Excited (no not in THAT way.But then again.) by the Porn Symposium going on in the distant but dazzling InfiniteTragedyPunkMap constellation of the Blogmos.

Infinite Thought seems to have been extremely thorough in her research (such rigour!), I can only assume she is now one of the world's leading Bukkake experts (I mean, information-wise, obviously) and I am tossing my own two penneth worth (not much of a moneyshot, that!) into their eager, upturned faces with a bit of an extract from the last thing I wrote, FICTION, I hasten to add (trying to skillfully navigate the conversation around the "thinly disguised autobiography" rocks). I was going to post a lot more of it but frankly thought it was too offensive for the sensibilities of The Impostume's delicate readers (if indeed it has any, delicate or otherwise) though after that photo of Craig Wedren in a floppy hat and fur coat I can only assume that if you're still here you have a cast iron stomach. And besides, anyone whose fancy is tickled, interest piqued or titi lated by the piece can always just download the whole thing gratis from the "two aborted novels" bit on the sidebar. However, should you do so, don't say you weren't warned!(Least of all don't say I didn't warn you that it has never been properly proofread.)

short extract from "Three Men, One room."

It’s 7:52, Monday the 17th of August and I’m drinking a cold can of Stella in my new room, the one bedroom flat I have bought in my old hometown, down on the south coast, and watching a video projection of the Bikini Carwash Company (1992) a soft-core comedy featuring a trio of largely forgotten ex-Playboy actresses. Kristi Ducati, a lynx-eyed, apple cheeked brunette with a sleek ponytail, my favourite, Sarah Suzanne Brown, a buffed blonde, pre-nose job but post-boob job and a very flat-chested but extremely lithe and tall pre-op Neriah Davis.

I am having a break from the video cataloguing, viewing and editing that has taken up most of the day and I’m watching it as a kind of aperitif, preparing myself for the evenings full entertainment in which I will be devoting myself to the works of no- less-a-figure than Tera Patrick.

The film has only just started and in the opening scene a fairly plain but very hard-bodied beach babe is topless sunbathing while a geeky college graduate tries to get directions from her to his uncle’s Carwash, the business he’ll be taking over for the summer.

The proximity of a women as unselfconscious about her body as the sunbather causes the student geek to sweat and fumble, trip over his words, drop his map and, in his haste to retrieve it, accidentally grope the beach Hottie. She, by implication, is used to being around men who are not only not shirt and tie wearing collegiate nerds but who can also handle the force of her nudity, a nakedness she openly displays, perhaps as a challenge, as a way of disposing of the inferior men that gather around her, moths to a flame, drawn to her by her beauty but who, unable to contain the violence of their response to it, are severely discomposed. Her contempt for the geek’s weakness, his inability to deal with the spectacle of her narrow, very firm, very tanned waist and extremely large breasts, her well sculpted legs, the thin strip of material covering her cunt, the fact that she’s lying with her legs apart and applying suntan cream to her belly, arms and breasts with a slightly dreamy, solipsistic air, absorbed by the power of her own physical presence, all suggest that she belongs to a different Order of Being to the geek.

It’s difficult not to speculate on what her boyfriend must be like. Certainly he too must belong to that Different Order, must perhaps be even higher in the chain than she because her provocative, petulant air suggests that she is not looking for a man to dominate but to be dominated by and the absent, though implied partner must be A Stud of some kind, possibly a tall, very well-toned, well-hung surfer dude who feels perhaps something of the same coldness to her as she feels toward the geek: she is just one of the many girlfriends that he fucks expertly in the flickering light of beach fires, the sound of the waves breaking on the shore mingled with her transported gasping and moaning. And so through the interaction of babe and geek a third figure is introduced and stands at the edge of the screen, the figure of the anti-geek. The Stud. I have one hand down the front of my shorts and I’m masturbating playfully without any real sense of commitment, enjoying the geeks humiliation and discomfort, the beach-babes exploitation of it, the spectacle of her semi-naked body and perhaps most of all, the real erotic charge of the scene, the invisible, implied realm of The Stud floating in the background, an Olympian sexual realm from which the geek is for ever excluded and who’s excitement at the Babe’s body, whose exited remoteness, forever pressing his nose against the sexual shop-window of life, is identical to that of the viewers, viewer and geek are as one, so that I too, through the conduit of the geek and his interaction with the Babe am aware of that great, haunted, monstrous, dizzying realm from which I am excluded, that super-human, that Ideal realm, The Realm of Pornography.