DICK TURPITUDE

DICK TURPITUDE
Marc Nash

It’s getting harder and harder. The mental vault of grainy images has withered on the vine. Repetitive referencing has voided clarity and crispness. Familiarity defocused the verisimilitude of the two dimensional, flush flesh. Dog-eared pages of crinkled plasma have lost their sheen. Prompted jump cuts between the mental recollection of frames. Bongo mags, TV on slo-mo or freeze frame and internet streaming, any and every home entertainment has been consumed and husked. Endless replication has denuded the power of the image to spark the brain, fire the jaded palate. En/hard core pithed and deseeded, but not in any satisfactory way.

His curled fingers glance his glans listlessly. To stroke without an imagistic filter is a mechanical act. Axis and spindle lacking lubrication. Rasping skin against skin, he is only likely to chafe it sore. He flicks at his member, trying to picture a woman’s tongue in place of his digit. The image breaks up into a melange of multi-coloured pixels inside his head. The vertical hold of his imagination goes south and his cock just stings momentarily at the scourge of his calluses.

He’s thrown back to grasping at the flickering reproduction fabricated by his mind. Its function like that of a car’s spark plug. It just needs to get the motor going. Ticking over. Pump priming. Something to stir the sump. Just to convey him over the hump in the road. Somehow he happens upon a configuration on the web he hasn’t encountered before. Ridiculous, cheesy, but something paraphractical speaks to a teasable synapse of his that fortunately mainlines into the limbic trunkroad. Past the burned out shells of emotion and appetites. More desert storm than shock and awe, but victims of a turkey shoot all the same. Oh for chemical weapons. Or the report of the real flesh and blood mass of a woman to justify that very popping of a pill.

He shuts his eyes. As he begins to manipulate his outward sex, some tremulous scintillations pass on the inside of his eyelids. But he knows they have nothing to do with excitation. More with friction and the rheumatic cranking into gear of attenuated sex circuitry.

As the screen siren played out her desultory show reel, he could afford to break off his engagement with her celluloid eyes and cellulite skin. For his hand had picked up the rhythm. Antiphonal with her ill-dubbed moans, he moved to petting his snake with feathery touch. She receded from his senses, though she remained remotely portending a happy outcome by cats cradling the secretion exuded over her.

His localised blood transfusion was communing with its brethren corpuscles. The penile pulse calling forth a bubbling within his hand and wrist as they fell into metrical harmony. Tempo timpani juddering within his ears. A hormonal catechism. Succussion percussion. His quickening bearing calling forth a matching acceleration of his squeezing. Grazing passing over into tugs and jerks, beyond his localised motor control. Utterly in thrall to the rhythmic drumming of the throb. Febrile scraping of the skin, leaving islands of scalped flesh. The discomfort overridden by the mounting elation, the brain’s analgesic hormones fitfully deployed so as to preserve its meagre high.

Then the fatal crossing over. All scanty pleasures of the sensations, the sparking behind the eyes, any lingering residual visual images or fleeting flashbacks to real flesh and blood interactions, obliterated by the urgent press. The push-me, pull me of wanting to sustain the tension like an endless guitar solo, fighting against the desperate need to reach the summit. The tipping point, the critical mass these days was always asserting itself, pushing notions of sustained relish aside in the anxiety that he might not brush across the finishing tape.

And so the chrysalis cleaved apart its silky goo. But if any butterfly emerged, it plunged straight to its extinction. A sticky white impromptu inkblot test on the quilt. Feeling flat. Leaving behind the shivered puparium, its scaly hide contracting into itself. A failed metamorphosis that neglected to yield transformative, fresh life. But only delivers a stain on the quilt. Dirty beast.

©2012 This work is the property of the author.

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  1. A libidinous and linguistically lunatic piece from Marc Nash. For those of you who read his SPEAK TO THE MONKEY NOT THE ORGAN GRINDER, you’ll know this man needs some form of help.

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