Q.: Congrats, lupus dei, you’ve finally gotten there. After so many failed attempts of sublimation, we’ve hit your favorite thing. You may address the issue directly on its pretext. Do you have something obscene to say to the whores of Babylon?
A.: To save sex is the number two priority of The Party’s cleansing frenzy. Number one is to kill the crime. They are the two wings of the Atheist Altar hosting the Ten Commandos. They represent the male and female axiom of the Androgyne reconstruction. Do you like it like that?
Q.: The moral of your X-rated ontology is more atrocious than a parochial dogma. The virtues it
ballyhoos are debauchery and obliteration. It’s antithetic alright, but hardly a suitable edict for the Satanic citizen. You’re missing every target you’ve ever deigned to aim at.
A.: The two have to be in perfect equilibrium, let me add that to it. There is no rapture without revenge. No victory without submission to sin. To sever sin from crime is the key of understanding the current Thelema of the Cosmic Bargain. The final goal is a reunification of church and state. ‘Sex Industria’ is our most momentous enterprise yet. It is registered to promulgate the iconoclastic merits of adult entertainment. We are a non-profit organisation of moral resurgence.
Q.: I know what we are. I’ve signed all the papers of your haughty proclamations. Thank god the administrators are not supposed to read. Your application form sounds lie a heathen manifesto. “To curb violence against women,” that ‘s what you put down as for the mission statement. You’d really deserve an intelligence award.
A.: We are an institute of extreme benevolence. A company of refractory soldiers on a paramilitary expedition. That’s how I see our distinguished vocation. We are heralding a Cult of Life in the valley of the dolls. ‘Sex Industria’ is the Triumph of the Wish. Dedicated to the cunt of Isis.
Q.: What bothers me the most in your unctuous sloganeering is its underlying hypocrisy. You can’t authentically praise adultery without conversant libido. You’re preaching vintage wine whilst drinking tap water. What an indecent anathema! Trying to make amends for a wasted youth.
A.: You are getting very rude, Gina. And way too personal. My privacy has nothing to the with the public relations. We are marshaling a pageant for exotic dancers. Our greatest idealistic work of saving human nature. The theory’s finally met the practice. I can do something I like to.
Q.: What I would like to is to face the background music for an I dunno what. Because we are the message, not the medium. Much more informative than your false affidavits. Our situation is unique but its lessons are of generic concern. We have to consider us pure objects of an arcane experiment. The more intimate, the less subjective we are. We’re drafted for the final sentence.
A.: Our occasional concubinage of misery, malady and madness has nothing instructive for marriage counsellors. We should cut it out of our comedy.
Q.: Now, that’s really rude my love. Just look at us from a different angle. I am a sex worker and you are my impotent loverboy. Our genders are atavistically bent. I am the breadwinner, you are the housewife. I am your medium, you are my message. Together we form a perfect epitome of the last couple of the lost paradise. Ain’t it a fascinating parable?
A.: To whom in the whole Purgatory? Do you think we are alone? Everybody has his fair share of trouble. We only turn it into myth for want of real things to do. If I wanted to edify I would write children’s books.
Q.: What if you’d take once some responsibility for your threadbare narrative? After decades of idle marching through the Bardo you still don’t know where you’re going. Inventing preposterous concepts unrealizable from an empty pocket. Using me as first secretary of your one-man party without any compensation. On the left hand of your path you are an exploiter of women. We are performing a variety of contrasting roles. The Author’s truly great.
A.: I really can’t get you. Here is the most sumptuous topic and you want to elaborate on our absent sex life. Whoever should possibly care? The sole lesson I can provide is an errorium. Nobody can learn for someone else’s mistakes. We are alone.
Q.: Don’t turn my innoxious curiosity into another marital argument. You only use me to contradict to you. You’ve reduced my dialog to your inner voice with little independence left. I have to squabble even if I agree. It is always you the exclamation point. My part is a tiny question mark.
A.: I am on my knees for your hand. I could not survive a day without your affable support. It is your commitment that keeps my lust alive.
Q.: Let me remind you that I’m not your servant. But the polymathic master of the project. Your general executrice. Because you can’t accomplish as much as anything. Your thoughts are wingless paroxysms from the befuddled brains of a genetic outcast. You are sucking my blood to keep you dysfunctioning, sweet vampire. Your favorite alterego. What kind of affection are you calling that?
A.: You are my work and I am your love. It’s as simple as that. No need to make so much fuzz about it. I’m as grateful for your help as can be. You surely are the industry’s greatest heroine.
Q.: Isn’t it the masculine constituent to protect the fair sex with comfort and safety? Your altered identity is a universal disgrace.
A.: The feminists would lynch you for that statement. I have eradicated the stains of patriarchy. I am proud to be your domestic.
Q.: That’s flattering but hardly an appeasing vindication. And your selfish servitude is next to human terror. You’ve trained me like a dog to your phobic order. I’m forbidden to cook my own dinner. May not use the washroom without permission. You’re a tyrant, baby, just you do not know it. No human gal could bear with your dreadful habits. Sometimes I only want to run away. But you’d rather kill me than let me go. Is that an atypical recipe?
A.: Our play is a sad scheme of all things. But it doesn’t make it illustrative. We are happening for ever and ever. Unless a miracle breaks the spell. That’s what we’re planning under the cover of saving the trade. Whatever we do is for our own enrichment. We don’t give a damn to humanitarian causes.
Q.: So let’s get down to it if you hate so much to chat with me. Here is an abstract question I would like to pose you. Where draws the borderline between sin and crime by the The Party’s code of mores? And I want you to respond as forthright as you can.
