Steve Lowe has a remarkable talent to write stories that are at once grotesque, imaginative and absolutely funny, but that have a moral dimension to them too. In You Are Sloth, he uses a bold style, told in a second-person point of view, to tell the story of the time you click a link in a spam e-mail, subject line “you are sloth” and find yourself transformed into a sloth.
But why? Why would this happen? Why a sloth?
That is the mystery, and it’s up to you and your “friends”, Randy (maybe retarded) and Cross (probably an a-hole) to solve it. Will you find out who the deranged individual known only as “The Spammer” is, or why they chose to target you and turn you into a sloth? Perhaps slower than usual (thanks to your newfound slothiness), you will begin to unravel this mystery.
Despite what you will no doubt see on world news in the coming weeks, Leaky Libido is not a breeding ground for sub-par boy bands. The allegations–that we take disenfranchised, disillusioned and angry young males into our training camps, where we train them to sing to a low standard, dress them like communists (ie. the same) and send them into the world to wreak havoc by becoming unattainable objects for a whole generation of women, turning them off less attractive men (ie. the entire male population), and thus, causing the inevitable collapse of western civilisation through a lack of workers–are spurious and facetious. It is an ad-hoc story concocted by a discontent author named Tamara Romero, who is upset at the outcome of a game of charades we played last spring. We won’t go into details, there’s no need to open that can of worms again. We will beat this!
The following is a transcription of a conversation recorded in sporadic bursts over the last eighty years. This is due to unforseen circumstances that are not in any form the fault of Leaky Libido, its derivatives, editors, contributors or victims. I mean guests. Guests. Blame the Nazis.
Anyway, this interview is with the amazing Gabino Iglesias!
Dwayne Johnson wipes another tear from his eye and says, “Come on Dwayne, you piece of trailer park trash, pull it together, big rocks don’t cry.”
Traffic marshall McCloud wears a bandanna and scares the good people with his sword. The sword is on fire because protocol requires the maximum hazard potential as well as the maximization of revenue from traffic violations. McCloud’s reputation has become significant, and profits have been dropping for some time.
The city is a quiet place now, no beep beep or chainsaw engine revs. Marshall McCloud sits on a mountain of flame-grilled pedestrian flesh. His skin is charred, his hair is smoky and he has a permanent cough.
I had an imaginary friend once. Well, he came from a book I read so he was technically the author’s imaginary friend, but I liked to think he was mine still. I called him Dexter but he said his name was Patrick. We never agreed on that. It didn’t matter too much because he’d still respond when I called him Dexter, even if it was with a visible annoyance.
We used to hang out. Well, he’d come out the book and then start trying to get out the house but he couldn’t work out how the doors opened. That made me chuckle. I guess the author didn’t think about that aspect of his character when he wrote him. He didn’t like it that I laughed at his misfortune. He used to call me a bitch and start slapping me.
One time when he was giving the old palm off I told him to get back in the book if he didn’t like it here. It’s not like he needed to come visit me. I had plenty of friends that came from other books. He didn’t like that either (I didn’t really have any other friends, but he wasn’t to know that). We got into a heated discussion, well, argument, about it. He said I was a whore who used him for my sexual perversions. I had no idea what he meant. I told him he chose to come here. I didn’t care if he never showed up again. I certainly didn’t care to have sex with him. His temper really turned me off. He said fine and stormed in.
Occasionally I’d turn to random pages of his book and sure enough, there was Patrick being sweet to his girlfriend Sandra, or he’d be helping out feeding homeless people at a shelter. I didn’t get why he was such an arsehole to me when he seemed so kind in the book. I eventually lost interest in him anyway. Other characters came along who were much friendlier.
My favourites were Martin and Ian, twins from some town in the North. Their accents changed quite often but they always had a northern twang. Secretly, I did actually want them to fuck me, but I worried that they were too sweet and would be disgusted by me if I broached the subject. We used to just talk about what our favourite shows were and whether we’d ever go somewhere else, like London or New York even. Those were good times.
