DEVIANTS: Half-Elves and Helicopters by Gregory Purvis


Reay Tannahill—in her interesting and informative book Sex in History—gives readers an overview of human sexuality from our primitive prehistory paternity, down through the rise of the first great ancient societies to modern gender roles and pornography. But, as with all histories that attempt to cover countless generations of human society, Tannahill couldn’t (and didn’t) detail every dot, dash, footnote and freak. But reading between the lines, the oddities of the past make sweet love to the present…and approximately 9 months into the future you get a brand-spanking new generation of strange bedfellows.

In other words, there is nothing new under the sun. No new perversion, sexual deviance, sex position or fetish is likely to be much of a surprise when you consider the length of a man’s…history.

Take, for instance, Edward Smith of Yelm, Washington.

Eddie owns a 1974 Volkswagen Beetle. But it’s not for transportation. Oh, no. “Vanilla” (as Ed calls her) is his girlfriend. And this is definitely a friendship with benefits.

“[Vanilla] is a sexy, sensuous name,” Ed tells a documentary filmmaker. “Almost every inch of her body is a thing of beauty.”

And though I should be asking WHY and HOW (exactly) this man makes sweet love to his Volkswagen, the thought that keeps interrupting these more practical questions is: what part of “her” body isn’t a thing of beauty..?

My best guess is the license plate. I try to picture this gnome-like man getting it on with Vanilla’s chrome-plated tailpipe. Then he looks down, maybe gives Vanilla’s German rump a playful slap, and sees…the tag. It expired last month! And maybe—just maybe—that realization would intrude on Ed’s fantasy enough so that reality hits him in the face like a squirt of 40-weight motor oil:

“What am I doing?” I imagine Ed asking himself, suddenly ashamed. “I’m sticking my dingus into my car. I think I may need professional advice—and not from a mechanic.”

But the truth is, Ed doesn’t see anything wrong with the love he feels for Vanilla.

“She’s my lover,” he says, proudly. “And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

Ed even writes love poems to his car:

Vanilla Beetle of 74

Your creamy body I adore

Flesh and metal, overwhelm

Man and Car become one


Where my sun sets, freed

From the light of day and dark

I leave my loving seed.


The documentary then shows Ed walking his dog, and you can see the relief in the dog’s eyes. It doesn’t take a K9 psychologist to figure out what Ed’s dog is thinking:

“Thank God he doesn’t like Schnauzers.”

The same documentary interviews another man who has an even weirder sexual fetish—if you can believe that. This guy has an obsessive sexual desire for the souped-up helicopter of the 80’s TV show Airwolf.

He followed air shows like hippies followed the Grateful Dead, going anywhere the object of his desire was on display. Apparently he managed a few moments of alone-time with Airwolf at one of these shows:

“I just couldn’t hold back,” he admits.

When he heard that Airwolf suffered severe injuries in a crash, his grief was nearly overwhelming. Just talking about it to the documentary filmmaker (presumably years later) was enough to make him emotional all over again.

The 2013 movie “The Counselor”  [Directed by Ridley Scott / Screenplay by Cormac McCarthy]

features a hot-and-bothered Cameron Diaz having sex with Javier Bardem’s yellow convertible Ferrari.  He describes the event as resembling a catfish—an animal I personally find repulsive.  Then again, I can put it out of my mind for Cameron Diaz.

It’s a little easier to understand when the object of obsession is a human being, however. But what if it’s a half-elf like Bjork? Her stalker, who painted his face up like Mel Gibson in Braveheart and recorded a strange, rambling video diary before committing suicide, left some clues about his odd desires:

“Today I searched the Internet for obsessive details on Bjork. I want to fuck her. Which I suppose means that I’m some kind of Neanderthal. I’m not supposed to admit infatuation (lust) when it’s attached to someone as “vital” an artist as she is. But I can’t help it. Like all geeks, my darkest fantasy (besides jackbooted world domination) is sexual relations with an elf. And Bjork, despite that horrid song “Human Behavior” is quite obviously not human. I will leave the exact nomenclature of her fey race to the type of experts who speak Klingon and write poems in Tolkien’s Quenya.”

