I am willing to write this porno! Ok. Adam RP-Wig. Depressed porn star. Ideological phallic fantasies. I can work with that. Ahem.
Adam RP-Wig was lying on an inflatable rubber crumpet, bobbing gently in the warm waters of his indoor pool. He was alone. Utterly alone. The chlorinated water that slicked his skin was turning pearlescent, viscous, in the region of his shaven genitalia, as the dried-on fluids of this morning’s orgy re-liquefied into jism and saliva and vaginal lubrication. Adam didn’t remember the last time he’d truly felt clean – there always seemed to be somebody else’s bodily secretions coating his skin, and Adam’s penis had long begun to disturb him. It wasn’t really his, was it, his cock? Not in the way that his toes, for instance, were. Nobody cared about Adam’s toes, nobody wanted them. They were entirely his, quietly whiling away their lives inside the caressing depths of his socks – obedient, meek, honest little toes. His toes never troubled him, in his mind, but his penis…well. His penis was insured to the tune of eight hundred grand, which was a policy that had been running ever since his unfortunate co-star, Michael Rancid Vomit Drying Under Your Fingernails, had had his penis broken in a reverse cowgirl scene, and had never recovered. Because that can happen, you know, it’s not just an urban myth, not at all – the fear is real! Your cock…forever broken. Crunch, scrrrrrunnnnchhhh, snap – turns sinister fucking purple and bends like a banana then never stands up straight again unless you get it fitted with a pump inside your scrotum, and can you even imagine? What if someone wanted to be erotic and inflate it for you, but they just grabbed one of your bollocks instead and started enthusiastically crushing it?! Eerie, how the very symbol of virility can be laid waste by – of all things – the gentle embrace of a vagina. The mouthpiece of life itself, the river of birth, yet she is a cruel, cruel mistress… Oh, sorry, returning to the point now, since Rob is glaring at me – Adam’s cock was insured.
His cock had also been moulded into an official, licensed Adam RP-Wig ‘Go Fuck Yourself’ dildo, which had left Adam with the uncomfortable sense that he never quite knew what his penis was currently doing. At any moment of any day, Adam’s penis could be violently pounding the internal orifices of men and women that he had never even met. I mean, wasn’t that a sort of rape, really, to have one’s phallus used without consent? Adam may have been a pornstar, born and bred, but he’d never been entirely comfortable with the notion of strangers having seedy little sock-wanks while staring at his face, and now those lurking, faceless strangers owned a piece of him, owned arguably the most intimate portion of his body – how could he ever sleep at night, all the while knowing that his penis was running wild across the world, fucking and fucking and FUCKING and F-U-C-K-I-N-G?!!
Adam had begun to regard his cock as an evil, soulless entity, an untrustworthy growth that was quite possibly a government spy, or maybe even a literal representation of the biblical snake, tempting him and watching him and ruining his life, and—
R – Mate, where the fuck are you going with this?!
E – Not sure, if I’m honest, but shut up for a minute, I’ve got a really good metaphor to squeeze in here, then I’ll let you have a go, alright?
R – Oh god, fine – I’ll have some more coke. But THIS IS EROTICA, mate, so make it fucking erotic!
