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The Idiot Box

There was a Television set in every household that hosted an atomic family, or what was left of one. There was a time when the coming of this new technology caused grief and horror. But with time, these anxieties passed, leaving only grinning mindless faces to bask in the glow of that box. Bask mindlessly in its representation of reality.

The new religion. The ancient ones, outdated, and just plain convenient in a time where convenience was everything, fell by the wayside, covered in the dust of ruined shrines. Gone were the playful misogynies of Moses or Paul, or Ali or Buddha. Gone the voyeurism of David and polygamies of Solomon and Muhammad. Gone was the craftiness of the Greek God Zeus, in his quest to make any human female form he fancied his. Gone were Aphrodite's infidelity against her creative husband Hephaestus for the exotic thrill of that destroyer of stone and flesh Ares, and all his dangerous masculine charms.

Gone was the worship and control of the female form, which went hand-in-hand with each other. When that secular totem made its way within the suburban walls in every house in the western world, the old gods dried up and withered away or disappeared into the clouds of Wild West Gun Smoke and gangster movie tommy gun fire. And with it dried up the respect for the female body and all its nuances. Because with it came female empowerment, a fine innovation in all respects, even a moral and morally necessary one. In all respects except one.

No woman, not even a lesbian one, could appreciate the female body the way a straight male could. In fact, no woman could appreciate the male body the way a gay male could. Women weren’t creatures of the physical world, but trapped in it within these cages they call bodies, were forced to make due and forced to protect themselves from all the unwanted situations their bodies thrusted them, ass backward, into.

All of human history could be summed up into the image of a beautiful naked young woman running, panting and sweating, tits and ass jiggling through civilizations and epochs, with a muscled and battle-ready man hot on her heels, naked from the waist down, his hard cock swinging arrogantly through the air, and his face a canvas for the dual dose of aroused bliss and frustrated longing.

And even as the vote was given to women, the chase continued. It continued until she was chased into an idyllic picket-white fenced scene, house after house, identical without character and soul, windows closed for the air-conditioning, private and snug, and ending in a house, where both male and female stopped dead in their tracks, for the first time in 200,000 years, to watch the glow of that strange contraption in the corner of the living room. Suddenly, the man’s cock softens, and his muscles disappear, and the woman, transfixed on a program detailing how to make that troublesome butt smaller, stares in fascination, only taking her eyes of the idiot box to look behind her at her own butt, large and cumbersome, a burden she had no interest in carrying.

And this was the death of beauty and the thrill of the chase. It wasn’t any of the political isms that talking heads on both sides of the aisle tried to sell to you from that infernal box, it was the box itself that destroyed it all. That centralizing of all human attention on the lowest common denominator, a feat impossible through all of human history. And though religion repressed the human spirit, it also made us believe that there was more out there. That some transcendent principal existed beyond all the walls and the flesh. It filled the imagination with hellish dark abysses with scaly monstrosities crawling through black flame and glorious rings and rays of sun along glinting golden armor among a choir of featureless angelic beings, born only to celebrate the glory of creation and all within it.

And women, though more a mind for the familiar and safe, than the ascendant and awe-inspiring, were forced to live in a world that, seeing what was truly important, favored their bodies over their minds. And this was the sacred wall that was smashed by the wrecking ball that that evil box wrought.

You were the son of one of those beautiful bodies. And though you loved your mom, and loved her more than you loved any other person, you loved her body more. And like all young men, your worship of that stupid rectangle in your living room was a distant second to your worship of a more classical God: Pornography.

Alexis Texas fat, white ass rode a cock for millions, worldwide, liberating them from the confines of regulatory bodies and scheduled programming. She was the new Joan of Arc, and the transcendent spoke through her ass. She was the only ass you had ever seen comparable to your moms, but unlike your mom, she used it for good. She became her body. And like the religions of long, forgotten ages, she filled your mind with the thought of what’s possible. What could be though wasn’t through sheer stubbornness on the part of those who could make it happen. Your mom was one of these stubborn, lulled by the glow of that box into believing it was okay.

Her ass was one in a million. As a tailor, she knew this. She had knelt down with a tape measurer, face-to-face with ass, and none of them have ever compared to hers. How this didn’t instill her with a drive toward a higher calling was shocking to you. And it made you realize that as her son, the higher calling was yours to chase. Through any means necessary.

The dealer, an old acquaintance from school, sold it to you with a smile on his face and asked “who’s the lucky lady?”