A blue lion skulks across the playground. Parents mindless with anxiety scoop children up into their arms. A distant sniper rifle rattles off a shot. The principal goes down like a sack of shit. The children whoop and cheer. The parents lay their weary bodies down to rest, bundles of children bursting from their arms like sweets from a piñata.
Glub-ball is an orange and green sphere that wears spandex and flies. Flies in the face of its contemporaries. Flies in the face of the status quo. Glub-ball is soft like brain goo, and so cannot land for fear of disintegrating upon impact. That is why Glub-ball welcomes the machines into its mind and becomes a digital mosaic spread along streets like car headlights in a long exposure shot at night.
Most Unoriginal Kafka Tribute Ever:
Somebody had been telling the truth about Jacob L., for with a lot of hubbub early one grim morning, he was arrested. His processing and subsequent trial went smoothly and he was incarcerated for a number of years.
As Gregory Samba awoke one morning from a rather peaceful night’s sleep he found that he had transformed into a giant insect. Needless to say news of his condition went viral and he was an internet sensation. Money was never an issue for him or his family again.
It was late afternoon when L. arrived. The town was covered in sunshine. The bungalow was revealed by that same sunlight. L. stood for a long time on the bridge leading into the town, looking at and being looked at by the local people. They all smiled and said hello, welcoming him into their warm embrace. He felt very comfortable and soon established himself as one of the locals, raising a beautiful family and living a long and fruitful-
You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but there is a sickness hollowing me out. My eyes are cavities, ultraviolet light trapped inside a cage of rotten flesh and crystals. There’s a clock in front of a mirror. Time running backwards. Collapsing rather than expanding. A supernova implosion. Several dizzying moments run into each other, compacted into a fraction of a moment. My shadow, as fragile as dust erased by Hydrogen light. Cavities erupt, leaving salty wounds. A hemorrhaging of all the ironic thoughts I ever had painted emerald green, ivy leaves wrapped around my skull.
A long blue ribbon, a signature tied to a door handle, lying on the floor, the frame inverted to become a blockade. The handle, a fallen acorn. Too timid to grow. A slow death grips and twists and opens. Pierced lungs sucking in voided detritus. Silent film stock, burning up in sepia melodrama, stuck on fast-forward repeat.
Grinding gear static stick limbs made of wood carved in a fish bowl atmosphere. Hollowed tubes of polarized light cascading over one another in a frenzy. Muscle fibre unwinds, reforms, contracts. A fluid reshaped to fill the void. Demented amorphous tissue. Sand coating leather cracks and falls away. A bleached core crumbles, a wavering vestige hangs like a mournful medal, gravity abandoned. A gentle whisper, poison slicked in honey, a siren in the void.
Void cancer. Immanent omniabsence. A seething mess of nullifying waves, splintering rocks under hammer strikes. A sea reclaiming land contained within a spiky shell, all pinprick sensation, alert and flashing teeth. Warmth bled from an iron coated interior, disguised in myriad form.
And so I swallow everything. Regurgitated grey monoliths ground my path through the sky. A rhapsody of bubbles crescendos under foot. Fractal life bursts in tangent worlds. Bacterial artifices cower in edifices too grand and too hidden to unravel.
This a gift, a birthday of the soul.
Jezzebelle Scroteé’s biggest fan was called Chap Wankstick and he admired her from afar, from nearby, and from unconventional places besides. He’d sneak into her laundry, cutting eyes holes through her peephole bras and crotchless panties, unnecessary really. He’d pop up with her toast when it was done, trying to catch a glimpse of her before falling back down into the crumby depths. Something about her appearance first thing in the morning was more honest and appealing to him than any of her glamour shots – he wanted unadulterated experiences of her.