E – Hmm. Ok. Good point. I needed that reminder. I was sort of slipping into intense psychological thriller territory, but you’re right. You’re right. It needs more sexual pizzazz… Here goes:
Adam’s cock was like a biblical snake, one long, writhing, pulsating muscle, rippling with raised veins and sexual power, dripping with hot, slippery venom…but Adam had been alive long enough to know that stroking a sexual snake only left you with emptiness and shame and a lukewarm mess to clean up. His cock couldn’t be trusted…
As he floated around the pool on his gigantic inflatable crumpet, which had seen enough filthy sex to traumatise even a hardened nymphomaniac, Adam watched the cocktail of sexual juices slicking away from his skin in pearly trails, and a familiar urge thrilled through him. His cock was evil. Look at it, lying there, naked and pink and smug, feeding greedily like a bloated albino leech on the inner secretions of twelve different women, women who would never be the same again, because as mentioned in the preliminary paragraph to which I was most certainly paying attention, Adam’s cock was FEARSOMELY ENORMOUS. He didn’t just fuck, he decimated. Adam’s cock – and this is the way Adam regarded the whole affair; it wasn’t him, it was his cock – Adam’s cock had sent multiple women to hospital, bleeding profusely from the anus, and recently he had received a court summons to pay reparations to a porn star called Britney I Just Sat Down On A Train Toilet Seat Covered In Cold Piss, because her vagina had horrifically prolapsed followed an extended doggy-style scene with Adam. His cock was a cold-blooded killer, a brutal ruiner of pussies, and worse still, every ounce of its pulsating menace was attached to him. Everywhere Adam went, his cock led the way, both literally, and in reputation.
Adam had begun to dream of a life where he could be free. A life where he could be anyone. A life, without the evil biblical nemesis of his demonic dick. Aaaaand – TAKE IT AWAY, ROB!
R – Christ, Eden… Fuck me sideways. This is not what I had in mind, but I’m firing on all cylinders now, thank you very much Colombian coca farmers, you’re a fucking tribute to mankind. Let’s get this shit back on track:
Right. Adam’s flopping about in his pool on a blow up crumpet (??!) having a bit of a weird one, but that’s just because he ate some shrooms out of a woman’s vagina during the orgy scene earlier, and ol’ Adam’s not the best with psychedelics, so he’s sitting there fiddling with his dick and having a bit of an introspective freak out, until he starts scrubbing all that jizz off his dick so hard, he rubs out a genie! Right there, in the pool, this great big fucking blue genie appears, and says,
“ADAM! I’m a genie in a dick, and you’ve just rubbed me the right way!” and then he sort of warbles badly for a while because that Christina Aguilera song really resonated with him, and he’s never quite accepted the fact that the early 2000s had a lot of shit music and it’s best to move on and forget, really. Finally he stops singing like he’s gargling cum, and says, “I’m here to give you three wishes, because that’s what genies do, but because I’m a dick genie, and this is a piece of top shelf erotica, they have to be sexy wishes, ok? So, what d’you want?”
And Adam’s sitting there on his crumpet, and he remembers that at the BEGINNING OF THE FUCKING STORY, he was about to get SUPERPOWERS for his DICK, and it’s about bloody time he returned to that FAR MORE AWESOME PLOTLINE, so he shouts,
“I want a dick with superpowers! I want my dick to be totally unforgettable!”
The genie starts doing a really embarrassing dance routine, and Adam’s sitting there feeling a bit awkward, all naked with his grubby cock in his hand, but eventually the genie seems to get the hint. He stops dancing, and yells,
“YOUR WISH IS GRANTED! GO FORTH AND FUCK!”
And then, he just disappears, or more accurately, he dives back up Adam’s dick like a mad blue arrow, and it feels a bit like when you get a hair stuck in your urethra, and you pull it out, and it’s sort of tingly and horrible and shuddery but really satisfying at the same time. Anyway, he’s gone, buggered off, and Adam’s got no idea what he’s actually done, but he’s really bloody eager to find out!
So, he jumps off the stupid fucking crumpet (really, mate, we’re having words about this later – no one’s going to read erotica that starts off with someone sitting on an oversized rubber rendition of breakfast at a 1970’s B-and-B. Why in god’s name didn’t you make it a massive boob or something? No, no I don’t literally want to know, that was hypothetical, get off the fucking keyboard!), and he splashes over to the side to pick up his phone. He’s got every hot porn star in the country in that phone, could probably sell off his contacts list for a fair few quid if he wanted to, but no need, Adam’s fucking loaded. So, he dials one of his latest, greatest fuckbuddies, uhhh…Anna Found Myself Singing Katy Perry In The Shower And I Think Clara Heard Me, and he invites her over to test out his brand new dick!