Now, this guy is FUNNY.

Err…WAS funny.


Lawyers and Nazis by Gregory Purvis
March 24, 2014, 8:38 pm
Filed under: Let's Play Dress-up! | Tags: , , ,

220px-Alfred_Jodl_USA-E-Ardennes-2Megacon in Orlando was this past weekend, and it’s been all over the local media. I recall the good old days when us geeks were left to moulder in the corner with the goths (who in my opinion are all hypocritical dicks, because they bitch about how alone and hated they are by the popular kids, but they are just as exclusive and unfriendly to others as the aforementioned “in-crowd”). WHAT HAPPENED? All of a sudden everyone thinks its cool to play D&D and read comic books. Not only was every news station and radio station running live feeds or stories about the Con, but the prices had gone sky-high. So I stayed home, by my cantankerous old-man self.

I was thinking of old friends (being alone), and I remembered something an old girl friend of mine told me about dating a lawyer in the small town where we went to high school. This guy used to brag to the local legal community how he was so much superior because he had gone to Harvard Law School. Wow. I’m so impressed. This basically just means he comes from money (don’t argue; he didn’t “earn his way in by his grades”, this isn’t ‘Good Will Hunting’, just shut up–he’s a rich boy asshole, okay?), and that doesn’t impress me. My family came from money, too. They spent it all and I don’t have shit. So Hahvaad doesn’t mean much to me. Apparently she was fascinated with him, though. Probably because he WAS intelligent, and so is she. We were all kind of a mix of geeks, heavy-metalheads, and punks (in a town of 14,000 or so), so I suppose it was only natural for her to look for someone with more to talk about than pot and the new Butthole Surfers record.

But, being our friend, she let us know after the relationship soured what a true freak lawyers are. Apparently his thang was to dress in an (apparently authentic) SS officers uniform. Now, being a punk/electronic thrash/weirdo raised in the 80’s, I went through a stage where a friend of mine and me shaved our heads and wore white-shirts with our Kool 100’s rolled up in the sleeves and Doc Martins. We were skin heads for a week or three–but not the Nazi variety. Just the “no hair” variety. I’m giving this lawyer the benefit of the doubt, and assuming the uniform was just his “dress-up rebellion” uniform. Well, actually, it was his sexual uniform, according to my friend.

I think I’ve written about this before, not that I’m typing but I don’t care because I hate lawyers and the legal system in general. And who knows? Maybe he watched films of Hitler making speeches in Nuremberg like Klaus Kinski in that freaky movie ‘Crawlspace’ and jacked off.

Whether he did or didn’t, I’m wondering how far dress-up sexual games are cool to get into..? I mean, is it REALLY just cosplay if you are a mixed-racial couple and you secretly play “slave in the Big House”? Or you are a lawyer who has an authentic black SS uniform and you are playing “Himmler’s Ho”?
What is crossing the line?
Ah, he was a Nazi anyway. He had a law degree.

HOSPITAL SEX by Gregory Purvis

…which is, honestly, a bit misleading as a title. Because I got none. In 12 long days of hospitalization, I received no erotic sponge baths or chronic priapism treatment (supposedly a nurse-provided hand-job to relieve the “intense pain” of a chronic erect penis…if you believe the novel “Descent from Xanadu” by Harold Robbins that is) from scantily-clad (or otherwise) nurses.

But it wasn’t from lack of trying. Now, I’m not going to try and convince you that I was at my sexiest during these 12 days. I mean, with an IV and miscellaneous wires and other medical technology constantly connected to my svelte frame, it was hard to do any grooming. So I’m sure my hospital breath (made all the more potent from the nasty food they force on invalids), combined with my scraggly appearance and the doubtful fashion sense of the partially-ripped hospital johnny they forced me to wear, made me pretty damn irresistible…but obviously SOMETHING was up, as I was NOT on my game. How can they resist a guy like me? I wondered, calling for another complimentary Vicodin.

