Caribou Considers His Genitals (an ABC of Fascist Sexuality)

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Caribou Considers His Genitals
(an ABC of Fascist Sexuality)
 
Long before sex was wine dark or wind mingle, sex was
a bar of Ivory soap and a shower for Caribou. He could
call on the friendly image of a woman, there were dozens
at his command and he knew all of them. He took a certain
pride in the fact that he never invoked movie stars. They
were two-dimensional and unreal! Caribou figured that
nearly every bubble that popped on a man's dick in America
sighed Marilyn, Garbo or Dietrich! Everyone whacked off
to the stars!
 
Caribou considered it a kind of bondage!
 
The water was just so hot. He went through the list.
There was Donna, who wasn't very pretty, but had a lovely
body. She was young, as was April, who later turned out
'bi'. Frail women were loveliest of all, except for that
other Donna, a good thirty pounds overweight, who was like
those old powder puffy paintings of chubwomen naked with
wine stains on their lips. There were lots of older women;
mothers of cops and friendly neighbors, teachers and a
lady cop. Tonight he settled for a Judy, which was a
very nice affair on a crushed velvet sofa in which several
positions were achieved till finally the shower got hot,
hot, hot and Caribou's cum hit the water.
 
He grabbed a Canon towel. The door mirror was long and
misty. A vague image slowly emerged from the fog with
eyes burning in a bony face and a body centered around
the black tangled droop he called his cock.
 
Caribou sat back on the toilet and sighed. The mirror body
was strange, it had hair on its chest. It was a man's
body, but his? He remembered real men, hands full of
grease making wonderful gestures, kicking the ground or
smirking into beers. They had sloping street corner
shoulders and talked through the cigarette dangling loose
from their lips. There were millions of kinds; some had
silver handled canes and strolled gypsy camps in the
Black Forest. Some were secret night thieves, elegantly
picking tobacco from their tongues in grand hotels;
triumphant in all things, but fallen in love. There were
doctor men, lawyer men, business men and even Van Gogh and
Gandhi men, but what in the world was a Caribou man?
 
Caribou wiped his ass and flushed it all away. Standing
up, he took his cock and his balls into both hands. They
were so ugly. Wrinkly and gray browned like ginseng roots
in water filled mayonnaise jars in Chinatown windows.
Knotted, twisty and earth crusty, ground to a tea, a good
headache cure for women being bumped by baggy old husbands;
grunt heaving to the edge of a heart attack and dicky spits
in the bucket instead. Flowers were beautiful and women
flowered between their legs in pink folds while men were
merely roots; potatoes and yams all drippy at the end and
clotty round the shanks. It wasn't only roots, it was the
turtle's neck, the rhinoceros' baggy eye and the knee of
the elephant. There was an infinity of saggy, water bloated
skin in the world, all of it guilty of the same crime
against perfection.
 
The only saving grace in the entire stew of male genitalia
was the erection. Caribou day dreamed a smooth stainless
prick towering in a world of precision. Perfectly lobed
around the head. Symmetrical, spotless, shining in the
Sun; the axis of the universe. He wanted a cock like that.
A grand cock with a glorious thrusting flesh blue vein
shafting straight to the shot of that perfect lobe.
 
With a shank like that obscenity would be no more. People
would pilgrim to it bearing baskets covered with warm
towels. There'd be dancing. Mayors would swear on
solemn bibles to the cock. Cooks would bake cock cakes
in all the restaurants. Poets would ode to the cock of
peace and plenty. They'd put that prick on dollar bills.
It would adorn placemats on interstate highways inscribed
with little known facts about the creature. In short,
a cock that could rule and guide the world into an immortal
peace for thousands and thousands of years with fruit
trees planted at its mighty base.
 
While being kind at heart, Caribou was no fool, he knew
it would be no bed of roses. There'd surely be envy.
Those men of little girth would saunter all bent in the
back around the shank. Standing in their little lines,
those wet rags with heads folded down, fingering their
little peepees all loping to the floor. Caribou's heart
swelled with compassion as he saw them grubbing around
for one little hard on.
 
Eventually Caribou would step brashly into the heavens
and wrap his arms around the Sun, that wanton ball of
flames. From the frog pond world, the Earthlings would
look up with lidded eyes as Caribou probed the core of
all fire and light, his cock become a fine sheened alloy
absorbing all the heat and light of creation, till finally
the universe is cold with winds whipping through a
darkness all over the world. Widows make offerings,
science pleads to Reason as politicians deny responsibility.
Just when the whole world walks bent back away, bereft
of any hope, Caribou yanks it from the Sun which has become
a raisined little tar ball of carbon while Caribou's
glorious shaft cums time after time in magnificent spurts
of newborn Suns, newborn worlds and new creations. Thousands
of Eves and Adams sprout up everywhere resplendent in a
perfect sexual light.
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