AUTO EROTIC ASPHYXIATION

Personally I blame Dr. Hannibal Lecter for introducing me not only to pulp fiction but also to Auto-Erotic-Asphyxiation (AEA). I can say, on the basis of empiricist data, that AEA works. But it is technically illegal considering that your local magistrate, not being famous for sexual inventiveness, can only view it as attempted suicide. Though the presence of a partner could be useful in case things go wrong, things could still go wrong- blame that on Sod’s Law! If you were to die, your partner could end up spending a lifetime as a Jail House pussy or worse, still, get Auto Erotically Asphyxiated by the Government executioner.

As a matter of record, I would insist that you do not try it at home. But the perverts Regimental Motto is, a hard on has no conscience, so I know you just might try it. Therefore as your shrink takes his Corporate Social Responsibility seriously, I recommend that you use a rope with low breaking strain. That could make all the difference between your living to see your next orgasm or not.

Considering that AEA is dependent on an Adrenaline high, there are other activities, besides manual strangulation, that could be used to achieve a similar effect and that can actually be seen to achieve greater utility in the punishment-reward equation. Robbing a bank for instance is a multiple orgasm experience not only because of the thrill of the heist but also the subsequent sight of an enormous amount of money. (Incidentally, money can buy you a session of vaginal Masturbation- a hooker that is- or a colostomy bag incase a stray bullet connects with your nether viscera.)

***
In the sex and drugs era, which our juvenile delinquent set referred to as Westland’s summer of ’99; I knew a dude named Gogo. Gogo wasn’t twisted- heck everyone was twisted in those days and life was one big hallucination- he was fucked up. He was so fucked up that had he been a white boy, he would have slit his wrists. This dude used to drive out to the open stretch of garbage that demarcates Woodley from Kibera with his ‘pussy of the day’. He would leave her in the car, walk over to the railway line, light a spliff and wait for the train.

As the train thundered past him missing him by an ass-hair, Gogo would run back into the car flashing the kind of boner that would make Sebastian, the huge ape at the Nairobi Orphanage, cover himself in shame. Once in the car, the medically provable aphrodisiac effect of Delta-9-Tetrahydrocannabinol. Adrenaline after burn and the pheromone studded animal smell of mortal fear conspired to make Gogo the much sort after fuck-buddy that he was.

All that until Nana, the infamous Westie Succubus discovered that in the absence of train games, Gogo was doomed to earn Frequent Flyer Miles on Air Viagra. It wasn’t our business to know, but the heck we now did. What a coupe de grace, now Gogo couldn’t even have sex with his right hand without the left one sniggering at him. Certainly that Dog’s penis had gone to the dogs… it’s (Morning) Glory days were over. Anyway come September and Gogo left for Uni in England- and so did about everyone else.

Psychoanalysts say that it is all in the mind. That in the absence of a deeper physiological problem, a man finding himself unable to rise to the occasion need only believe in himself that he can and he will. The traditional healer at the exorbitant fee of a heifer of one body will give you your own pee to drink and tell you to imagine yourself a simba… Raauuu… Rauuuu! Gogo was a lion, in a new concrete jungle. The cock of Nairobi could crow in Northumberland. But first he had to be rid of the Kenyan crowd. His past- so he ignored them.

In his thinking, who needed a past when the future was a rainbow nation of orgasms? …his name screamed in varied accents… picturesque colour chromatography as ebony dips into sepia, olive, tan or onlygodfuckingknowswhat shade of melanin privilege. Gogo was soon spotted by the railway line with a string of eager freshmen. Waiting. Naked. Spliffing. Hey even some of them- those with numerous freckles, braces and, no price for guessing, slit wrists- would walk with him all the way to the line and play the train game. Foreplay!

***
In those Westie years still, there was a dude named Binji. Binji was a hustler. Okay, his occupation was unknown (who cared about occupations, we were professional bums- Young Urban Posers!) Binji was more blinged out than a hip hop video but most importantly, he had strange merchandise. Stuff like this hundred dollar bill that was issued by the US Confederate States during the civil war. One day, he showed me something I found infinitely more interesting- a postcard. A postcard made in the Dirty South, circa 1918.

***
The picture on the postcard is of a lynch party. A dirty nigger hangs from a maple tree. He has shat himself but I do not think he has ejaculated. It is too soon after… you know he was caught…! Huh, but it takes two to tango? I do not know about that but I do know that a Black Widow ain’t necessarily black, …boy!

At the foot of the tree, a pre-coital mood freeze framed. Men hold up sjamboks and riffles- Phalluses of the Sadists! On the other hand each holds a token- a woman. The men below seem to be wishing that the women will equate what they hold in their hands with what is in their pants. Power! And the women look up. They seem to be asphyxiated by the Auto Erotically Engorged Mandingo.

The Savage is up on the tree- not cutting much of a Christ figure- and the Neurotics down below. Is it a Freudian Point of Agreement between the Mental Lives of Savages and Neurotics? Who knows, but I am a theorist- I can put sex on a pedestal… or up a Maple tree!

Everyone at the foot of the tree looks sex ready. Everyone wants to have sex with someone. But not everyone will have sex with whoever they are most attracted to (sometimes even the plausible Darwinian Theory of the dominant male decides to go wank. In those instances, people will settle for the monkey with the dubious cranial structures and shrug: The heck, I am horny!)

It is a scene loaded with sexual meaning. A scene that proves that both the asphxiator and the asphyxiatee can share a single, fleeting moment of erotic stimulation…

On the upper left hand side of the picture, a mockingbird in flight!