COMEDIC PATHOLOGIES
OF THE VAGINOSI ARTS
Salute: No one could take my musings seriously. I write for fun and the linguistic adventure. So! Just another scribble at tea time intended as a suggestive catharsis for HDK and his many erudite friends, accomplished writers all. I love them dearly and frequently review their many contributions to the Literotica literary arts. To my three bemused readers and the splendidly enigmatic JPB, I say, "Top o' the morning and remember that we anachronisms must hang by our thumbs before breakfast; but, in any event, be sure to write if you find work." Note: All rights are reserved. Characters depicted in sexual or erotic situations are at least 18. Any resemblance of any of the characters in these pages to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Prologue: Spontaneous giggling always plagued Pyotr when he smoked dope.
As if disembodied, he heard himself bleating; and if his eyeballs would cease rotation clockwise long enough to read the time on his gem encrusted Swiss watch, he would organize his responses to the writer's anticipated questions.
"Would he marry the leading lady in the Performance Arts Fucking Revue?" they surely would ask.
They would ask only for the purpose of stirring trouble between San Francisco's elite and the stinking masses.
How would he answer?
Was not the archaic institution known as marriage anathema in post Christian San Francisco? Was not the barbarous sickness known as pregnancy repugnant if not yet outlawed?
To be sure, he answered himself; but there is the greater world, the contemptible milieu of seven billion morons who must be persuaded to accept the progressive art form of Presentation Fucking. They must buy the tickets if The Producer and Performance Arts Fucking Revue were to survive and generate power.
Marriage? He would lie. Of course, my fucking diva will soon be my wife, he would answer. The Producer would be pleased with his duplicity.
Out in the conference room, he could hear the bouncers calling for order.
Comrades! Please check your straight razors and brass knucks in the coat room before indulging your literary hubris...
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Culture writers of San Francisco had just that day named him "Male Artist of The Year." Inevitably, their obligatory questions about his many civilizing accomplishments in "The Arts" had embarrassed him and stung his sensibilities at the most primitive level.
They all knew that Pyotr Ilyich and his Stradivarius had betrayed Saint Michael and the forces of righteousness; yet, they persisted in addressing him with respect. It was as if they had not witnessed his dress rehearsal in the Performance Arts Fucking Revue.
Ah, Yes! The creaturish commentator from Telegraph Avenue, acting from the darkest of motives, took the point in the media assault. She knew of his treachery, and she was preparing to spear him. Media madness makes money. Stir with nihilistic contempt the witches' brew and assure your fortune in 21st Century existential socialism.
There's always a mystical taste of misanthropy in all intellectual affairs. Smart "J" school empowered commentators have the key. They will bring the venom to a toxic boil.
Only this feminista Jihadist from Berkeley had come to the press conference prepared for the assault, the news commentators "money shot." To do so, however, it was necessary to prop up the long irrelevant strawman of marriage.
She scratched her crotch unconsciously as she read her question from her polished steel clipboard.
"Is it true that you have an elephantine penis and that you have received $100,000 as an advance to fuck this woman, LinLu, for three hours on the Golden Gate Bridge?"
The sweaty woman with hairy legs from the East Bay's Telegraph Avenue Weekly Barbarian, however, set herself apart. As she adjusted her recorder, a twisted smirk complemented the bloody determination in her narrowed, snake-like black eyes.
Pyotr flinched visibly as she moved in for the kill. As the dozen reporters, cable news miniskirts and camera manipulators fell silent and turned to watch, she impaled Pyotr with her probing stare.
Was it not true that he would play Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 on his Stradivarius while fucking this woman, an accomplished cellist, doggie fashion? Furthermore, was it not true that this woman was a featured artist in The Bay Area Feminosi Carnival of Stars?
And could he maintain a seven-night-a-week performance agenda for the duration of his contractual 52 weeks?
Eyes blinking uncontrollably and sphincter tightening, the famed Maestro shrugged and inspected his fingernails. His nemesis smiled mordantly as she consulted the Revue's brochure.
"It says in the Revue's press kit that your cock is sixteen and three quarters inches long and three and one half inches in diameter," she said, her voice strong, her words enunciated as if fired from a pistol.
Did the Telegraph Avenue cum dump journalist say that Pyotr had a sixteen and three quarter inch cock? Pandemonium ensued as the writers scrambled to find the brochures they so casually had thrown on the floor without reading them. All of the members of the culture writers phalanx gasped enchorus and seemed to coalesce in stupefied union.
"There in the brochure it says he has a sixteen and three quarter inch cock," whispered the writer with red rimmed watery eyes. "So it is written, it must be so!"
"I think the Revue's brochure speaks clearly and succinctly," Pyotr answered, hoping his tortured voice did not reveal his humiliation.
But part of his conscious spirit rejoiced that his betrayal of his God and the glorious music of Bach now had been stipulated. Surely, now that she had opened the door to his despicable agreement with The Producer, the culture writer's brigade would find its bile and peel his spiritual skin away centimeter by centimeter. He needed the cleansing Sadism
"My question is this," the Jihadist from Telegraph Avenue hissed. Again, she read her question laboriously from her clipboard. "Since your leading lady is only five feet two inches tall and weighs only one hundred ten pounds, how many sex divas did you have to audition before you found one with a snatch that you could pork all the way to the pubic bone?"
Pandemonium reigned briefly until Pyotr sobered and raised his hand for silence. He appraised the hairy legs as the smirking woman moved forward extending her microphone, smugly awaiting his response.
"You have a beautiful pelt of healthy thick black hair on both legs," Pyotr said, gazing at her muscled legs as they lay exposed under her micro miniskirt. "Since the thin layer of hair on your head appears to be escaping a diseased scalp, I suggest that you use the same shampoo on your scalp that you use on your legs."
As the woman's face darkened, many in the news contingent gasped and spluttered, but they were soon mesmerized by her audacity. She studied her clipboard as she nurtured her malignant smirk.
"I have only one other question," she said cagily, pausing to allow the noise to cease. "It's about this God you say you serve."
DID EVERYONE HEAR THE QUESTION?
How big was his god's cock? Did everyone hear the question?
"Enough!" cried a priest as he emerged from within the crowd. "Your blasphemy cannot go unanswered."
What happened next will forever remain a hauntingly oversimplified image on history's retina. From behind the woman stepped two towering bodies wearing their trademark black leather coats, their faces enshrouded darkly in a professional's anonymity; and they proceeded to pound and stomp upon the priest until his pulpy mass could no longer squeal and scream.
Though there were many variations and revisions, all agreed that the priest had moved his arm and might have shifted his position menacingly; and with that as evidence of the priest's assault, the police arrested him, and the prosecutors ordered him cuffed to his hospital bed until he died of brain, liver and kidney malfunctions.
Everyone seemed embarrassed. But it was only a moment of silence after a three-hour delay before the news conference resumed. An almost casual calm prevailed.
During the quietus and once the ambulance team had removed the priest's twitching body, the writers diligently reviewed their notes. After a respectable lapse of time, they all gathered about the feminosi Jihadist from Telegraph Avenue. And, with ostentatious cunning, she shared her toxic commitment.
Did Pyotr feel that appearing in the revolutionary sex Revue could compromise his ability to serve his God? Could he in good conscience continue as Bach's premiere interpreter?
"Evolutionary is the correct adjective," Pyotr responded thoughtfully, "not revolutionary."
Epochs of history not moments in time determine truth, the writers heard Pyotr say, though the few objective thinkers among them doubted Pyotr's conviction. They reluctantly questioned him.