“My mom,” you admitted without looking him in the eye.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “We always wondered if you loved her ass as much as we did. Now I know.”

“It’s not for me,” you explained, pausing, afraid to tell him the truth. “It’s for Craig.”

Your dealer looked at you with shock. “Craig? The Craig who started the rumor that you were gay? The Craig who stole your entire binder of Pokemon cards and threw them in the fire pit at camp? The Craig who gave you your first beer at Melissa’s party but really it was a bottle of his own piss?”

“The same,” you said, face red with shame and your chest red with warmth.

“I can’t fucking believe it. This is the most awesome thing I’ve heard this year, I think. You know,” he said, as if just realizing something, “he used to often talk about wanting to force himself on your mom. It’s crazy that he’s getting his shot all these years later. Is he excited?”

“I don’t know” you said. “I haven’t asked him yet.”

“Well,” he said, “why did you buy the blue then? Shouldn’t you have waited to find out for sure if he was down?”

“No, I wanted to make sure I’d go through with it, and the best way would be to get the pills in my dresser. Just knowing they’re there will inspired me to act, I think.”

“Smart. But make sure you don’t rely on that alone. You know how many buyers I have who have these pills sitting in their sock drawer from years ago? Or guys who end up drugging a 6 because they feel too intimidated to go after a 10, even though she’s not going to be awake to reject them? Procrastination and excuse-making is a disease. You have to act, understand?” He grabbed your shoulder suddenly and nodded to you. You nodded back “So when you gonna tell Craig?”

“That’s the thing I wanted to ask you,” you said, embarrassed, “Can you tell Craig?” He had a big smile on his face now. “Interesting,” he said with his thumb and forefinger propping up his chin.

“I saw Craig a few months ago at Wal-Mart and… and I p-pissed my pants. It was the strangest thing. Luckily he didn’t see me. I got out there quickly and ran home through the open field. I can’t talk to Craig, my body won’t let me. I had to build up all my courage to just come talk to you, and you were always nice to me.” Nice meant he only laughed at you when Craig did something horrible, not join in. “Can you tell him I want him to fuck her. Tell him he can do anything he wants to her. Rub his cock on her face and do all types of cool stuff. Tell him I need it and tell him it needs to be him. I need his cock and pelvis and thighs and stomach and butt, and that face. The face and smile I see in my nightmares. I need him, please. ”

He started laughing. “You don’t need to fight this hard to convince me. You had me at ‘I want to see Craig fuck my mom.’ I don’t think it’ll take much to convince him either. I just need to find a way to contact him. I haven’t talked to that scumbag in years and didn’t want to until now. Oh, this is going to be good.”

You left the dealer’s apartment walking on air. You were so deep in thought, you were almost hit by a van on your way home. “Watch where you’re going you fucking idiot.”

You said “sorry,” red in the face, but as you rounded the corner, a smile took hold of you. You got the phone call 3 hours later.

“So you’re going to let me tax that ass now, huh?” he said without even saying hello. “Yeah,” you said.

“I knew you were an even bigger loser than you let on. I didn’t know how. I didn’t think it would be this. Thank god it is though. Only you could invent a new way to be a cuck.”

“When are you coming?”

“An hour sound good?”

“Just let me knock her out first.”

“An hour. Get to it. I’m shutting off my phone now.”


Shit, you thought. You had to work quickly, and you had to cross your fingers and hope that your mom was at all thirsty. If not, you’d have to force the pill down her throat, which wouldn’t be as crazy as it seemed. One of the effects of blue velvet was short term memory loss. The prospect of this thrilled you, but all the ways you knew it could go wrong didn’t.

Luckily, when you left the safety of your room, ready for action, you could see a clear glass of water with rays of sunshine splitting into a rainbow and riding through it. Jackpot, you thought.

Your mom sat next to it, watching bad day-time television. It filled her head with sexless mediocrity disguised as information and entertainment, creating biases in her that never should have existed, making her a soldier against your cause: ascension from the concerns of social convention, and elevation through worship of the human body and its strangeness. Your mom was about to become a cog in achieving this ascension, and she didn’t even know it, because the prolefeed she consumed from her idiot box didn’t prepare her for things like this. In that way it was your ally. Her false sense of security was your only friend now.