The weird thing was, ALL of my nurses during those 12 days were incredibly hot, with one exception. Think about how rare that must be: we’re talking 12 days–thats 24 12-hour shifts. And during all that time and all those nurses, ALL but ONE of them was fodder for my sick-bed sex fantasies! How can this be, you ask?

Well, quite probably you think that my standards are either always or were temporarily lowered, due to sickness. Wrong on both counts, my friends. I have incredibly high standards for erotic nurse fantasies. During this period there were no male nurses. There were no short, dumpy perpetually pissed-off divorced nurses whose jobs had become so tedious and unrewarding that they actually looked forward to going home to a gaggle of snot-nosed rug monsters at the end of 12 hours of wiping asses, cleaning pus from wounds, and handing out the aforementioned complimentary Vicodin. There were no pregnant nurses, either–to my knowledge. MY nurses were young, tan, well-built and well-proportioned. Actually, the sexiest nurse wasn’t a nurse at all but the girl who came in once-a-day to empty the garbage cans and clean the bathroom. The medical maid, or whatever you call them. She was 23, blonde, and beautiful.

I chatted them up. They were (for the most part) kind. I offered to share my Vicodin with several, but they declined. Sigh. No party girls. Nice to look at, but I wasn’t going to be able to start my own little throw-down while hooked-up to all this medical technology.

Oh, I said “all but one”, didn’t I? Don’t get me wrong. The “one” I refer to was an attractive cougar. But she was a little slow with my 3 A.M. Vicodin (hey, I stayed UP for those!), and when she DID arrive she was a little bitchy. So you can’t win em all over to the Dark Side, I guess. Still, all-in-all, I’d have to say my hospital stay was visually stimulating but physically depressing. I’ll blame it on the johnny. It didn’t do much for my figure.

BLOOD LUST by khemistry

By GP & 3J

PART 1: The Challenge: “It’s ON, bitch!”

LUST. Say it. Go on…nobody will hear you. La-La-L-U-S-T…lluuusssst…Even the name sounds naughty. (And nice.) It makes your mouth water, makes you drool. Makes you hard (or wet or both). And you can apply it to so MANY wonderful lusty things: a gram of really good, flaky coke (the kind that’s real yellow)…a set of golf clubs…a beautiful tall blonde…a pair of Bruno Magli shoes…so what happened to lust? It used to be about something sexy.  But–more and more often–it’s about something sick. A flood of “alternative sexuality” threatens to drown the sexy in sewage–literally, in some cases. Take the popularity of “Two Girls, One Cup”. (Don’t pretend you’ve never heard of it). Youtube may eschew your standard, garden-variety porn, but if you don’t need to see skin you can find examples of almost any kind of weirdness imaginable. Scrape a little deeper below the surface of the Web and the porn begins to change from skin and sin to something darker. Youtube’s rather mild (though completely disgusting) pus videos give way to castration, videotaped suicides…and worse. And the comments are sometimes more disturbing than the main event. They reveal–with all the anonymity of email servers–a fascination with blood, bodily fluids and brutality that is as old as sin itself.

It’s a sick, sad world we live in. As a couple ‘liberal’ Gen-X’ers, we’re SUPPOSED to feel all warm and fuzzy inside about our fellow human beings, no matter how sick and sad our fellow humans are in the privacy of their bedrooms. This was pretty easy to do for a long time. After all, 3Jane is (she claims) a bisexual [NOTE/G.P.: Which to me is pretty much the same as saying you are the Easter Bunny; my personal belief is that you are either straight or gay. Or greedy.] [NOTE/3Jane: Fuck you.], and though I myself am straight, I’ve many close friends and relatives who pitch for the other team, and this has never bothered me or made me feel in any way threatened. Both of us share the opinion that being gay shouldn’t preclude you from being a fully-functional member of society, or sharing in the rights and responsibilities of said society. Basically, we don’t CARE who you love. From this point, Jane and I begin to differ somewhat in our beliefs. I still believe in monogamy, despite my own failures to maintain it from time-to-time. Jane believes that you can have a functional, healthy relationship with two or more different partners at the same time. Personally, I have seen this type of thing kill more than one otherwise strong relationship, and I tend to believe that “open marriages” become closed chapters rather quickly. Be that as it may (or may not), both Jane and I are fairly liberal about sex in general. So long as you and your significant other (or plaything) are both over 18 and there is no violence involved (unless of course it’s of a mutually-desireable nature), have at it. There has rarely been a more unexciting subject for me than what someone else does in the privacy of his or her boudoir. Unless I have an invitation. 

