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.

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.