(When the Muse goes wanking, the trashy writer comes out to play)
I am sleepless and my mind is fuzzy from imbibing too many jugs of Senator. My new publicist has been on the wire demanding the Big One. You, jua that, storo that will win me the Caine Prize; make me mildly famous and her damn rich. Dude, shit is losing one Yuppie trickster and replacing him with another to grab you by your humble genitalia.
Man I fired that NGO-speak-pretend-writer, N.M. that wanted to sell me down the journalistic toilet. Punk been trying to get me to do a column for Sunday Trash. So what if everyone says I should do it? See, there is prostituting my talent and then there is working with an editor who cannot spell and who seems to think that Literature is a K.C.S.E paper.
I jump out of my rickety Vono bed. (Yeah, ‘new’ bed- I am moving on up people. When I bought that bed last week, I thought it would come with a new pussy but I guess package deals only work for tourists who want to shaft that bitch called Africa. As for the mattress, it is so battered and stained with; hopefully, incontinence; but more likely multiple orgasms. Maybe that is the badge of long service at Sabina joy!)
I step outside to see if my muse is out there playing with its own androgynous arse.
There is grunts coming from around the corner and I approach hoping to grab that imp and pull, if not the fucking Pulitzer then at least some junk for my blog, out of it.
Oops no Potashian muse out there, just Mister Pig giving it to Mistress Pig- real good. At 1 a.m.; how’s that for an all nighter?
When I was younger, I used to time myself. Yeah, baby, yeah! But that as I always say is Ancien Regime shit. That’s long before all that substance abuse went and clogged my vas deferens or whatever nether anatomical unit is applicable. It really is funny how bad things happen to good people, eh? Yes, so I am standing here envying that pig and wishing it was my heart that got clogged with cholesterol instead. A heart attack I can live with… well, you know, if I live, but a Premature Ejaculation, God forbid!
Mr. Pig is still hitting it from the back and I am tempted to look about Miss Pig’s breasts for goose pimples; signs of a coming. But hey she got too many breasts- man, I love breasts, eh- so I cannot tell under which one to check. Besides, that probably doesn’t work for pigs. Maybe I should ask my new publicist to Google that for me, she got bandwidth.
Mhhh, then I will have to listen to her call me a pervert. Ai, its sickening how these paper pushers don’t understand us creatives; all they care about is “Product”. My story is a product worth X amounts of money but nobody gives a shit about the creative process. Damn, I do not even have insurance to pay a shrink after the traumatic experience of watching a pig do it better than me. Does anyone see my occupational hazards; the shit I got to experience in the name of seeking inspiration?
And you are still wondering why I do not want to ‘write on demand’; produce copy with the decided nonchalance of a condom dispenser!
Mr. Pig is still hitting it from the back. If he was Homo Erectus, he would have flipped her by now and marked her lips with spittle and her labia with jism. But he isn’t and the only ‘Homo Erectus’ around here is just standing there fingering his hapless erection.
Damn it I am tumescent…
Is how with that combi? Aki, roho safi….!
I banish that thought. I am a firm believer in consensual sex. Maybe If I knew how to ask for pussy in Piglish… I would, I mean… a hard on has no conscience, eh.
To distract myself, I reach deep into my pocket for a gaff. (Okay let’s face it; I rattle my balls a little in there.) It’s a full Supermatch that I had pulled out of some blacked out sod at the Senator joint. I was hoping for cash but the useless fuck hadn’t even bakishad a fifty bob for the wife and kids. What a shame. Uhmmm… labda hiyo ganji ilikuwa kwa kavangue…
Yani, I went into a man’s pocket and all I got is this friggin gaff. Maybe I’ll print t-shirts, eh. Man. Life sucks and I still don’t but that is anaa storo.
Damn gaff is broken.
I join the damned gaff.
Mr. Pig continues to hit it from the back.
I lift the cigarette to my lips; inhale, exhale.
Nicotine and myriad other carcinogens rush through my system.
I feel good.
I have two hands… you know.
One holds the cigarette...
… is the cigarette a phallic symbol?
Who knows; hey who the damn hell cares?
Who needs a symbol when you can hold the real McCoy?
The other hand…
Yes, the other hand…
… as Jesus said, you do not need to know what the other hand is doing!
Just inhale, exhale.
Nicotine rushing in; Adrenaline coursing through…
… and then… and then…
A rushing out…