Anna comes over wearing nothing but runny Nutella and a few carefully placed glace cherries, because that’s how porn stars roll, and Adam knows that you never really have to service a female porn star, they’re used to crap treatment, so he’s dead lazy and just smears his dick across her chocolatey stomach and makes her suck it all off. Anna’s really fucking hungry though, she’s had nothing but glace cherries and a cum omelette all day (hey, d’you remember that porno, Eden? The cum omelette? For the reader, Eden is nodding, and pulling a face that doesn’t suggest he found it particularly arousing – but there you go, see, I’m not making it up. It’s a thing. You can make an actual omelette out of jizz. It’s all white and watery, but no worse than those bloody diet omelettes they make you eat in LA, awful anaemic looking crap – if you’ve got a girlfriend on the fucking keto diet, I bet you a tenner you could make her eat a cum omelette without her even noticing the difference. And I don’t say this purely because I’m a misogynistic bastard, I’m saying it because I’m still not over being served an anaemic diet omelette when I was drunk in America in 1998, and sometimes revenge is a dish best served with a garnish of fried cum, am I right? Anyway, sorry, sorry, feeling a bit chatty after all that coke – on with the story!), so, like I was saying, she’s hungry, and he’s got a chocolatey cock, and she’s getting really fucking enthusiastic down there, sucking the marrow right out of his bone, until Adam can’t stand it anymore, and he STARTS TO COME!
But what comes out of his dick…it isn’t what he expects.
There’s this hot tingly feeling in the depths of his balls, and then his cock ROARS LIKE A FUCKING DRAGON, and it feels so good he nearly passes out, but there’s smoke coming out of Anna’s earholes, and her eyeballs are melting like runny snot, and her hair’s singeing right off, and he realises…that his dick…IS SHOOTING FIRE! He’s got a FIRE SHOOTING DICK! No one’ll ever forget that!
As Anna’s body hits the floor, there’s an amazing fucking smell, like s’mores and bacon all at once, and Adam goes crazy with fire-shooting-dick power and starts bashing in her skull on the tiles by his pool, until he finds the source of this delicious smell. Her brain is perfectly baked, and it’s like a bacon pâté, he just starts eating it with his fingers, smearing it in globs of chocolate from between her massive silicone tits, chocolate and crispy skin and brain-grease all over his throbbing dick, a dick that could unleash FIERY ARMAGEDDON at any moment!
WHAT. WOULD. HE. DO. NEXT?!!
Ok, ok, your turn, I need some more fucking coke, this is getting good!
E – Well. Wow. Alright. That was…a lot. I mean, I just have to ask…this isn’t…a thing, of yours, is it? Coming so hard you fry Clara’s brain to a crisp and then you eat it with Nutella that’s specifically just been on a tit? Do you, like…roleplay this, ever? I thought we agreed ages ago that food fetishes are completely fucking disgusting – are you mutinying?
R – Two words, mate – Burning. Marshmallows. If you think the candle wax and cigarette burns thing is invigorating, try marshmallows! Disclaimer, dear readers, if you’re a measly human those marshmallow burns’ll be a bit permanent, so I guess you’ll never know how it feels for a horny immortal, and more’s the bummer for you. But Eden, mate, tell me pain, tits, orgasms and marshmallows aren’t a winning fucking combination?
E – Wait…this is why the Cadillac smells like stale fags and marshmallows, isn’t it?! I thought I was just going insane, but it’s you, having weird sex all over the place! If you burn the Caddy down with your fucking marshmallow fetish I will LITERALLY castrate you, and toss your severed nuts, separately, into the fucking Atlantic. Now I’ve said my piece though…I have to admit, being burned with marshmallows sounds…interesting. Not sure, however, whether that’s just because I’m so stoned I’d eat anything at this precise moment. Have we actually got any marshmallows? Ones that haven’t been inside your rectum, preferably? Ah, nice one, he’s ferreting around in a drawer…aaand…he’s got marshmallows! Oh, and another butt-plug. This one’s got a taxidermy fox tail attached to it, like those hideous scarves my grandmother used to wear. Christ. I don’t know how you do it – I used to think about her stern scowly face to avoid premature ejaculation when I was a teenager, so that fox tail is one furry chastity belt to me. Put it away, it’s vile. Yes, yes I do still want the marshmallows. Ahhh.