A.: The answer is terminological. A semantic shift of meaning from the clerical imprint. Crime and sin are not interrelated deviations but polar opposites by the Atheist canon. The theatre of the warfare has radically shuffled to the decadent right. Hallelujah, I should say. Free Porn is the Overnazi mandate. With an exclamation mark indeed!
Q.: You might think you’re calling for a new crusade but are in fact presaging an outdated Banzai. That war has been won long ago by the Capitalist revolution. Your big deal is not too early but rather quite belated. You’re a needless prophet of the accomplished. No one will take your second hand.
A.: The problem’s only solved on the surface. In the deep state sex is still rape and slavery. That’s the scene we’re bound to eradicate. It shouldn’t be such an outrageous notion. Sex Industria is a reformatory engagement. It is predicated on preventive self-defense. Total abolition of the perverted stigmata.
Q.: That will take some hard talk over the liberty gap. The reign of Eros is incompatible with your rose clouds of Holocaust. Sex and violence are henceforward the most popular bedfellows. Best selling if combined. Nothing thrills the people more than Lustmord. Freedom is Hell’s primary deceit. You can’t erase six thousand years of expulsion overnight.
A.: The solution is so obvious it is embarrassing to mention it. Moral dictatorship admonishes sex and denounces violence in every form. We the UR are anti-crime and pro-passion. Sex is sin. Violence is crime. And violence against sex calls for martial law in a wholesome society. That’s the progrom elliptically speaking. The crux of overnationalist fascism.
Q.: Would be a convincing diatribe at the speaker’s corner, Spiel! The hookers would stone you dead. What is the definition of crime by the Oshist Lawbook? If you answer me that one I’ll bother you no more. In a single sentence if you will…
A.: Certainly What could be less obscure? Crime is uncivilized behavior so at peace as war. It ranges from insult to murder. Unreasonable pain willfully inflicted on innocent victim. Independently of the outcome, guilty is the one who initiates the fight. And no sanity clause. The sick are twice as wrong. The pillars of our justice system is preemption and retaliation. Older than Niniveh. What could go wrong with it?
Q.: We are living in an age of torturism and pedophilia. Whom do you want to save? Death squads from the Muuslims? Gangsters rule the pop charts, honey. It ain’t rock’n’roll any more. Drug cartels don’t have the ethos of Cosa Nostra. The future is here and it is no legend.
A.: New Jerusalem is not built on Earth. It is an allegory portended to descend. Love’s sacred domain. Cannot be sieged, cannot be looted. We are cutting a horizontal line across the vertical frontiers in order to separate the below from the above. Completely neglecting the geo-political conditions. I call it Operation Dike. I know what I’m doing. The Socialist Kingdom will be capitalism with a superhuman face. That’s been our electoral campaign’s fundamental promise to its donators.
Q.: Sex and money, eh? That’s what you really want. Behind all your industrialist doctrines a grudging sexploiter is holing up. With nothing but kink on his dirty mind. Replacing the martyr’s crucifix with the almighty Dollar’s sign. An open eulogy to categorical materialism. Funny remittal from an eternal bum.
A.: I’m only a dialectical entrepreneur. I would say the same if I were a Billionaire. Our hortative emblem isn’t just a calligraphic vagary. It splendidly signifies what we are about. The transcendent spirit of the bawdy commerce. The Atheist redemption is happening through sin. That is my sexual orientation. Our salacious firm is dedicated to Baphomet. I should have put it in the appeal.
Q.: You are a depressing joker, Spiel! An alien sex fiend. Could never live up to your ideals, yet expecting me to perform like a queen bitch by your destitute side. You demand and command but never assist. Ours has been a house of scuffle ever since we moved in. You have annihilated my very soul. Is it not a crime?
A.: I understand why but you’re desperately unjust. I minister you a most rarified erudition. Tell you what to think, how to speak. Protect you from errors, warn you about danger. I may be misdirected, but I am your devoted guide. I’m not a careerist charlatan. My vocation is to halt the degeneration. My only aspiration is to destroy the destroyer.
Q.: I am a stripper for your subsistence under perennial stimuli. But living with an asexual boyfriend allergic to the Sun. That’s my side of our work story. I haven’t got no satisfaction since 1984. To screw for cash gratifies me not. A lass like me needs inspiration to come. Does it surprise you that I’m mentally imbalanced? To live with you is a nightmare come true.
A.: My abstinence is nothing personal. It is a wholly natural reaction of ingenuity. I’d do anything for love but cannot do that. No sex after marriage is the Antichristian credo. Matrimonial fornication is a debasement of the sacrament. Do it only if that’s your fetish. I won’t resort to incest just because I can’t swing. My dignity doesn’t let me forget the facts of corporeality. ‘Sex Industria’ is a preparation for the everlasting orgy of the elect. A teaser of the ultimate orgasm.
Q.: Your horny Utopia is flawed to the quick. Eros thrives on transgression and challenge. The thrill of revolt and defiance. Permission deprives her from the charm. Nothing tastes like taboo. Legalization kills Mescalito. Sex without vice is an empty vessel. That’s exactly what begets the heinous. The gates of infinity open to Hell. Boredom is the most powerful weapon of Gravity. The backlash is inevitable.
A.: There are a few things you must overlook when you thrust. No power is greater than ignorance. I never pry into the future. All I know is the next step. If I saw farther I wouldn’t lift a finger, I’m afraid.
Q.: Gloomy confession of a blind passenger. You really should take a course on impression management. Your stallion’s a dead horse if you cannot ride it. No one will invest in a frustrated gigolo.
A.: Pleasure is the main principle of our fortitude. Extasy is the highest form of available intelligence. Joy is commanded with utmost cruelty. To feel alright is not a crime. Don’t have to be forgiven by the god. Sex is the basic human right. Something worthwhile to fight for.
Like this:
Like Loading...