You shook violently as you headed down the hall, and when you emerged in the light of the living room, you leaned over the back of your mom’s couch, and while asking “w-whatcha watching?”, you slipped the illicit chemical, a compound as removed from her usual day-to-day experiences as H2SO4 or 5meo-DMT, from the sweaty embrace of your palm into the cool universe of her water. Her banal mind commanded her transcendent face to reply to your banal question, while her transcendent body sparkled in the sunlight, an invitation to do wonderful things to it.

You distracted her long enough so the blue could dissolve, that miracle substance, source of some beautiful oblivion, eternity within a slight blue cloud, now spreading dissolving, a universe unto itself, now disguised, within seconds, as the mundane liquid we all know as water. Just in time for your mom to finish explaining to you all the drearily boring tidbits and cosmic-ignorant gossip of her show, straight from the cut and paste honeycombs of this cultures central beehive: Hollywood and/or New York.

A sewer for creativity and genuine emotion. A grabbag of IPs and established works from the same 6 or 7 playwrights or authors ready to be adapted. But who was a Tennessee Williams compared to a bluvelvet99? Who was Oscar Wilde? At one time, they were on the cutting edge. But now that their style and sexuality had become mainstream, your mom’s banal midday viewing had a gay host on the couch chatting with the girls, This was being transmitted to everyone from the coasts to flyover country. From the wild open-mindedness of San Fransisco and Seattle, to the deep rural south. This once transgression image had become the new normal, and with it, had became dry and boring. it was time for a new batch of visionary sexuality to come through. And come through it was going to.

Your mom reached below you for her glass of water, as deceptively mundane to the naked eye as deceptively transcendent her body and face was. Her shell was a vehicle for an empty void, and that water was the vehicle for an apocalypse of Dionysian heights, vanquishing the uninspired with a tongue made of sword and flame. A slave in heaven or a master in hell? That was now a false dichotomy. You would soon be both. As long as she kept sipping from that glass, eyes reflecting the repellently boring image of that box.

Your mom’s true worth as a woman started to emerge as her mind started to shut down. She was like a flower blooming its beautiful colors as her head dropped and her eyelids closed like a curtain on the last act of a Shakespeare play. You kissed her on her forehead, anointing her for what was to come next.

Your former bully arrived almost an hour after his call, on the dot. You greeted him at the door with your mom in your arms, as if carrying her over the threshold after an incestuous marriage. Her bottoms sunk between your elbows, its weight eager to touch the hardwood flooring below. Her butt was already out and free, a detail your bully visibly appreciated. You had been kissing and kneading it, loving it unconditionally, the only condition being its size, which it owed to you and always had.

He immediately walked up to you and began slapping and grabbing each beautiful butt cheek, pushing you and your mother backward as he did, causing you to fall to the floor with her on top of you. That didn’t give him a moment of pause. He was as indifferent to your mom’s dignity as the universe, or rather, like the universe, actively hostile towards it. Before you could even get up, or push your mom off of you, he began rubbing his now-exposed genital region along her face. “Fuck yeah,” you whispered.

“You fucking freak,” he said back. “Thank God you’re so fucking sick.” You weren’t sure, but you sense a hint of strange respect, even through all his contempt for you.

You blushed in misery and excitement, the nectar of the gods. The feeling you figured Jesus must have had in his final moments. If the Virgin Mary had a fat ass, would God have saved humanity from their original sin in a different way? Would some Pharisee, or a Roman Centurion, or a group of them, have had more fun this way? Would Pilate have to wash his cock and pelvis of its sweat and those juices and smell instead of those guilty hands?

He picked her up by her tank top and the pants bunched up around her shins and carried her like luggage to the nearest bedroom, which ironically was the guest room, where her parents or brother slept when they came to visit. I guess it wasn’t that ironic. To you, he was a guest. But to your mom, he was an invader. Not just in her house. But in her body.

You watched him invade.

The Rape of Lucretia. The end of a kingdom, the beginning of something more.

“Okay, so Susan is here to tell us how to make her neighborhood famous bunt cake,” the gay man on the TV said. Then he lowered his butter knife down as the camera panned with it, until a soft white, round cake came into view. He lowered his knife into the cake’s pristine dignity and penetrated its removed picturesque glory without pause

. “Ooh, look how soft it is,” he celebrated. He lifted a piece of it toward his mouth and chewed with satisfaction.

“How is it?’ the pretty middle-aged blonde host prodded.

He had a transcendent smile on his face as if riding the aura of a cloud. “It’s heavenly.”

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