Mmmgod…I got six of them in my mouth now. Fuck. The marshmallow fetish makes complete fucking sense. Pink and white. Pink and white. They’re quite sexual colours, aren’t they? Like pale tits with youthful nipples perched cheerfully on top. Puppies’ noses… God, they’re so squishy. There’s something overtly sexual about squishy things… lips, and tits…but not other bits, for flaccidity is not so hot, reluctant penis, he will not,
Go boldly forth into the hole,
Like a scampering eager sexual vole,
To climax, shall not the floppy bring,
No pearl necklace shall he wring,
From sperm and air into her hair;
The glistening crown of sexual pride –
But no! Not he; he goeth not inside!
Limp cock, thou art found lacking.
No one must see you;
You are bound in sacking,
In depths of drab clothes the limp must stay,
Whilst the leaping phallus seize the day!
Anon, anon, and done with such things, for Rob gives me looks that bite and sting! He appreciates not my poetry, but seeks to continue this fantasy, of burning flesh and chocolatey dicks, and other things, not so erotic – on I go, on I must, into the story we MUST THRUST!
Ok, alright, calm down, I’ve taken off my rhyming hat, you can stop grinding your teeth at me like a coked up fuhrer, where were we?
R – His dick’s got fucking SUPERPOWERS! He’s just had the best orgasm of his life and eaten someone’s dick-fried brain! How do you think he feels?
E – Well, to be honest I imagine there’s quite the kaleidoscopic whirlwind of emotions – I’d hate to be his therapist on Monday morning. What? Is that the wrong answer?
R – BEST.ORGASM.OF.HIS.LIFE.
E – Shit, sorry. Got it. Erotica. Got to stay on track with the sexual stuff. Here goes:
Adam lay sprawled out on the cold, hard tiles, his cock still emitting small puffs of smoke, each one sending a thrill shivering up his spine. Anna’s corpse was in bits around him, her skull emptied out, the bone charred but for pale scratches where Adam’s teeth had gouged against it, seeking desperately for more dick-fried brain matter. Her headless body lay in an inelegant heap, surrounded by smears of Nutella, and Adam began to sink down, down, from the euphoric heights of his fiery orgasm. She had been his friend, and now she was dead, decapitated, cannibalised, her corpse shamefully smeared with chocolate spread, and knowing porn producers it wasn’t even proper Nutella, it was probably some vile generic shite from Lidl – did anybody deserve to die wearing nothing but scatological smudges of cut-price foreign supermarket condiments? Adam writhed away from the horrors before him, grabbing his cock and desperately yanking it – he would summon the genie again, or tear the vindictively evil MEMBER from his body in the attempt! He felt that fiery tingling beginning to thrum in the sinister cavern of his scrotum, and he aimed his cock towards his face, hoping that he could commit a suicide of atonement in the scorching blast of his own ejaculate, but instead, the genie erupted into being, a mighty blue figure with beady yellow eyes, untrustworthy glowering eyes – of course, Adam realised, of course the genie was evil! It lived in the EVIL DEPTHS of his EVIL PENIS, and now he had summoned it forth! There had to be a way…a way to trick the genie into doing good, into taming his BIBLICAL NEMESIS of a dick! Unfortunately, Adam was currently being scripted by a literary God of Creation too stoned to come up with a fiendish and demonic genie-baiting plot, so we’re just going to improvise wildly and hope it turns out brilliant – stick with us, and hold on tight!
“I need another wish!” Adam demanded, with as much dignity as a naked man smothered in cheap chocolate can muster. “I want my cock to only do good. I want my cock to have a superpower that BETTERS THE HUMAN RACE!”
