reverted to my misanthropic manner, on proverbial pins & needles. The woman-child’s kiss left me painfully stoked, my privates gorged & damp from embarrassing leakage. A vertigo infected my vision; I was staring at the mysterious doorway which hinted at the most forbidden witness & promised grotesqueries far more potent than previous tents. Consciously, the idea of entering–even with the costless tickets–filled me with apprehension; yet now I found myself at the mercy of my sub conscious. I was utterly bereft of forethought when I approached the over-muscled lummoxes guarding the entrance, stoically handed over my admission, & stepped into eerie red-tinted darkness. It was not another tent I had entered, it was another world.
A world of shadow-shapes, wisps of sound, & unwholesome scents; a world of canvas corridors, wan red-lensed lamps, & prowling figures; of cringing desires, scintillant despair, & incognito transgressions–and it was into this undertow that I allowed myself to be sucked. Far more this place was than a den for deviates; it was a murk-ridden conclave of satyrs, incubi, & lust-daemons, which perhaps we all were beneath our brittle human faces. More strong-armed sentinels lined these cryptic passages, each fabric wall showing a line of lit dots from where peep-holes had been punched. “Piss party, right here, bub,” one beefy sentinel notified; then another, “Dog show right in a-here, only two tickets.” My belly seemed to prolapse at the insinuations. “What’sa matter, fella? Don’t’cha wanna see a dog fuck a girl?” I staggered off, nearly stumbling. The most muffled squeals resounded with periodicity, then louder, ghostly moans. Indeterminate shapes that were men with their backs to me, staring into the eye-like holes, clearly masturbated as they feasted upon the visual delights within. When a hand firmly grabbed my shoulder, the tinted face of another sentinel warned, “Can’t just loiter about, Mister. You can look or you can do , but both cost.” He pointed to the channel’s end like Dickens’s spectre. “Doin’s down yonder, a fin-bill and up, dependin’ on what ya want. Lookin’s here, for two tickets a peep.” I could scarcely form words against my jaded daze. “In my lack of experience, perhaps you could make a recommendation,” I stammered and conveyed the requested tickets. The block-shape of his face nodded. “I can tell by the way ya look, this ‘un here’ll float yer boat,” he retailed and then urged me toward a glowing hole. Trembling, I peered in, only to be struck by an image like a cudgel’s blow: a fat nude man on hands & knees, his back a veritable matt of fur; behind him knelt a younger, almost lissome man whose right arm lacked a hand. The larger one tensed as his rectum became a place of insertion for his collaborator’s stump.
I tore my eye away & wobbled off. The miscreant sentinel chuckled.
For staying, for even entering this soul-dead place, I had only the deepest self-condemnation. But I knew why my darkest Id would not license departure.
Bliss.
“Bliss,” I demanded of one of the musclemen, wagging the string of tickets.
“She’s doin’ her show now,” the spiritless voice grunted back. “Then she’s off from 11 to 12. After that ya can turn a trick with her but ya gotta get on the list.” He jabbed a finger down toward the area meant to serve as a bordello. “And the cost depends on what’cha want.”
“Her show,” I said. “Where?”
He snapped off 2 tickets & pointed to the next section of peep-holes, though most were already tenanted. In dreadful slowness, then, & in complete abandonment to my promise, I brought my eye to the hole . . .
Surely it was some imp of the perverse that forced my face to the ratty canvas. Through the hole I spied a circle of oil lamps guttering about a table on which a shinily naked Bliss lay reclined on her back. Her skin glowed like fresh white chocolate, her nipples plump & red as
A world of shadow-shapes, wisps of sound, & unwholesome scents; a world of canvas corridors, wan red-lensed lamps, & prowling figures; of cringing desires, scintillant despair, & incognito transgressions–and it was into this undertow that I allowed myself to be sucked. Far more this place was than a den for deviates; it was a murk-ridden conclave of satyrs, incubi, & lust-daemons, which perhaps we all were beneath our brittle human faces. More strong-armed sentinels lined these cryptic passages, each fabric wall showing a line of lit dots from where peep-holes had been punched. “Piss party, right here, bub,” one beefy sentinel notified; then another, “Dog show right in a-here, only two tickets.” My belly seemed to prolapse at the insinuations. “What’sa matter, fella? Don’t’cha wanna see a dog fuck a girl?” I staggered off, nearly stumbling. The most muffled squeals resounded with periodicity, then louder, ghostly moans. Indeterminate shapes that were men with their backs to me, staring into the eye-like holes, clearly masturbated as they feasted upon the visual delights within. When a hand firmly grabbed my shoulder, the tinted face of another sentinel warned, “Can’t just loiter about, Mister. You can look or you can do , but both cost.” He pointed to the channel’s end like Dickens’s spectre. “Doin’s down yonder, a fin-bill and up, dependin’ on what ya want. Lookin’s here, for two tickets a peep.” I could scarcely form words against my jaded daze. “In my lack of experience, perhaps you could make a recommendation,” I stammered and conveyed the requested tickets. The block-shape of his face nodded. “I can tell by the way ya look, this ‘un here’ll float yer boat,” he retailed and then urged me toward a glowing hole. Trembling, I peered in, only to be struck by an image like a cudgel’s blow: a fat nude man on hands & knees, his back a veritable matt of fur; behind him knelt a younger, almost lissome man whose right arm lacked a hand. The larger one tensed as his rectum became a place of insertion for his collaborator’s stump.
I tore my eye away & wobbled off. The miscreant sentinel chuckled.
For staying, for even entering this soul-dead place, I had only the deepest self-condemnation. But I knew why my darkest Id would not license departure.
Bliss.
“Bliss,” I demanded of one of the musclemen, wagging the string of tickets.
“She’s doin’ her show now,” the spiritless voice grunted back. “Then she’s off from 11 to 12. After that ya can turn a trick with her but ya gotta get on the list.” He jabbed a finger down toward the area meant to serve as a bordello. “And the cost depends on what’cha want.”
“Her show,” I said. “Where?”
He snapped off 2 tickets & pointed to the next section of peep-holes, though most were already tenanted. In dreadful slowness, then, & in complete abandonment to my promise, I brought my eye to the hole . . .
Surely it was some imp of the perverse that forced my face to the ratty canvas. Through the hole I spied a circle of oil lamps guttering about a table on which a shinily naked Bliss lay reclined on her back. Her skin glowed like fresh white chocolate, her nipples plump & red as
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