I had the throbbing feeling that my hand grew another right underneath my eyes; pain and ghost limbs. There’s an endless thesaurus of feelings that the human brain can accrue in this agora of neurons, glial cells, axons, ventricals, but the sympathetic system is something far larger than this little fatty myelin covered factory floating in cerebral spinal fluid – for some, for many – like a ship without a captain. Higher demand for feeling than for thinking, part of it because our still too less evolved dorsolateral prefrontal cortex is the last part of our brain that evolved, but mostly because we’re, through culture (the superego), constantly alienating ourselves from either of these two huge Freudian, if you wish, megastructures: our executive functions, rigged through dopaminergic pathways to a pond of feelings, wants, desires, atavistic rapes, borderline madness, kills and thrills that have a Big-Brother up there, in the houmunculus, our natural us center (ego); Uncle Sam leading from the darkness of our submerged psyche is far stronger than our reasoning, because cognition gathers the energy in the brain, whereas feelings, they’re rushing through each limb and corner and pudgy shape of our body to our body. But do you think I care about feelings more than thoughts? I sometimes do. I had had, like I said, the throbbing feeling that my hand grew another right underneath my eyes; hand – another – eyes; pain and ghost limbs. Incellectual.
I was sitting on a couch I had never sat on before in an empty house, deranged, and I idled my legs to the kitchen and I idled my ghost limb to the faucet and I drank some water, deranged, because half an hour ago I called the intercom of this upscale building where no more than three neighbors were conflicting sounds and thoughts and subliminal messages through the heating pipes whenever one or another would obstreperously express that he exists, I called the intercom for no reason, having come from God knows where, outside, and before I could utter a first and final lie, a man’s voice told me he was just about to come downstairs. I had an intense urge to put my hand through the letter plate and open the door myself, which I did, deranged, I plunged next to a wall that was facing the building’s front door, from behind me and more to my left a corridor spanned and it brought down the news of this guilty pleasure of mine coming down the steps, as he so adequately prophesied, and equally unimportant the news and some letters lay on the floor in front of the front door, so my first and second-most idea was to scramble all those newspapers that were forming a stack, to scramble them like they would never be scrambled by the wind or by chance. The man would come and he would be distracted by the mess I’d made and that would be the end of him, because to kill him through asphyxiation was exactly what I had in mind, a rapid rush through my nervous system and an explosion of taboos being scoured inside my body only to mirror the adrenaline and the sentient response my arm in a deadlock around his neck would entail for him. Would, would, would, he’s coming, step after step, deranged, step after step, he’s talking on the phone – that’s why he didn’t want to talk to me on the intercom, step after… my heart stopped. He’s talking to his kid. “Daddy loves you, have a good day, Susie, and listen to your teacher”. I almost died. He passed by me without even looking, just as I predicted, and stepped over the mess I’d made with his right ear pressing the cellphone to his shoulder, opened the door I had just opened and through an arch of the whole body to the left managed to transfer himself and his daughter’s lovely voice outside the condo without even dreaming I was there. I immediately ran up the stairs and traced his cologne – who wears cologne anymore? who shaves anymore? the old timer clearly had a nice family for himself – to the third and hindmost floor. Door couldn’t be forced, but there was a ladder that lead to the roof. I’m mad, my smile said, so I took off my sneakers and tied them around my neck, I climbed up without pulling the accordion ladder down, slithering in-between the wall and what I was trying to avoid so I wouldn’t make any noise, did a single handed pull-up and calistheniced my way towards the building’s facade. It rained, so I knew my t-shirt I’d use to wipe my naked feet as I entered through the window, and entered I did, and window was open, and wipe, place shoes next to the living room couch and…