The genie’s yellow eyes glinted evilly; it gave a flourish, and burrowed back into the bloated snake of his penis. Adam stared around himself, unsure. Could he trust the genie? Could he trust his cock? There was only one way to find out…
R – Oh, what the fuck have you done now? How is bettering the human race supposed to be sexy? How am I meant to make his cock perform humanitarian aid work?
E – I’m challenging us! Who says erotica can’t be challenging? Aren’t you up to it? Give us the coke, it’s wasted on you.
R – I didn’t say I quit, I just said you’re a useless cunt. Have at it. I’ll start us off:
Right, Adam’s in the mood to do some good, according to the substitute teacher wankstain I’m letting ruin my story, so he thinks and thinks about good deeds, but they all sound like REALLY hard work, jumping on a plane to Ethiopia with sackfuls of lentils, or listening to abused children whinge then telling them the Tories have slashed the budget so they’ve just got to go back home and get smacked around some more – nah, good deeds were a pain in the arse. He’d do what all lazy, loaded people do, and toss a cheque at the nearest charity – job’s a good ‘un. But, just to find out what that genie had done, and because Adam was still really, really hoping that he’d ACTUALLY GET TO HAVE A DICK WITH SUPERPOWERS like he was MEANT TO FROM THE FUCKING START, he decided to see what his cock would do next!
He thought about indulging in a bit of necrophilia with Anna’s still-sexy corpse, but Eden’s shaking his head so we’ll pass on that, I guess it jars with the themes of good deeds and…tragic retribution and…psychological…conflict? Mate, stop mouthing big words at me, will you, we’re not writing a goddamn self help epic, it’s EROTICA! So, he just starts having a good old wank, slipping back into the pool and letting the warm water caress his MASSIVE COCK and all that other good stuff, but suddenly, from under the water, the head of his cock glows bright red, and starts vibrating, and jerking around, and he realises that it’s become a POWERFUL COMPASS pointing towards a HUMANITARIAN CRISIS he needs to RIGHT!
Adam leaps out of the pool, and throws on his dressing gown so he doesn’t get arrested for flashing, then he runs out of his front door, following the powerful pulsings of his purposeful penis! (Yeah, I thought that was good too, nice bit of plosive alliteration, if you read that out loud you’d spit all over the screen, and spit’s a bit like jizz, so it’s almost a visual metaphor for arousal, pat on the back to me, I reckon, right, on we go) – outside his house is a big block of posh flats, and on the roof is someone about to jump off and FALL TO THEIR TRAGIC DEATH, but Adam’s dick twitches, and it launches towards the woman in need! He flies through the air, dragged by his SUPERPOWERED COCK, and finds a fat bird about to jump off the roof, because no one’ll ever love her, so he says,
“It’s ok, I’m here now! I’m never gonna love you, but I’ll fuck you so hard you’ll forget what love is!”
Bow chicka-wow-wow the porny music starts up, and they’re grinding away on the top of the roof, sunlight bouncing off her enormous arse, and it turns out she’s not just any old fat bird, she’s one of the good ones, with the tits you’re afraid you’ll suffocate under, tits so big you feel like a pea rolling down the moon, tits so big there’s nothing in the world BUT tits for you right now, and Adam fucks her so hard she loses forty pounds and gets a modelling contract, and then—
E – And THEN Adam, as the orgasm ripples through his brain, is struck by a beautiful sunset epiphany, during which he realises that describing a woman as a ‘painfully unfuckable fat bird’ (because yes I did see you edit that phrase out, Rob, apparently you’ve got half a conscience, at least) isn’t a Nice Thing To Do, and Adam wouldn’t be such a judgemental prick in future. Good deeds begin at home, Rob. Sometimes they begin in your pants. Everyone’s fuckable to someone. Remember that.