He’d begun to ejaculate into her tubes of toothpaste after hearing that a woman was impregnated by a squid in a similar manner, and thought to himself that would be a good way to enter her life, but he’d had no such luck as of yet. He made do with sitting in her alarm clock and singing to her in the morning to arouse her, or stuffing himself into the cushions on her couch so he could cup her soft butt cheeks as she sat down. Occasionally he overstepped the mark, like when he hid along the edge of a knife and threatened to slice her head off because she was an angel and needed to go to heaven. But for the most part he simply admired her from different distances and vantage points.
That all changed the day she moved. He had spent the best part of eight months assimilating himself into her house. He had been so successful in that endeavour that he no longer had a human form. He had simply become the house itself. He could no longer hear or see her, but he felt every footstep and flick of a light switch, every toss and turn in her sleep and every piss into the toilet, as well as the warmth from her cheeks on the seat. Then she left and didn’t come back.
He sat alone for some months, wondering what he did wrong. He thought about how he should have killed her, because every woman leaves him in the end, even his mother had left him.
A new family moved in to him. A couple of overweight parents and a brat son. They redecorated him and made him sick. He couldn’t bare it and so locked himself up one night and leaked carbon monoxide into their rooms. It was a polite way of murdering them. Like how they had politely murdered the last traces of Jezzebelle he had left when they scraped her scent off his walls and gutted her from him.
He ripped his foundations from the ground, water pipes burst and blood gushed down his drive. He dragged himself across the country, his windows smashed, his interior vandalised, always hoping that one day he’d find his Jezzebelle again.
Years later, with bricks falling out and the ceiling collapsed with rot, Chap lay derelict and dying, lost and alone. He finally gave up hope and emerged from the house shell he’d wrapped himself up in, a toothless old man with overgrown fingernails that scraped the ground as he crawled away from the crumbling tomb he’d carried with him for so many years. The frame finally collapsed to dust behind him and fluttered away on a breeze like so many fireflies.
He didn’t stop crawling, and finally came before Jezzebelle’s new house after many more years. It was far grander than the crappy single-bedroom detached thing he had become. He pulled himself up by the door knob and slipped through the keyhole, just like he’d learned to do so many years ago, his long nails clattered to the ground before melting into the welcome mat.
The house was Malcolm Fitzgerald, and he was Jezzebelle’s biggest fan. He’d taken three years to become her new house. Chap allowed himself to expire as some junk mail with a lethal dose of anthrax primed to explode over Jezzebelle when she opened the envelope. He could not allow some other man to have her. But unfortunately for Chap, she got all her mail electronically now, and so Malcolm was able to dispose of his wasted remains without ever having to alert Jezzebelle to his presence.
My television got rabies. I tried switching it off with the remote but it just flat refused to obey. Froth like Santa’s spunk started to pour out of the speakers, and the screen split across the middle, revealing thousands of jagged pixels like razor sharp shark teeth. Realising I was probably in danger, I darted for the door, but sprawled across the floor as I felt white hot pain shoot through my leg. The fucking television had bitten my foot off. I told it it was bad, but it didn’t give a shit. My foot bones rattled around inside as it rolled around on the floor in a seizure, like it was on PCP and cocaine at the same time. In desperation, I whacked it with the giant decorative wooden spoon we kept by the door for no real purpose. It didn’t seem to affect it.
I thought that was it, that I was a goner, bleeding out, alone, next to my psychotic television set. But then my mobile phone came riding in upon my computer, dressed in full battle armour, complete with kamon displaying its heraldry upon a banner, erect on its back. On one side, it held a large shield, emblazoned with a frightening demon face, and on the other, it had a lance which was far too big for it, and so dragged on the ground. It beeped chivalrously at me. Told me it was here to defend my honour. Then it spurred its computer steed on, charging at the television, which was still spinning in a spit frenzy on the floor.