Of course–as we’ve previously noted–this is a sick, sad world we live in, ladies and gentlemen.  There is no limit to the perversity of the human mind. Just meander through the Internet for an hour, and you can find some very dark and disturbing perversity. It doesn’t take a lot of effort to find this stuff, either. For the lazy, there are webstes like Craigslist, Youtube, Ebaum’s World, That’s Phucked, and Portal of Evil.

So what happened to eating pussy? Sucking dick? Big tits and cocks and juicy, hot love? Have we traded in “sexy” lust for “sick lust”? Does being all-inclusive mean including those who get off watching videos of some guy getting the pus drained from an abcess on his ass? COME ON! “Sexy” is increasingly being hidden underneath a nasty layer of mung and foulness. Do we have to be THIS accepting of what turns each other on, that somehow it’s “okay” if you get your rocks off watching some fat guy sit on an empty mayonnaise jar and then stick a screwdriver up his pee-hole?

Jane and I have spent the last two hours trying to “out-gross” each other, like a couple of giggling 10-year old boys reading Garbage Pail Kids cards to each other…or filling out Mad Libs with words like “ass maggot”, “douche”, and “titty eater”. We’re texting each other: “OMG!! Go to Youtube and type in ‘ass pus suck’ “. We’ve watched two Asian women drink from a large cup they’ve defecated and vomited into; an off-duty Australian RN remove bot fly larvae from the back of her boyfriend; a naked woman fart and queef [NOTE: for the uninformed, a ‘queef’ is basically a pussy fart] into a large chocolate cake, blowing frosting into the air and coating her naughty girl parts in Duncan Hines Double Fudge Deluxe; a ‘Doctors Without Borders’ doctor in rural India drain two liters of yellow-green pus from a young man’s back; and–finally–a woman dressed as a nun, jabbering in German, chases a man dressed as a priest (but inexplicably naked below the waist) down, sticks a couple fingers up his ass, pulls out a turd, then smears the “dookie” (as she calls it)across her face and eats what’s left. Jane and I are laughing so hard we’re crying [NOTE/3J: I was mostly trying not to throw up by this point], and this was the EASY stuff to find.

So we decide to go on a treasure hunt, of sorts: what is the grossest, most perverse stuff on the Internet?

I Wanna Be A Giggling Teenage Girl by Gregory Purvis

Okay, so I don’t really want to be a giggling teenage girl. At least, not for any meaningful amount of time. But imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when science might let us “try on” different bodies. Is it so hard to believe? Making spare parts to order is still in its infancy, but it IS possible. And we already try on different personas for recreational (even therapeutic) reasons. Millions of people waste (or invest, depending on your point-of-view) much of their real life pretending to be someone else, online. Probably 75% of the “teenage girls” in chat rooms are bored, middle-aged guys. And there are even virtual spaces–like Second Life–where you can interact with other people doing the same exact thing. Who knows? You might even meet your soul mate, fall in love, and live happily ever after. Blah blah blah. Of course, creating an online avatar is a LOOOOOONNNNGGGG way from slipping on somebody else’s body or controlling another human being like a puppet. Plus, even if you could do this, there would be all kinds of legal and ethical arguments. I mean, what if you killed someone or robbed a bank while using another person’s body? I suppose the way to go would be to make up a body using your own genetic material as raw materials. In the wild, weird world of science fiction, both of these examples are well-used ideas. Cyberpunk demigod William Gibson envisioned a dystopian future where men and women rented out their flesh while their minds wandered through a fantasyland of simulated stimuli (Simstim for short). This sort of prostitution–where your body became a “meat puppet” for the sexual entertainment of others–was the background Gibson invented for his most sensual (and strong) female character: Molly Millions (aka Sally Shears). [If you want to get an idea of what this compelling character looked like (at least in my mind’s eye), think of Daryl Hannah’s Pris in the seminal cyberpunk film Blade Runner.] 