R – Oh come ON! You are the BIGGEST fucking hypocrite, Eden Newly Elected Saint Grey! I have been married to an AGEING HUMAN WOMAN, and no matter how intolerable she became I still fucked her, while you, on the other hand, who died at TWENTY FUCKING FOUR AND SINGLE, have never, ever screwed anything below an eight unless you were too drunk to see your own dick! One day I’m going to record your scathing coked-up commentary watching a nightclub dancefloor, because YOU are BITCHIER than a room full of low rent drag queens. Shocked, and appalled, Mr Grey, watching you slither clumsily into the world of politically correct blogging, you bald-faced bullshit artist!
E – …
R – For the reader, Eden is sniggering his bastardy little face off and eating my marshmallows. No comment then, Garden Boy?
E – Well, what do you want me to say? Good deeds do begin at home, but I never said they begin in this home – I’m old, I’m stuck in my ways, it’s not my fault I died long before obesity became a global epidemic, it’s all very alien and peculiar to me! I can never make myself fatter… Fatness is exotically weird, and one tends to comment upon that sort of thing, much like exclaiming, GOSH, the SKY appears to have THREE CHINS, how unusual this day is becoming! It’s quite normal, really. But I do my best, don’t I, to be nice? Are you satisfied yet, for fuck’s sake, or do I have to keep plucking excuses from the ether?
R – I’m mostly realising that we are the single most unqualified people to write any story ever about a horny penis doing good deeds. You’ve fucked us here, mate. Hypocrisy is the only thing that’ll get us through. Right, rock on:
Adam’s got a Humanitarian Dick now, and there’s nothing he can do about it, so he’s going to become lovely and appropriate, forever and ever, when he’s talking about…making tender love to women whose personalities shine like a diamond through their goggling ogre eyes until beauty seems cheap and fickle in the blinding light of the GOODNESS OF SUCH A TRULY ANGELIC SOUL! Blessed is he who can see through the vulgar disguise of temporary flesh, and into the…seat of…goodness and kindness and supportiveness and all sorts of other positive nesses!
Right, what d’you think? Did I pull that off? The I’m a bloke you wouldn’t immediately toss into the fires of hell act?
E – I bought it, more or less! But we need to get nauseatingly saccharine, if we’re to conceal the fact that we’re actually mass murdering immortal dickheads with shrivelled souls like spiteful raisins. Can I have a go?
R – You might as well. We’re in the weedy thickets of your fuckup, right now – it can’t get any worse, can it?
E – Ok. Adam was realising that fucking the undulating form of that Rubenesque cherub (wait, can a cherub be a woman, or am I writing pedo porn by accident?) – cherub-faced…angel…thing, oh fuck it I’m terrible at insincere compliments – all that wonderful bouncing fleshy sex hadn’t been to save her life – it had been to save his! The world didn’t need saving (but god that’s an awful cliché, of course it needs fucking saving, just look around, everything is FUCKED, there’s a piss-eyed orange neo-nazi apologising to rapists on national TV, there’s lying fucking Theresa Ma— never mind, never mind, Rob’s about to hit me, so PLOUGHING ONWARDS with the shit clichés) – the WORLD DIDN’T NEED SAVING, but Adam did! He realised in a tumbling avalanche of harsh truths that he’d made a fortune from an industry that drove school-children to molest their peers, that drove women to mutilate and bleach their labia, not to mention all the cringe-inducing gasping and O OH OHHH BABY YES FUCK ME SO HARD FUCK ME FUCK MEEEE that it seems to encourage in twenty-something blondes in California these days, when certain lead singers are on tour wondering what in FUCK’S NAME just caused tonight’s groupie to act like a victim of demon possession – an industry that forced Adam (because that’s who we’re talking about here, sorry, sorry, sex rant tangent) to go home every night smeared in sexual fluids, hating himself, hating his own dick, wanting to TEAR IT OFF HIS BODY – he had spent all day believing that a malicious genie had emerged from his piss-hole and driven him to murder and cannibalism, and now…now, as the magic mushrooms he had devoured from a bleached vagina this morning reached their peak, Adam saw everything in perfect clarity:
It was time to get out of the fucking porn business. It was turning him into a paranoid wreck. He would take back the identity of his penis, altering it with scarification and a large gauge Prince Albert, so that he never need fear those replica dildos anymore, then he would admit to himself, finally, that he wasn’t the thrusting, steroid-fuelled, Viagra-pumped, empty-inside fuckmachine that his porn star dad had brought him up to be. Adam was actually GAY, and would have a future packed with size queens and their spacious rectums, no longer fearing that every woman he touched would turn inside out afterwards like a gruesome vaginal stalactite, and along with his parade of boyfriends, Adam would open a dog sanctuary, and serve humanity through wagging tails and smiling furry faces, and, well…if anything ever went wrong…
…then maybe, just maybe, there really was a genie in his dick… And Adam still had One More Wish left.