The lance didn’t do shit. The television snapped it in two between its nasty gnashers, and flicked a dirty paw at my phone, sending it flying through the air. It smashed to pieces against the wall, leaving a stain like a squashed bug. The shield went rolling away like a loose hubcap. My computer tucked its tail and fled, leaving behind a trail of internet. I quickly lapped up some of the toxic yellow fluid to get out of that place.
I uploaded onto the Deep Web, where I was put under surveillance as a counter-terrorism measure. My gushing wound became a sensation on an onion site called gore-chan, which was annoying, because my pain doubled every time somebody downloaded me. To make matters worse, I became a node for covert ops. Secret agents slipped out with my blood, disguised as hemoglobin, secreting unseen into people’s computers. Then they snuck out through the USB ports and packed their television remotes with home-made chemical bombs. The fallout from the minute explosions as the unsuspecting perp pressed the power button infected their television sets, sending them rabid.
It was with some relief that I was eventually converted to pure raw data by some government computer nerds in an effort to cover their tracks.
Egg On My Face
Leonardo DiCaprio wakes up in a large chair next to a warm fire. He knows it’s on Shutter Island because he feels insane. He shakes himself. He was Jack. On the Titanic. Getting arrested for some horse-shit crime he didn’t commit. How is he suddenly here? It doesn’t matter, what matters is that he gets back on set. Cameron would be going ape-shit. It’s an expensive film. He leaves the room, only to be accosted by Robert De Niro wielding an empty jar of mustard. De Niro forces him to the ground and pushes it against his eye socket, “Does it look fucking empty to you?!” He screams right at Leonardo’s face. Leonardo is young again, and scared. De Niro is a good actor. Leonardo really believes that De Niro is going to choke the life out of him as his hands slip around his throat. Thankfully De Niro is smacked over the back of the head by Ellen Barkin, his mother. No, Tobias Wolff’s mother. He gets back up and finds the nearest exit. De Niro thinks that maybe he’ll just go and die in a ditch somewhere.
Outside, Leonardo finds his way into a western town, complete with a gun slinging tournament. Sharon Stone takes pot shots at him and Gene Hackman calls him names. Bewildered, he doesn’t know where to turn, when a car pulls up and a heavily made up Ken Watanabe, who looks so ancient he’s probably nearly dead, calls out to him to get in. He does, quickly, bullets perforate the door. Inside, Ken starts talking about the best way to cook corn or something, he keeps saying cob anyhow. Leonardo wants out. The car stops and he takes the opportunity to dive from it. When he finishes rolling he’s in South Africa, and he’s got a South African accent. He doesn’t speak, he just knows it’s true.
Leonardo Dicaprio gets up and runs and runs for miles, just anywhere. He runs so far he ends up at a beach, not The Beach, a different one, he can see an old oriental style castle on a cliff. He runs into the water, where Rose is floating on a bit of wood. He can’t get on as well because she’s stupid and won’t shift her weight. He dunks his head under the water to try and drown himself to make her feel bad, but he gets scared of dying and raises his head to breathe in some air.
When he comes out of the water he’s at a party in some mansion. There’s a hot girl, not Rose, looking at him through a fish tank. She’s only thirteen, but Leonardo don’t care. He chases her and courts her, even though it’s forbidden. Her family get pissed at him and they have a ruckus. Mercutio dies! He eventually kills himself because he’s so madly in love with her, thinking he could trick everybody into thinking he’s dead so they could run away together. Only, the plan works too well and he actually dies. Juliet kills herself too, because she doesn’t realise that you can fall in love with more than one actor in your life time, there’s no limit. Only, he didn’t die, it was a ruse.
When he wakes up next he’s in a hotel room and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is busy pulling up his trousers and looking flustered. Christopher Nolan is rubbing his palms together, saying this will be a cult smash in Hollywood. Would he consider being the new Robin?