So if you COULD…would you? Just to see what it’s like. Nobody’s saying you have to have sex using your temporary flesh playpen–though I’m sure 99.997% of sexual tourists renting another person’s body would be doing so for this specific reason. But it might be fun just to check things out from a different perspective. It’s a question I’ve asked myself on more than one occasion.

The Internet–which is, as everyone knows, mostly porn anyway–is also the home to the world’s greatest treasure trove of freaky-deakyness. A little searching brings up a medical clearinghouse of information on gender reassignment surgery. Now, that’s obviously taking things a bit too far for the casual tourist. I mean, that’s one of those things that can’t exactly be undone. But it is fascinating. So far, male to female reassignment has been the most aesthetically successful. Apparently it’s easier to cut things off than to make up new things using flesh as a kind of play dough. After viewing some examples of the results I was pretty amazed. But not amazed enough to pay tens of thousands of dollars to a surgeon to bobbitt my hobbit, so-to-speak. After all, I don’t want to be a woman. But I’m secure enough in my sexuality to not get all freaked out by thinking about it.

But if I could try on someone elses’s skin (preferrably not in the ancient Aztec manner, where priests would flay sacrificial victims and wear their skin around like a cloak), I’d want it to be either someone famous…or a giggling teenage girl.

As I write this post, using McDonald’s free wi-fi (since apparently Hugh’s Net technicians can’t provide even half-assed customer service), there is a table full of giggling teenage girls sitting across from me. Occasionally, one of them will stare at me, lean down and whisper conspiratorially to her friends, then all of them will break into paroxysms of giggles. Now, if this had happened to me as a teenager (which it did, quite frequently) I would have turned six shades of red. As a “responsible grown-up” (what a clever disguise), I like to try to embarass people who annoy me. It’s a game I rarely get to play with teen girls, because (as are almost all males aged 30-90) I’m invisible to them. I don’t exist (apparently), or maybe I don’t show up on their radar, I don’t really know what the deal is. So, grinning gleefully, I shout (it’s important to do this part as loudly as possible; and sure, people are gonna look at you kinda funny, and the management may ask you to leave. So what?): “Hey, girls!”

When they look up, I see gazelle-like wariness. No more giggles, girls? (“Like, oh my God, Meghan! I think that old man is, like, staring at us, or something. Is he, like, talking to us? Maybe he’s, like, one of those crazy homeless people who talk to themselves…oh MY God…”) 

“Hey! Girls!” I yell in my reddest of redneck voices. “Ya’ll like Iron Maiden? Woo! IRON MAIDEN!! Man, that’s some good jams, right there! Ya’ll ever hear em do “Powerslave”? Now that there is rock! That’s rock and ROLL, the real deal, right there!” Then I air-guitar a few bars of a “Powerslave”/”The Trooper” medley for them. They are mortified. Too scared to move, too confused to remember how to giggle.

The manager, who I notice has both his ears pierced and is wearing what looks like large brass door knobs in them (this is probably not part of the official management dress code), is laughing hysterically, so I don’t have to worry about him calling the cops. I go back to typing on my laptop, feeling refreshed and reinvigorated.

So, I know what you may be thinking (well, besides “that guy is probably a danger to himself and/or others”): WHY would I want to be a giggling teenage girl–even for one minute?