The End of This Delightful Halloween Tale.
Well, what d’you think? Not bad, right? A few clever sideways manoeuvres, the invention of the plot pretzel, and we’re out!
R – I’ve never been so fucking glad to see the words ‘The End’ in my entire life, but at the same time, I’m still pissed off about my superpowered dick story NEVER FUCKING HAPPENING. Why do you have to ruin everything?!
E – Because you introduced me as mentally unstable, Rob! And you LIED about the CARROT CAKE INTERVIEW!! What did you expect me to do? I have to ask though – what particular superpower did you actually want to give his dick? Like, did you truthfully have any kind of game plan here?
R – So, I hadn’t gotten into the specifics, if you must know, but I was definitely going somewhere with that fire shooting dick thing before you buggered it all up! I thought I might have him lured into the criminal empire of a sadistic porn king, and he’d have to blast his way to freedom using nothing but the fearsome powers of his fire-spitting dragon dick! And EVERY burst of flame would be an orgasm, so there’d have to be a really sexy ramp up to each move – he’s in the basement lair of a porn king, right, so there are captive porn girls in cages, and maybe the occasional taxidermied pair of famous tits on the wall to rub, and a portcullis covered in vibrating butt-plugs, and—
E – Please, please don’t continue – the enthusiasm on your face is firmly convincing me that this entire scenario is going to get vigorously roleplayed tonight with Clara and several of the gruesome implements before me. And I’m keeping these marshmallows, by the way – I deserve to get something out of sitting in close proximity to your used anal beads for the past two hours, you gruesome fucking pervert. Shit…it’s late, actually, it’s really fucking late! There’s no way in hell my dealer’s going to pick up the phone now, not that I’m in any feasible condition to drive a fucking car anyway, but NOW I have NO SMACK AT ALL until he gets out of bed at 11am tomorrow, you COMPLETE ARSEHOLE!!!! Did you plan this?? Did you do this on purpose? Are you IN LEAGUE with Samuel or something?!
R – My god, you’re one paranoid little freak, Eden – it doesn’t have to be a grandly fiendish conspiracy just because you’ve found yourself inconveniently conscious for a full evening – I just wanted to have some fun! With yooouuu!
E – I am about to beat you to death with your own dildo if you don’t stop looking so FUCKING GLEEFUL ABOUT THIS SHIT, ROBERT!!! It is OCTOBER, do you not REMEMBER what happened in OCTOBER, eight years ago?? The world ENDED! There was NO fucking smack, not anywhere in the country, not for FOUR FUCKING MONTHS, and AS YOU WELL KNOW there’s been a partial repeat every bloody winter after that! So excuse me if I am somewhat on edge about the fact that I have nothing in the middle of these intensely perilous times! STOP LAUGHING!! DO NOT FUCKING TEST ME, YOU LURCHING SHIT-BRAINED SOBRIETY-WREAKING ANUS!
R – AAAAAAHHHHH NAAAHHHH, he’s breaking out the bold text on me, it’s getting serious in here! Look, alright, I’ll be straight with you – I may have entered into a small bet with Samuel, about the fact that I could easily convince you to straighten up your shit for a while, and I thought this’d be a nice way to do it, alright?