I was sitting on a couch I had never sat on before in an empty house, deranged, waiting for the mother to return with the kid… fuck me naked, had the decision to randomly press the button on an intercom and it turned into the thrill of my life. The water my phantom limb gathered in a glass just pushed down the heartbeats that were out of this fucking galaxy. The dad went to work and the mom was supposed to bring the little lady from kindergarten, I hoped, school, whatever, because it was too early – barely 10 am – for the dad to pick her up. Something in their insignificant discussion made me believe that I tied the pieces up like a true detective, deranged, only I was no Hercule Poirot. Heart pounding. Water. I didn’t care if it wasn’t like the way I made it in my mind, this Jigsaw Puzzle fallacy that almost had the strength to give me an erection again. The fuck am I saying, the slight beat on the door I heard just now gave me an erection, I’m so aroused I think I could suffocate that poor man while sticking him up in the back with my… Ding-dong, the door, bro! Deranged… I hear a key trying to unlock it. I don’t hide, I sit on the couch with the glass of water in my hand and wait. One short tap of a heel on the floor of the third floor, just outside the apartment I so eloquently breached and my knob felt like I was muzzleloading cocaine in the anus of a 15 year old woman…
But where the hell am I rushing? I think I know what started this all, and me being on that couch triggered a weird memory from when I was a kid. They gave me some dopamine killing drug like Olanzapine when I was 8 because I talked to myself a lot. Once I started self-conversing, the voices became mad and they owned me like 1000 mouth rapes in a king-sized glory-hole endeavor to fill any erotomaniac with enough pleasure to last a week-time. You know what started this all, I asked myself? The rhythm of this tuberoinfundibular pathway, blind unicorn sex, affianced me to a new and more disgusting side-effect: sexual dysfunctions. I was 8 and I couldn’t have erections. Me and three mates were at a summer camp deep inside the Carpathian cuckold, enjoying humiliation as no girl would talk to us, and we decided to run away at night and mess about in the woods. After countless hours just fucking about in the boscage, about that time when it was about dawning, we found not three, but four urinals in the depths of the forest. No walls, no home for them to be of use to, just four trees closely adjoined and four urinals soured up on them. Quicker than you can say quicky, we did the only conceivable thing: we aligned in front of them and we started masturbating in them. First kid, mad with fervor, pulled it like he was done plowing the lengthy field – he did have a rather big one for his age, God bless his nut satchel – and just cambered his back while his hand did the trick, eyes zoned out, head almost touching his intertransversarii muscles from his cervical spine, second one did it properly according to his religion, jacking his flask organ in shame and thoughts of “guys, this is stupid”, third one had another significant dipstick, and I, who the guys were now all blatantly glaring at because I had never masturbated in my life, because I had that stupid affection from the Olanzapine, pinching it, slapping it, pulling it by the foreskin, jiggling it, wiggling it, twitching it, joggling it, making it look like I maneuvered a millipede, petting the balls like they fell asleep during a Skid Row concert, and the guys looking and looking and looking and one said, “he never done it”, and the religious kid laughing with divergent pride, as he wasn’t in the spotlight anymore, and me shuddering under a spasmodic laugh, then clenching my teeth, “here’s Johnny” in the crevice made with an axe in the wooden door, the crevice my urethra’s begging me to call urethra for its, urine’s, corpus cavernosa’s, corpus spongiosum’s sake and little Johnny’s sake, why not. They laughed and I had an outer body experience where an invisible cameraman dropped the camera on the bed of leaves, the light that came now not from the nozzled up passionate celestial body, the boys’ started following me with their phones, , wood rattling with desperate assgasm sounds, catcher mits in the trees staring in disappointment at me like I should have fucking known…
Now I get my kicks from doing bad things to random people. Each day I find myself knocking on doors, talking to strangers, telling them the most disgusting things, like “I raped your mom when she was little”, or even worse, catch a kid by the ear and while he’s struggling to cut loose I yell, “I didn’t flush, and that huge lump of shit that was floating in the toilet got inside your mom’s mouth as I was performing anal and hurting her knees on the cold grit stone”. I once went on a full rampage and took a kid I met on a shit posting closed group on Facebook, I took him out munging. This is what happened: me and the 16 year old pulled up an obituary and went bee’s knees inside a fresh grave, dug up old Chewy and then played rock, paper, scissors over who was going to put his mouth over the dead man’s anus; if you won at r-p-s (or if you lost, depending on how fucked up you are), you got to play John Cena from atop the poor ‘victim’s cross and hurtle elbow deep inside the confinement of his grave, over his belly, projecting all the remains and decaying goo and shit and larva, through the intestines, inside the mouth of the… well, the kid, because I did the old (depending on how fucked up you are) scam and he lost either way. I just wanted to see him get down nitty gritty.
