Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Dead Planet IV

Dead Planet IV

“With relief, with humiliation,
with terror, he realized that he,
too, was but appearance, that
another man was dreaming him.”
—Jorge Luis Borges, The Circular Ruins

I dreamed about Earth—my dying home planet. Even tho it wasn’t really dying. It was only being terraformed for corporate purposes—by TPTB Terran rulers and various & sundry planetary potentates.

But after the android kid moved in with me—I started having the most amazing dreams I’ve ever had in my life. They were sexy lucid dreams—in the first person present tense. I could actually taste it—the kid’s exquisite droid jizz!!!

It was the real thing—nothing plastic or artificial or ersatz about it. It tastes like the real thing—and if anybody should know, I knew what the real thing tasted like.

There weren’t many babes on Mars yet—Hellas City was still a minor little small town bus-stop stepping-off point for bigger and better things. Like big bucks out there in the BP Saturn Rings oil rigs—the deep-drill derricks down there on the surface where the rivers of oil and heavy metals flowed like the Mississippi and Amazon Rivers.

Plus there was all the corporate development goin’ on in the Asteroid Belt Business Zone—you could scoop up diamonds, emeralds and rubies with a vacuum cleaner craft no time flat!!! Lotta guys made it rich quick—and they were more than generous with any goodlookin’ cute Earth chicks who might come their way. And they did too—you betcha.

And then there was all the hush-hush exo-development outta sight way out there in the mysterious Oort Cloud Belt—scene of so many “exo” companies it would make your head spin. Lotta exo-tech goin’ on from all that stuff they dug up on the dark side of the moon—Luna was full of that shit.

But the Oort Cloud Belt—had all these hoity-toity exo-academic types dumbfounded and goin’ nuts. Exo-archeologists—who’d think those dudes ever got a hard-on an anything other than King Tut’s tomb?

Well, that’s not what I heard—on the Ganymede Grape Vine gossip screens. They’d found something out there past Pluto—that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up. Plus there were all these exo-biologists, exo-historians, exo-economists—all of them mum over something big.

Who knows—who cares? Us little guyz—us small shrimp scrimping a livin’ on Mars in Hellas City. WTF did we know about such Late Capitalism Space Operas and Late Golden Age Sci-Fi Monster Movies. All I knew was I got outta Earth in time to avoid the Apocalypto Disco Doomsday—with my fuckin’ ass in one piece. Post-Terra life in Hellas City wasn’t bad—after all I had this new fabulous droid loverboy livin’ with me.

What a surprise cute young Android Dreamboat he was—the way he just dropped into my life outta nowhere just like that. Let me bless the stars above—and pray to Phobos and Deimos!!! Long live Red Planet Romance—and Modern Martian Android Androgyny!!!

He said his name was JJ—short for Jacky Jackoff. But no matter how louche or profane it sounded—it still got pretty close to the real thing. He was one neat naughty Nexus Droid Dude—a real Nexus Plexus Push My Button Darling Droid from the Dark Side.

Inside the kid’s brain—there must’ve been a real hum-dinger story to tell. About how he got here—and where he came from. Who is Clone Creator was—and what they had in mind for such a Darling Droid Boy.

But naturally, I suppose—like any Mad Droid Sci-Fi Scientist somewhere deep in some Saturnian Subterranean Deep-Six Sex Laboratory. That’s where they’d probably have the big bucks and retro-bioengineering high tech—to create such a Boy as Jack.

And naturally, some Baron Frankenstein with his mad android hunchbacked assistants—would probably erase his mind card—and obliterate any residual left-over Earthboy or Oort Cloud Kid memory hanging around to fuck up things.

The kid wasn’t perfect—and that’s what made him so interesting. The imperfections were barely noticeable—it would surely take a vagabond Terra exile type or Zsa Zsa Gabor “Queen of the Universe” trippy Venusian dilettante like me, to notice such things.

Like, for example, JJ was such a little chicken shit kind of young droid. Usually that’s not programmed into Nexus models—it’s just fluff and totally unnecessary for Nexus 6 work on Mars or the slave-droid pits in the Asteroid Belt or down there on the offshore rigs of Saturn hell.

Oh yeah, he was endearingly chicken-shit—in many ways just like me. You know, when it comes to makin’ love, getting pounding and getting’ fucked by some serious “deep dickin’”—then, well, I knew a lot about that. I knew a lot of “deep drillin” roustabout dudes takin’ a vacation break—from those greasy BP rigs down there on the Methane Seas of slimy Saturn out there.

How many times had I been on the receiving end of the cock with my hoe or hood rat or pigeon head or chicken head getting’ banged against the wall as an act of “deep drillin” sexual intercourse, right, kimosabe? Well JJ was that way when we got to some serious deep dickin’ and drillin’ down there. He was ambidextrous and androgynous like most douchedroid dudes—he could go either way, top or bottom.

But when he went bottom—he’d whine like an old whore from back Earthside dontchaknow? “Oh that hurts!!!” or “C’mon man, hurt me some more!!!” He was such a chicken-shit acting droid sometimes when he wanted to be—not a butchy rough trade bone in his body.

He’d be like putty in my hands—as if he came from a long generation of Hollywood tit and sandal flicks. As slinky and sexy as any Jezebel from some Venusian—or as droid-delicious and tantalizing as any Delilah from the depths of Neptune’s Red Light District.