Well, let me stress: it ain’t so I can text my BFF Dakota how much “like, my mom is SUCH a bitch, and you know Austin is maybe, like THE ONE I’d go all the way with, maybe, but I don’t know, because I think I really, really like Tyler, too, except that Mackenzie said SHE likes Tyler, and I’m not really, like, sure if she means MY Tyler–well, you know–or Jaden’s brother Tyler, who works at Baskin Robbins…yeah, the Tyler that we saw last weekend at Aeropostale, you are SUCH a ditz, my GOD…”

I mean, if you are going to try on the opposite sex like a nice pair of jeans, do you REALLY want to try on your mother or your second grade teacher? I figure the way to do it is pick a nice, healthy teenage girl, get in and out quick. No time for mood swings or cramps. Don’t wanna take any algebra test or see what a birth control pill tastes like. Maybe take a cruise around, see what it feels like to be that age again, to be at the height of your physical ripeness, with NO worries or responsibilities AT ALL…before the corruption of age, kids, a loveless marriage, maybe a few years on crystal meth, living in some trailer with a guy (not named Austin or Tyler or Jaden) who has shitty jailhouse tats (maybe “Nookie” or “Tool” across his knuckles) who occasionally passes out in the yard trying to find his keys (they’re in your truck, dipshit).

Ahhh. The springtime of youth.

VIRTUAL RAPE? by Gregory Purvis

There are some real-world actions and activities that simply do not translate into our increasingly online lives. While sex can be bought, sold and had online (though I would argue cybersex is more pathetic than pornographic), there are some things that just don’t transfer well wirelessly (like body fluids).Virtual rape is like virtual murder. It’s either a video game or a fantasy–albeit a sick and twisted example of either one for most people. But it’s not REAL unless it’s REAL. You either kill someone or you do NOT kill someone. Thinking about it doesn’t count. After all, if THINKING about killing people were a crime, the vast majority of us –from the Pope to Martha Stewart– would surely be on Death Row or spending our days making license plates and trying not to drop the soap whilst showering. Hell, I THINK about killing people all the TIME. Earlier today (while waiting on a prescription to be filled in my local Wal-Mart), I was mentally filling whole CEMETERIES with virtual victims, starting with the woman in line in front of me who apparently thought the Wal-Mart pharmacist and I needed to hear her entire drama-filled family history of ailments and medications and what side-effects each one had on her bowels. Of course, if I had mentioned to the pharmacist exactly why I had a wicked little grin on my face, he might have suggested a different kind of prescription than the one my doctor had scribbled out for me. We all have those thoughts from time to time (or all the time), but most of us are pretty good at not acting on them.

The same thing holds true for sex. I can’t speak for women, but most of my male friends have one or two elaborate sexual fantasies playing in our heads at all times. Men are like sexual schizophrenics. Sure, it was worse when we were 15. But you’re fooling yourself if you think adulthood and/or marriage stops the porno playback. Instead of a relentless sexual cosmology, we just cut back to a few well-worn, much-loved classics. At 15, with plenty of testosterone swirling around, I had a whole sexual universe in my head: full of prancing cheerleaders, dancing nymphettes, porn stars, girls next door (and next door to the one’s next door), most of the girls at Fort Payne High School, girls I passed on the way to church, some woman working at the grocery store that showed me where the Crisco was stocked (don’t ask), even female cartoon characters–it was a sick, sad world. And I did every sexual sin imaginable with quite a few of these citizens of my cerebellum. I did things I’m ashamed of. I did things that were illegal. I did things that aren’t even physically POSSIBLE. But it was all inside my skull. And therefore it’s none of anyone’s business. 

