Then It Was Time For Toronto to Drown in the Sweet Sorrow
#1 of Scribbles
Truth is sometimes nastier than fiction.
Then it Was Time For Toronto to Drown in the Sweet Sorrow
There's a prevailing theory of human consciousness, simple enough for anyone to understand, which reads as follows:
"What the fuck is going on?"
Well, now -- that's the question, isn't it?
From the dawn of time mankind has been asking that same question, a hundred times a day in a hundred different ways. It's all anyone ever really thinks about:
"What the fuck is going on?"
And though we've thought of everything under the sun to try answering that question, we're no closer to the truth. All we know is that we exist (and we don't really know that one, do we now?), so we mill about and make small talk and try to pass the time. We pretend that if we really look like we know what we're doing, and we really try hard to look busy all the time, we can forget about the fact that we're all dying--living and dying and living and dying again on the surface of a little pebble, chucked carelessly out of the hand of some god, bored or mad or both--a little pebble which, need I remind you, is going 67,000 miles per hour around the sun, one of 200 billion stars in a galaxy considered so passé we named a fucking candy bar after it, a galaxy which itself was tossed frisbee style into the void at the staggering speed of 1.3 million miles per hour--and god forbid anything else should be heading the other way! We've got nothing to protect us, nothing to clear the path before us, so if another galaxy--another cluster of dying stars tossed frisbee style by some other bored, mad god--were to show up on our horizon, heading our way... Well, we'd just be right fucked, wouldn't we?
These are the kinds of things that I think about when I'm trying not to blow my load.
Most people don't have such a tough time with sex. It's just sex, isn't it?
Haha, yeah. "Just sex."
First of all, while everything since the dawn of time has been 100% always "just sex," nothing has ever been just sex. That's too easy. We don't like easy. So while some people were busy imposing limits about when and who they were allowed to bang, other people were out there banging anything they could get their hands on. They were busy getting it on with their neighbors, their mothers, their cattle --you name it, someone that you know has fucked it (thank god for condoms, right kids?). And as someone once probably said:
"A hole's a hole!"
Well now. Isn't that something.
To some extent it's true, and to another extent we elevated ourselves as a species (and as decent fucking people) once we decided to lay some ground rules about things. You've got to be an adult, you've got to keep things strictly human, and finally, for the love of god, keep it out of the family. Once you've got the basic rules out of the way (and forgive me if I missed a few, I promise I know what's legal), and once all parties are on board (this is the big sticking point for a lot of the lesser evolved), why, then you're free to have a ball!
Have two, if you want. Fuck it, have four! Why impose more limits?
It didn't take me long to figure all of this out, but it sure took me a while to get acting on it. Practice what you preach, after all--and why should all this sexual information be lost on me?
Why indeed.
The universe, it seems, is not without a sense of irony. So while Mr. Missionary Phi Tau can rub his whiskey-dick till 6 AM, like some Cro-Magnon firestarter working a stick for a spark, those of us who actually know what to do can sometimes only make it a couple of minutes. Seconds, on the worst of nights.
Hence the mid-sex existential crises. Nothing keeps the cum in like the second law of thermodynamics, am I right?
So here I am, trying my damndest not to blow, sandwiched between two people I don't even know, two people whose Christian names I can only guess at, whose appearance I can only judge by their general height and weight. I've seen each of them unclothed only once, and only partially, in the hotel bar before this escapade got started. One of them, a hefty guy dressed snout-to-tail in a cartoon dragon costume, has his dick wedged so far up me I can feel the stars behind my eyes; the other, a girl in a neon blue raccoon suit, moans and wriggles below me. Meanwhile I'm wearing nothing but a collar with two leashes, each end in one of the others' hands. I can feel myself being tugged in two directions at once, a stippling series of shivers running up and down my back. The dragon's claws caress my nipples, and I feel my body seizing. I'm ready to let it all loose.
But by the sounds of it, neither of the others is there yet. So what am I going to do? I don't want to slow this train down by finishing first, and I don't want to be left all alone in the corner while the others finish without me.
So I start thinking about the eventual heat death of the universe. I dedicate every neuron in my feeble human brain to focusing on the most nihilistic of possible outcomes for the human race. Other guys in my situation are thinking about politics or baseball--and probably didn't have to worry what they ate for dinner that night. Probably never had raccoons, dragons, and intercourse all in the same train of thought either. Maybe it's not so weird that I have to think about death to keep myself from coming. Or maybe it's the weirdest part of this whole scenario. Who can say? I'm willing to entertain whatever possibility you're willing to throw at me, as long as it ends with Bluestar Ringtail giving up the fight before I do.
Judging by the muffled moan issuing from her resin coonteeth, it's really only a matter of time.