How can some goofy geek programmer slaving away in some gimpy stem-cell exo-genetic Android Inc. Laboratory—know how the fuck to do any code for something like that? To be a sluttish droid-boy like JJ was—with an in-born, instinctual know-how like JJ possessed to be a Boy of the Night?

The more JJ bitched, whined and acted like a spoiled Kept Boy—the more I realized what incredibly complex Queen of the Universe programming went into designing this kid. Who was he? How did I end up with him? Do kept boy douchedroids like him—really need dumb stupid clueless Sugar Daddies like me?

Do android tricks—dream kept boy dreams? And what about my dreams—why were they so intense lately now? Cause of all the android male love—flowin’ thru my veins? Usually, for as long as I could remember—whenever I did remember dreams, they were always in the third person past tense.

Lying there in bed now—it was as if somebody else, not me, was dreaming my dreams in the “here and now.” They were all intensely real—and embedded up to my neck in a vast Sea of Lucid Subjectivity.

I was dreamin’ every night with JJ in bed with me—right smack dab in the middle of instantaneous, impromptu, ad lib, intense First Person Present Tense. It was so intense—it made me wake up sometimes from Deep Drillin’ Sleep.

The funny thing is—when that happened, like almost every night. Well, you may not believe this—but the real reason I was waking up in the middle of the night was pretty simple. I was dreamin’ in the First Person Present Tense, all right—but I was also being visited by these totally shocking, unheard of déjà vu dick Nocturnal Emissions!!!

The reason I say déjà vu is pretty fuckin’ simple—it’s because these wide-awake, eyeball-bulging Wet Dreams comin’ to me in the middle of the night were so reminiscent of my boyhood adolescent early boner dreams back in the Fifth Grade.

That’s when they started—it was like the Visitation of Mary’s Holy Ghost Angel one night. You know the one—the One that impregnated her with the Virgin Birth of that Jaysus Christ kid? Well, that same goddamn sex-fiend Angel came to me too, baby—and it wasn’t pretty either.

You betcha—I got the Virgin Birth Blues really bad soon after that. Because no matter how much I prayed for forgiveness and promised not to ever Beat Off again, well—it didn’t make any difference. Every fuckin’ night that cute sexy Holy Ghost Angel Boy—came knockin’ at my back door. And he “came” into my Life—and every fuckin’ night I had a Virgin Birth Ejaculation all over the sheets, the wall, the ceiling, the cat and everything else.

It was just Awful!!!—awfully Nice. Knowing I’d been chosen outta the Blue—to be the latest Mother Fucker to Shot my Virgin Wad into this sad Prison Planet known as Earth. That’s how mock-religious and downright-stupid I was. Pretty soon the Virgin Births got to be pretty much the Same Old Business.

After each Visitation and Holy Roller Ejaculation—I kinda sorta mopped up the mess and cleaned up the ruins. A young gangly pimply-faced goofy Android Adolescent like me—what more can you expect than a kid getting’ bored after awhile even with heavenly, other-worldly, extra-terrestrial, Alien Android Ecstasy?

And so it was with a certain amount of Fear and Loathing—as well as Fear and Intrepidation. That I started experiencing wet dreams and nocturnal emissions again in my more mature years. It was like living thru a déjà vu nightmare all over again—shootin’ my brains out like I used to do back when I was nothing but a stupid little fool.

But, I suppose, nothing much had really changed since back then. After all most men never grow up anyway—they remain in a perpetual state of delayed adolescence.

Phasing into Modern Maturity and Sat afternoon Couch Potatohood. Watchin’ TV football and basketball and baseball games—sippin’ Silver Bullets and stuffin’ their guts with booze, chips and lots of male ego stuff.

Which surely is their god-given right to do on weekends—after slavin’ away 9-5 all week long in the offices of Shitville USA etc. Was I any different—lounging around on couch in my condo in Hellas City here on Mars?

Watchin’ the Space Hockey Games—up there in orbit around Titan Town? You thought fuckin’ ratty Earthside Rollerball was bad? Fuck man, you should see those Canadian Vandals of the Void—beat the shit outta the Toronto Triton Killers up there on the dry ice Moons of Saturn!!! Talk about Space League Hockey Extravaganzas—those Detroit Droid Drillers know No Fear when it comes to their Plutonium Pucks and Super Nova Ice Rink Death Star Denouements!!!

But like I was sayin’ about Douchedroid déjà vu—and those born-again Nocturnal Emissions I was havin’ again. After Jacky move in with me—and we started some serious fuckin’ around. I was no little dummy dipshit doodle bug by then—I was able to see more to it than back then when I felt like Virgin Mary fucked silly by the Destroying Angel.

There was more to it than just another new Hollywood James Bond remake of—some “From Herzegovina With Love” trashy spy-slut Cold War adventure flick. The douchebag déjà vu that overcame me—didn’t inflate my ego to grandiose superego distorted fantasies about me and the Other.

It was more like a kind of nostalgic meat-ache déjà vu—like trying to remember about some time or place a long ago before I was even born. Like having an orgasm that way—all messy and squirty with JJ sleepin’ away next to me.

It wasn’t particularly fun or exciting anymore. It was more sad than anything—a meat-melancholy meditation for me. To contemplate afterwards—and get deeper into what kind of flashbacks those déjà vu ejac-revelatons really were?

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