Lost In Scarab
by Cynthia Kitchen
© 1995
 
 
Bugs manifest glory. I woke up one day and pseudonymously retained a sexy lawyer for my own tactile needs. His name was Dirk. The beginning of our engagement was filled with all kinds of cyber-psycho ideologies wrapped up in virtual sexware. Since Dirk has come into my life, I've been becoming an easy fuck. A cyber-slut.

Hell-bent to get any creature I wanted to suck on my toes and become my love-slave, I decided that it was only right that I go out into the conscious drift of my impossible ur-reality and begin my anti-oedipal line of fright. I HAD to escape. My purpose for escaping this horrible deprecation of a life I called MY WORLD was twofold:

1. I wanted to be somebody who I myself had invented or was constantly in the process of reinventing. Since it was totally impossible for me to be tagged with the status-quo graffiti of all of my co-workers who seemed all-too-eager to splatter coded messages of disgust all over my war-torn econo-body, I needed to discover the world beyond institutionalization.
2. I felt it necessary to reinscribe an entomological marginalia in the bloodstream of my personal history.

I achieved the ultimate moment of self-emulation while toking on a magic joint full of killer skunk weed but there was something extra in it. My love-slave, Dirk, who was also my lawyer and dope-dealer, called it THE PHARMAKON.

"Dirk," I was getting pissed off at him for holding these things back from me, "PHARMAKON is a Platonic kinda thing. We live in the late 20th century. I wanna know what kind of wild shit you've thrown in with the skunk weed. I feel like my pussy is bleeding off me..."

Dirk got that part-embarrassed, part-lascivious grin on his Cheshire mustachioed face and said not a word.

"Listen," I got into it with him, but I was tripping wildly, and it felt like my cunt had suddenly slipped off my body, slid across the floor, and wrapped itself around his face: "I have seen the end of the world and it is a TV set becoming an interactive computer that immediately becomes One Monolithic Home-Shopping Channel with over 6 million links to other shopping channels and meanwhile I still can't buy a life on any one of them!"

Dirk just laughed. He pulled out another of the killer dope-sticks and started massaging it with his wet mouth, like he was giving the joint a full-body blowjob. His eyes, near pitch-black in the iris, were slits made of ancient scarab shell and I could now hear him start humming some dogmatic imbrication of pure irrationality that I interpreted as him losing it.

But I was wrong. He was finding it. He had gotten himself locked away inside some transformative, fluid high that he now expressed as being "miles and miles away," and I tried to keep up with him but couldn't maintain my own balance and soon fell asleep while my pussy, revved up on the outrageous narcotic I had charged it with, stayed up with Dirk, nestling up in all of his head's open orifices so that his soft breath and pulsating cranium set my clit aflame.

If there was Truth to be found in this world, then this was it. I was very relieved when I woke up the next morning, my dreams having expressed themselves in ways that set my mind at ease. My body felt as if it were one-with-itself as I cranked up the coffee. Dirk was still sleeping, breathing louder than usual, and I noticed that his expression suggested he was very relaxed His orifices were back to normal now that my essence was no longer residing there.

A thought crossed my mind: this inextricable texture, this quasi-believable interlacing of sensuous verbiage which seems to defy analysis, is translating my experience for me as I experience it. The so-called phenomenon that I experienced last night while under the influence of the mighty Bug joint, was so infectious and lovable...I'm only sorry I never saw its face.

And it never saw my face either.