E – What.The.Actual.Fuck, Rob. Why? What fucking interest have you got in me becoming a tedious NA-thumping sobriety-wanker?
R – None, mate, absolutely none – I’ll even come out with you to score in the morning, we’ve blown through most of the coke and that’s a shit state of affairs. I only did it because Samuel was going on and on about ‘leading by example’ and tossing all my whiskey out the window to prove that a drug free life could be rewarding – fuck only knows what he’s been reading, but he really was going off on one, and he was threatening my way of life as a dedicated pisshead, so, I just told him I could get you to stop much more easily, with a nice evening of therapeutic conversation!
E – And he…bought that? He bought the fact that you of all people were going to sit down and be so nice to me that I’d have some kind of fucking epiphany??!
R – Oh come on, of course not! I told him therapy was all about confrontation. And hard work. And harsh truths. And all those other things that Samuel likes the sound of, because you know he secretly detests you for being so stubborn, and the more your recovery plan sounds like medieval torture, the more he loves it. So, he thinks I’m up here verbally abusing you and making you think about horrible traumas until you’re weeping in the foetal position on the floor. Happy?
E – I… Fuck. I have no fucking words, you’re all completely insane. What else have you got in your sock drawer of wonders? Any ketamine?
R – Maybe, maybe not, just like Schrodinger’s cat – you’ll never find out. This whole thing is pointless if you don’t wander around the house all night looking sober and disgruntled. It’s one night, or Samuel gets underway with a level of crazed fervour I haven’t seen in years. You should be fucking thanking me!
E – Fuck you, I’m off. I’m out, right now, before I break something centuries old and irreplaceable, like YOUR FUCKING FACE. I am going to eat people and scream at the invisible moon! Christ! WHY couldn’t this evening have just involved slaying Tesco’s rotten crumbly cake with the lacerating blades of my immortal disgust, like I was promised? Why does NOTHING ever do what it says on the tin! Why is LIFE always a box of BASTARDS dipped in SHIT when it’s meant to be a WHIMSICAL SELECTION OF CHOCOLATES??
R – Yeahhh. My work here is done. Your face is the perfect picture of crushed dreams and earth-shattering junkie realisations. Now, get the fuck out of my room, and send up Clara, my night’s just beginning.
E – As typed by meee, Rob, because he’s yelling it from across the room – ARGHHHHFUUUUCK *flail flail walls being punched*, I HOPE THAT DILDO RIPS OUT YOUR FUCKING PROSTATE AND UNRAVELS YOU LIKE A HORRIBLE RUBBERY SEA SNAKE FROM THE GRUBBY BOTTOM OF A POLLUTED OCEAN, YOU FUCK! I’M GOING TO SKID AROUND THE HOUSE WEARING YOUR GUTS AS FLIPPERS YOU REPULSIVE PESTILENT RECTUM-OBSESSED SHIT-BRUSH!
R – Well, the wailing’s fading into a sort of pathetic wordless yowling now, sort of like when cats have sex and the lady cat’s just realised that cat dicks are barbed, and the fun part always ends with a horrible shredding – myyywwoooowwllllarghhhhhnoooooFUCKFUCKFUUUUCKKK, etc. I have full conviction that within one hour he’ll be writing a ‘strongly worded letter’ to his MP about ensuring the supply of heroin to the UK remains consistent no matter what the outcome of the Brexit deal. Literally – it’s his main concern about the whole thing, ignore all that moral outrage about diabetics and the economy and chlorinated American chicken – Eden only cares about Brexit upsetting the delicate balance of the international drug trade.
Anyway, I’ve had fun tonight, and now it’s time to work the kinks out of this superpowered dick fantasy – I think it’s shaping up to be a classic! So, here’s to a big rude Halloween, you pervy fuckers, and feel free to share our little tale if this steaming piece of highbrow erotica tickled your fire-shooting pickle!
Eden’s still having a meltdown out there, Samuel owes me five hundred quid, and all’s well with the world. THIS IS ROB THE GOD, OVER AND OUT!! 😀