My point is only that there is a world of difference between doing and thinking. And, unless I missed the memo, I’m still a citizen of the Land of the Fraudulent but Free. The contents of our minds may very well be the last bastion of true freedom we have. Perhaps that’s why people like Dr. Timothy Leary and Aldous Huxley (among many, many others) have written so passionately on the need to keep our mental landscapes free from goverment control. We might wake up one day to sadly discover the world depicted in “Minority Report” (loosely based on the brilliant Philip K. Dick short story) has become more reality than fiction, and you can be arrested and prosecuted for thoughts and fantasies. Intentions never acted on. If this sounds like a world where the psychiatrists might become our judges and jailers…well, maybe thats why a loyal Scientologist like Tom Cruise took that particular role.

But c’mon, people! Raping an avatar in Second Life can hardly be associated with the violent violation of a person’s body.  I just finished watching a documentary called “You Only Live Twice” about the “virtual life” that promises a way to re-invent yourself and live a “Second Life” in the virtual construct of the same name. What it APPEARS to do–instead of letting you live twice–is waste a lot of your REAL life letting you pretend you’re a vampire or a muppet. When I was 21, I published a xeroxed zine called SUBZERO, while writing freelance for a clutch of alternative newspapers and magazines. Subzero was basically a vehicle to say whatever I wanted, and a place to print the material that I didn’t (or couldn’t) sell to bigger magazines. I did an interview with a Miami-based optometrist who was developing glasses for use in a virtual reality space. At the time, VR was pretty much sci-fi, and zines were the forerunners of blogs. I also interviewed several nascent software pornographers who were developing naughty (and mostly silly) games and. The things all these people had in common were mainly a desire to experience things in an alternate (or alternative) world–a place where fantasy could become as close to reality (in other words, as “real”) as physically and psychologically possible.

But “virtual” ANYTHING is just not the same…yet. And it most likely never will be, despite the Nostradamus of cyberpunk (William Gibson) and his heady visions of “jacking in” (as opposed to jacking off) and plunging physically through a mental landscape of computer-generated data. I’ve seen a lot of interesting virtual reality hardware since that early-90’s interview with the Miami optometrist. But to be honest, it’s all just video games and fantasy. Which is totally fine. I’ve been playing video games most of my life. I put my first quarter in the Space Invaders game in front of the Interstate Mall movie theater in Altamonte Springs, Florida, sometime in the late 70’s, when the adults around me were snorting coke, listening to Abba, disco-dancing, and having their silly “sexual revolution”. That quarter was the start of my own revolution…or maybe it was more of a revelation: the sudden rush of realization that–for chump change–I could leave my awkward body and enter a pure fantasy where I was THE MAN.

So now people are asking some awkward questions about virtual sex and virtual violence. Meet the new boss; same as the old boss. It’s an old question, and new technology doesn’t change any of the answers. When you start equating RAPE–as a real crime against real human beings–with a fantasy (no matter how abhorrent that fantasy may be to you), you insult the victims of the real thing. Raping a silly-looking avatar in Second Life is–after all–no more than a form of cybersex that takes two to tango…unless you’ve found some way to FORCE the other person to read your silly descriptive chat dialog [I’M HOLDING YOU DOWN, BITCH. YOU LIKE IT DON’T YOU, YOU DIRTY LITTLE SLUT!] while your muppet stands next to some other person’s muppet. Comparing that–calling that rape–is insulting and ridiculous.

Then again, it’s a sick sad world. Why should anything surprise me? I’m going back inside my head now… to play Space Invaders with a dozen or so Catholic School girls. The losers (never me) get spanked with a nail-studded ping pong paddle wielded by Grace Jones dressed as an otter. You got a problem with my fantasy? Go get your own, douche bag.

The Pope: Sorry for the Sodomy by Gregory Purvis

The Pope has penned a pastoral letter to the long-suffering and be-buggered Catholics of Ireland. His basic thoughts: “It was wrong of the Church to bugger your children. Sorry about that. Love and Kisses, The Pope.”

I suppose if you want more of a “traditional, journalistic slant” on my interpretation, you can follow the link above and read what the BBC has to say. Or not. I’d love to regurgitate some more clergy molestation humor for you, but Father O’Hoolahan is coming over to show me what growing boys like me should know about impure “sticky thoughts”.