Organ Grinder:
News for Pervy Little Monkeys

This is how it happened. I swear this to be true, except for the blatant lies. I was lying in my bed, with the Marvelous J and a good two thirds of the gay men's chorus looking on, singing "I Will Survive". I had my mouth and two fists full of J's muscular id, and he was jacking my engorged superego for all he was worth.

I love it when we get creative. It's like the world is a terrible movie and we're the only two people left in the theatre, and the only reason we're still there is that one of us has a fetish for having popcorn stuck up his/her ass while loudly declaring "Thumbs up! Thumbs up! Two thumbs up! YEAH!" and even the seasoned IATSE projectionist looks away in fear and confusion. At times like this it is clear that our love is a cornstarch oasis in a too-tight synthetic world.

So there we are, me and the Marvelous J, two thirds of the gay men's' chorus singing "Wind beneath my Wings", the Radio City Rockettes, and some serious looking silicone toys. We are rutting like Oldfield's Tubular Bells; prolonged, overrated, unabashedly self-indulgent. J has this way of lovin' me that makes me suspect that he's found some holy grail orifice that in all my masturbatory years I never discovered. Like I am the Ark of the Covenant and he's Indiana frikkin' Jones. Like my nervous system is a vibraphone and he's the only octopus who ever studied under Lionel Hampton. He's got me howling obscene arias, beating tattoos into the bed sheets, reinventing bebop in the gibberish of my pleasure.

Suddenly, my bed is upstage center at the Orpheum Theatre, the Rockettes are doing a Busby Berkeley rain dance, and two thirds of the gay men's chorus are singing "She'll be coming 'round the mountain…"; the full house is on their feet, chanting Jesus! Oh! Yes! Go! And now, like the Rapture, I am coming. I am rampant, inevitable, as full of pleasure and pain as a fridge full of beer careening down a San Francisco street.

Ok, this is where it gets weird: In addition to the whip-like contractions, the internal combustion of sulphur and stars, the choirs of tractors singing the Halleluiah chorus, (i.e. the usual)…how to put this delicately? There is an explosion. To call it an ejaculation seems demure. It is tsunami-like: thunderous, roaring, disastrous in scale. The Marvelous J clings to my futon like Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic, chunks of wet drywall sag and cave in, Vlad Vostock floats by, barefoot on an old wooden skid, one finger wagging in the air, declaiming: "Man Drowning in Car/At Broadway and Cambie /While NOBODY CARES!" The crowd is caught in the undertow and swiftly drifting away, surreal as a Svankmejer animation: in the distance I can see Malcolm Parry, still trying to get a good shot of Lily Frosts' cleavage. Two thirds of the gay men's chorus are now scrambling for rescue boats in abject horror, the Rockettes are making life preservers out of their Styrofoam headpieces, and the toys are lost at the bottom of the deluge, to be dredged up long after I am dead by ambitious marine archaeologists, who will note the high quality of the silicone and label them "Womyn's Ware???" in waterproof pencil.

When we recover, J and I undertake a rigorous testing and research initiative. We find this: they have put a man on the moon, the atom has been split, the debate is raging about cloning humans, yet we STILL don't know where women "come" from. As recently as the mid-eighties, women who ejaculate have been advised that the phenomenon does not exist, and have found themselves undergoing surgical treatment for incontinence, or told to simply avoid having an orgasm. Despite the flood of anecdotal evidence, there is still a great degree of controversy about the source of the fluid, due to the fact that anatomists generally study cadavers and not live, sexually aroused women. Most doctors do, however, agree that it is not pee.* Well, that's a relief.

It is twelve months later, and I am revisiting the scene. A small and pleasant water park has appeared in the middle of downtown Vancouver. There are the usual ducks and vicious swans. People walk their dogs without leashes. Tourists on roller blades rocket, squealing, past a small brass plaque commemorating Cunt Lake. I swear this to be true, except none of it happened to me.

*Some scientists have determined that female ejaculate is made up of the same stuff that male prostatic fluid is made of: prostatic acid phosphatase, with high levels of glucose and low levels of urea and creatinine. Others attribute the fluid to a combination of glandular excretions and the charmingly named "beer piss", a substance high in water content and low in urea. If you care to learn more, contact me through organgrinder@terminalcity.com, and I'll send you some links.