My shoes were next to the couch, just in case I had to kill her and flee, but damn, she just walked in… too late to plan anything… what a gorgeous woman; blonde, simple, a flowered dress, looking like the Wild Rose from that Irish folk tale or from Nick Cave’s rendition. I let her come in; didn’t mum a word.
‘Are you…?’, prolonging her final vowel in a shrill voice.
‘Are you?!’, mimicking her, trying to feign surprise.
‘The friend that was supposed to water the flowers while…’ she got cut off by my:
‘They hedged their bets, oh no… they got me to do the same thing. That way little Susie’, thank God I have good memory, ‘wouldn’t come back to a haunted house with dust and dead plants pilling up’.
Gave her a smile. That was the best I could, and by the looks of her amazed countenance, it didn’t really work. She didn’t buy it. She reminded me of a girl that was 15 and we were all at a cabin in the woods, graciously endowed access to it by one of the 8 male – 3 female group’s parents, a kind gentleman who in his stupidity used supine cowardice as a way to argue that “they’re but kids, let them have their harmless fun, honey!” We were all roughly the age of 16-17, the youngest of us all being this blonde haired 15 year old mermaid that told us a story. She said, “Have you guys ever played The Tub?! It’s, well, a naughty game, but I played it once and it was super! You take a plastic washing basin or a small tub in which you can fit your ass – clearly my little ass can fit in almost any washbasin – and you sit there naked with 7-8 guys spinning you, and whomever has the pleasure of the basin picking him, in other words, where the basin stopped, that guy would have to fuck me for 5 minutes. Then round and round again! I did this, regrettably, with only 4 guys, all of them older than me – I think the oldest one was 31 – but still, we had fun for almost 8 hours, until I was sore, haha”. We were all in shock, well, “we”… I ‘read’ past her story and saw the young Barbie’s intentions. We were 8 guys now and she explained how the game would be played with 7-8 human male examples. Come on, it’s obvious! Every junkie, including a sex junkie, notwithstanding a sex junkie, wants a bigger dose in order to get his high. She did it with 4, now we were 8 and 2 other girls. Fun, fun, fun. Lamentably, I never joined the pastime. Nobody did anything. I was the only one for whom the bells tolled; the others were just awkward, like they were there with their wives or something. But what kicks do I get from simple mental stimulation, oh my – oh my… incellectual.
‘That’s amazing!’, she woke me up with a brisk ejaculated laughter.
She scooted on the couch and there, half a meter from me, she woke me up from my réminiscence.
‘I’m Joanne!’ Jolene, Jolly, so happy to meet you, heedless fatality of my ad-hoc gambit. You’re a peach, that’s what you are, a peach.
‘I’m Synth, but it’s pronounced like the Catholic Cardinals would pronounce it: sin.’
‘Wow, weird parents, huh? We should be friends!’
You have no idea… you have no idea.
 An intellectual involuntary celibate
 Pushing chewing tobacco or some other drug down a partner’s anus with your penis;
 An orgasm achieved from anal stimulation
 A worn out pussy
 A hole in the wall where women that cum with special dietary
dispositions can masturbate, have sex and/or blow complete strangers
 Paranoid erotic delusional belief
 When a husband wants to be humiliated by willingly watching
another man fuck his wife, voluntary incel, incelleption
 A metaphor for a sexual intussusception, not the bowel problem in kids,
but the balls on your face problem for gay adults
 It’s a quick orgasm right before work, but don’t fret, usually it’s the male that gets it
 That’s actually called a starfish fuck… or is it a tfaf?! a flush fuck?!
 Munging is and has been oh-so elegantly explained in the text itself. Thank you, reader! Thanks for coming in the footer like a little school boy. Carry on! Tally-ho!