Tom Hanks busts down a wall and chases Leonardo. Leonardo is not Leonardo, but Frank Abagnale Junior, he just pretended to be Leonardo DiCaprio to try and escape prosecution but now Tom Hanks is on his tail again. He jumps through an air conditioning vent and climbs up through a manhole, in a busy street. He runs into a shop but it’s a bedroom inside. He climbs into a draw and when he closes it he’s under a bed sheet. He fumbles until he finds the edge, and when he throws it off he’s in a kitchen and Kate Winslet is arguing with him. She’s tiny. When she looks at him she is confused. What happened to Jim? Michel Gondrey says that Leonardo (he weren’t aware of the switched identity) would be playing Jim Carrey now. He got the idea from David Lynch. Jim Carrey is standing just off to the side, pulling wacky faces at Leonardo, trying to put him off. Kate and Leonardo haven’t lost their chemistry and the film’s a hit.
Leonardo dissolves into thousands of microscopic beetles racing against the clock to pull the iceberg into the path of the Titanic, which has drifted off course, all the way down to Cape Town, lest the boat never be made to sink, and all of this doesn’t happen.
Long live Leonardo!
I think God might have lobotomised Himself. I don’t blame Him. I can’t get an objective view of what my constant complaining to Him is like exactly, but I have a pretty good idea. People tell me that I annoy the fuck out of them.
I left a dozen answer phone messages for Him just today, and I’ll leave a dozen more tomorrow. He’ll pick up one of these days, by accident or whatever, and when He does, I’ll give Him an earful. Christ knows I’ve got a lot to say to Him.
I called Him a cunt because He ignored me for several days after I asked Him a question, thinking that would get some kind of a retaliation, but the cunt just carried on ignoring me. I thought maybe it was that I just wasn’t important to Him any more. Maybe He found a new thing to play with. Maybe He just got out before He did something He would regret. After all, there’s only so many years worth of resentment towards somebody a person can store before they have to bludgeon that person’s head to smithereens, right? Maybe He terminated our relationship before it went too far, before I got the wrong impression. Maybe I was just wrong for him.
I thought God was better than these kinds of head games – the doubt, the worry – God knows what kind of fucked up thoughts I have when I am left to ponder on the absence of a sign. Just a little kiss, or a “fuck you” even! I would be satisfied at least. But I guess my satisfaction is not of God’s concern. His satisfaction isn’t of my concern, I know that for sure.
I did apologise for calling Him such a nasty name, but even that wasn’t enough to get anything back. If I ever saw Him, I’d slap Him hard across the face and see how He ignores me then – Not if He actually has lobotomised Himself, that would just be weird. Like slapping a coma victim… But if I saw Him flirting with another? Man, that would just drive me up the wall with anger. I wouldn’t help but fly into a frenzy and fatal flying guillotine His omniscient head clean off His omnipotent shoulders.
My interface is broken. Everything runs into each other like an oil slick. The lustre of the display has diminished; the normally vitreous morning news reporters have become iridescent purple and green monsters. Their voices crack like distorted whips against my eardrums. I try to switch over to my inbox but an invasive pulsating red light begins to flash and messages full of meaningless characters and symbols keep randomly appearing and disappearing, leaving a residue burnt on the screen. I try to send a message out to anybody on my contact list, but the contrast becomes so great that I can’t read any of the menu options. The screen switches into negative and a high pitched noise like steam escaping starts to wail at me. There is a pervasive neon purple flash and I think for sure it’s about to explode.
But then I see the world like normal. All beautifully coordinated shades of teal and orange; peace and harmony in a simple bi-chromatic dynamic of colour. The noises have all subsided too. I feel myself stop tensing.
I go outside to breathe the fresh morning air and clear my unit. Maybe it overheated. Out in my garden I see an orange peel bird sitting on a blue branch. It chirrups and squawks before flying off into the marine sky blending in against the amber whale clouds. Without warning it plummets straight down to the floor where it disintegrates on impact. Rich yellow blood spreads out from its fragmented caramel corpse like a thrown custard pie. I was almost smiling before that. I almost could have forgotten about my interface nearly dying on me.
I walk over to the bird and stoop to inspect it. I can’t tell why it suddenly died. The mechanisms have all been destroyed by the collision with the ground.
Everything begins to blur – I get the sensation that things are moving to the left and moving fast. I can’t exactly make anything out, but I keep getting the suggestion of motion, like something grand might be happening, but on a scale too large and too fast to be able to properly perceive. I try setting my interface to super zoomed out but it’s jammed at 1:1. I occasionally gasp as some kind of monstrous form zips in front of me in a blitzkrieg attack on my senses. Voluptuous and suggestive, charming and engaging, yet paradoxically retrograde and binary. My world becomes a series of archetypal movements and patterns with nothing about them to cohesively put them together in a meaningful sequence. Navy blues explode into pastel flames of burnt orange that dissipate into soft turquoise noise. It doesn’t make any sense, but it doesn’t have to. It’s my world, and I feel comfortable here.
It happens some times you know?
A machine wakes up, goes crazy; bursts like a supernova. Only, it don’t look like no supernova when you’re so close to it. You can’t help but get burned up in the process.
The beauty of the moment can be appreciated from far away, over distance, over time; it don’t look like no sickness from there.
But it was a death.
The death of a sick machine.
I woke up and I was surrounded by an ugly, malformed reality. I had to choke back the tears that kept rising as I took in what I was seeing. They were, all of them, just little boys sitting in silent catatonia, a frigidity broken only by cracking fits of despair and self-mutilation. The idea that, before I woke up I was like them, well, that shook me. I used to climb my friends – they were mountains – I would climb them to get the best vantage point, to be able to see farther than any other person. To think, all those distances were really just reiterations of the same lie, and right next to me, far closer than I could envisage, was the truth of the situation…
A building crescendo of rabid wolves howling diminished chords; electric rat squeals like glass being scratched, played out on a million microscopic speakers buzzing like a great swarm of flies in the air. Rusted, decaying, metal machines poked holes in some of the boys; they had so many leaks and so much stuff fell out of them that I thought each must be a universe haemorrhaging galaxies.
Wires made of bone emerged from my penis, snaking their way down into ports in the ground by my feet. I knew I had to castrate myself to sever the connection; I ripped my penis off and all my guts fell out. I knew I was just a machine because my blood smelled like raw circuitry. I fell, forward onto my knees, desperately clawing at my insides oozing out. I cried in agony and tried to scoop them up but they were slick with blood and kept slipping out of my grip. I couldn’t stop crying and my tears swept them away like a purging tsunami.
Black Max wasn’t black, but his penchant for necrophilia often had him caked in slick mud. It wasn’t unusual though, most people took to the trend when they saw the benefits. It wasn’t just sexual gratification that they were after, no, nothing quite so superficial. It was much more advantageous than that. The sex was just a bonus if you like. They’d exhume a corpse, preferably at least a century old, and tie it to their backs like a dusty rotten rucksack. The older they were the better, because otherwise they might drizzle innards on your trousers, Max had found out first-hand. Anyway, they’d tie them up and scuttle off home where they had previously prepared an exquisite dining table, complete with candles and wine and other such luxuries. After dinner they’d mull over a nightcap, perhaps puffing on a fine cigar, discussing deeply complex social issues, attempting to find a resolution that was in everybody’s interest. Then, retiring to the bedroom, they’d make love, sometimes this was more awkward than they had bargained, with limbs dropping off or worse, holes disintegrating. It has to be stressed to those of you who don’t partake in the practice of necromancing that it’s all consensual and in good taste.
Also, firm advocates will hasten to add, it, without a doubt, led to the modern world as we know it. There was a real sense of achievement if you got yourself an Einstein or some philosopher whose ideas simply revolutionised the structure of society. After the love making you see, the corpse would reveal its ideas to you. Nine times out of ten they’d be rehashes or duplicates, and you’d feel slightly cheated and perhaps a little dirty at what you did to find out, for example, that if people pooled some of their surplus money together they could run a national health care service. But that one time where you get told an idea that simply blows everything else out the water, that’s worth trying again for. Black Max also knew this first hand. He was the reason the trend began in the first place. His first time (the same time he found out a fresh corpse drizzles) he was told to spread the word. To spread it far that corpses ideas were better than the living’s. In fact, he was told, living ideas that are good shouldn’t be used until the person is dead. They’re more palpable that way.
He couldn’t explain how he would have known to have sex with a corpse (after dining it!) to find out that having sex with a corpse would lead to this revolutionary discovery (and the subsequent utopian state that arose because of it), it just happened one night he says: He had cut right through emo rhetoric and waltzed passed Gothic idioms and concepts. He had no faith left in the lucid seduction of vampirism or the mania of lycanthropic transformation. He was left wanting something more insane than the darkest fetish of Wednesday Addams, something weirder than Satan’s favourite sex position. But, having tried these things and finding them not to his taste after all, he instead settled for the standardised practice of necrophilia, and you should count yourself lucky that he did!
The men folk salivated through slack jaws at the sight of her gorgeous plump cheeks, God’s cheeks perhaps, squeezed together over a tight sphincter, hidden away like a nut in a squirrel’s pouch; her tiny coccyx, gently swaying side to side like a stumpy but seductive tail; her toned glutei maximi flexing in a carnal rhythm. Ah, here were some more now. A group of them, all helpless but to acknowledge and appreciate her sumptuous curves and mesmerising hips swinging side to side like a hypnotist’s pendulum.
“hey, hey, check it out. You all right babe?”
“Oh yeah, shake it babe!”
“Wiggle that tush!”
“I gotta get me some of that cooch!”
Ah, so simple and easy to convince. They didn’t even notice the veins, arteries and nerves hanging loosely down like overstretched foreskin so the elasticity has gone, or how her femurs swung uselessly below her like stripped chicken legs. They had a single track mind, and it was aimed solely at her hairless cleft between two taut pimpled butt cheeks. She spun for them, showing off her best angles so that they could see her pelvic girdle, woven through with the piriformis, superior and inferior gemellii and the two obturator internii, sensually straddling her ischia before inserting onto the greater trochanters of her femurs. There were no labia, no clitoris, no urethra or bladder, no vagina, ovaries or uterus. There was no rectum or anus. No organs at all, just the squinty sphincter tucked neatly behind the layered muscles all caked in icing sugar sweet skin.
Still, as she passed by they slapped her and crudely enunciated all the things they’d do with her if she was theirs. She mentally chuckled to herself, ‘if only they knew’. They’d be ashamed. But how were they to know? As far as they were concerned she was just an arse, freely floating around, begging to be fucked.
What Would Happen If I Didn’t Masturbate Once A Day If Not More?
What would happen if I didn’t masturbate once a day if not more? I’m afraid to find out. It could be something drastic, something unbelievably bad that if it happened would mean that my having found out what would happen if I didn’t masturbate once a day if not more would be inconsequential, instead I would have to focus entirely on what had happened because I didn’t masturbate once a day if not more.
Or what if it was something that creeps up, a slow burner, something I wouldn’t notice for longer than I care to run the experiment for, so I miss out on the result that way? It may have turned out to be a profound experience, or some kind of revelatory idea that would enable others to achieve great happiness in their lives, but was doomed never to be unveiled due to its dependency on a greater length of time than I was willing to give to its expression. Of course, it may in turn be something quite ridiculous or hideous perhaps. Something best left unfathomed, untapped, a pure possibility with no hope of actuality. Something that would burden me just so, so as to deprecate my experience or cause strain upon relations I have no wish to bear force against. Oh well, too late to start now anyway. I suppose there’s always tomorrow to begin though.