Thursday, May 31, 2012

120 Days of Grey

 by E L James and The Marquis de Sade

      Christian is standing over me grasping a plaited leather riding crop. A tall, wasted, skeletal man, with dead, deepset eyes, a diseased mouth, drooping buttocks that flank an anus so stretched and caked in shit that it more resembles a privy, and a general accumulation of evil-smelling bodily filth which affords him constant sexual arousal: completely debased, foul from head to foot, the epitome of libertinage and depravity. He is exceedingly wealthy and powerful, aristocratic, and also utterly cruel, vicious and stone-hearted. He’s wearing old, faded, ripped Levis and that’s all. He leans down and plants a chaste, swift kiss on my lips. Holy crap.

      He smiles his odd I’ve-got-a-whopping-big-secret smile. “The roads which brought you here are destroyed, you are in a sealed fortress, no-one knows your whereabouts, you are beyond the help of kith and kin. In the eyes of the world you are already dead, and if you do still breathe, it is only on my whim.”

      His voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel...or something.   

      “And who is the person who is holding you in this subjugation? A being of profound criminality, who has no god but the sating of his basest desires, no laws but those of depravity; an absolute scoundrel with no moral or religious restraints, stained by more iniquities than you could even imagine, in whose eyes the life of a womanthe lives of all womenare as insignificant as the crushing of a filthy insect.”

      How can he seduce me solely with his voice? I’m all deer/headlights, moth/flame, bird/snake...and he knows exactly what he’s doing to me. He wants me. Christian Grey, Greek god, wants me. And I want him.

      “Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you?” he adds, caressing my chin.  “Your labors will be arduous, painful, and wracked with suffering, and the slightest disobedience will be corrected with severe physical punishments.” Jeez!

      “I therefore recommend to you that you employ discipline, submission, and total self-negation in order to heed nothing but my desire; let my lusts be your only laws, fly to satisfy them, anticipate them, provoke them. Not because you will have much to gain by such conduct, but, rather, because you will have a great deal to lose by not observing it.”

      I am all gushing and breathylike a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the state of Washington.

      “The Dominant may discipline the Submissive as necessary to ensure the Submissive fully appreciates her role of subservience to the Dominant and to discourage unacceptable conduct. The Dominant may flog, spank whip or corporally punish the Submissive as he sees fit, for the purpose of discipline, for his own personal enjoyment, or for any other reason, which he is not obliged to provide.”

      I shudder at the thought of being flogged or whipped. Spanking probably wouldn’t be so bad; humiliating though. My inner goddess is jumping up and down, clapping her hands like a five-year-old. Please, let’s do this...otherwise we’ll end up alone with lots of cats and your classic novels to keep you company. Oh, I wish I’d never met him. My inner goddess shakes her head at me. She and I know its a lie. I have never felt as alive as I do now.

      “In summary, you are advised to shudder, to tremble, to anticipate, and to obey; follow these directions, and, although, under severe duress, you may avoid complete misery...know that I regard you not as a human, but as cattle which I feed in return for certain services, and which I will thrash to a bloody pulp should those services fail to satisfy.”
      Oh, he can be so exasperating sometimes. Fifty shades of exasperating. The real heart fail is that I don’t know if he’s capable of love.

      Suddenly he grabs me, tipping me across his lap. With one smooth movement, he angles his body so my torso is resting on the bed beside him. He throws his right leg over both of mine and plants his left forearm on the small of my back, holding me down so I can’t move. I’m a ball of sexual tense need. I must be the color of The Communist Manifesto.
      “Oh yes, by the shit-smeared crack of Christ,” he leers, “yes, by the Saviour’s black ball-juice, you shall be well and truly spanked, you little rascal!” Holy crap. That’s the problem with Christian’s humorI can never tell if he’s joking or if he’s seriously angry. Oh, crapola.

      He’s rubbing me now, and the blow follows. A rhythmic pattern emerges: caress, fondle, hard slap. I have to concentrate to handle this pain. My inner goddess looks like somebody snatched her ice cream. “Aargh!” I cry out on the tenth slapand I’m unaware that I have been mentally counting the blows. Why do I feel suddenly bereft?

      “You filthy fucking she-bugger!” he roars, “don’t pretend you’ve never had your ass split open before!” My heart slams against my chest, and the butterflies escape from my stomach into my constricting throat. Why is that hot?

      “Satan fuck those damned tits of yours,” he bellows. How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise? They make me needy, needy for sex. I’m squirming with needy, achy...discomfort. I don’t understand this reaction. Hmm...Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.

      His mouth is a hard line. “I want to show you my playroom.”

      “You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. He laughs loudly.

      “No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.” He stands holding out his hand. I let him lead me back out the door to a subterranean lair constructed purely with the aim of facilitating the practice of every cruelty, depravity, and abomination. This is truly a place of no return, a godforsaken tomb of pain and terror for anyone unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of a monster entirely beyond the restraints of religion or law, bent only on exulting in pure crime and the satiation of unspeakable lusts. He’s so excited. Boys and their toys.

      “Oh, baby” he breathes. “Welcome to my world.”

      “Show me,” I whisper.

      “Show you?”

      “Show me how much it can hurt.”

      He binds my wrists together with his tie, knotting it firmly. His eyes are bright with excitement. Some Boy Scout he must have been to learn this knot. The corrective rites last for a very long time; whips, chains, pincers, spikes and iron claws are used to hideous effect; screams echo round the chamber, and its floors glisten with webs of blood. Suffice to say, this suffering is both unimaginable and unequalled in the annals of barbarity. And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.
      Holy fuck.

      “Ah, by God’s thrice-buggered asshole! Once again it is proved that the filthiest acts cause the most pleasure; the filthier the deed, the more powerful the sperm-spraying that ensues.” His voice is so soft, menacing, and its damned hot. My insides practically contort with potent, needy, liquid desire.

      “Mr. Grey, you are a born romantic.”

      The whole scenario was orchestrated with such finesse and resultant arousal that a veritable sperm-storm erupts. In orgasm he resembles a crazed beast; frightful shrieks, atrocious blasphemies fly from his lips; flames seem to dart from his eyes, he foams at the mouth, he neighs and snorts like a rabid stallion. He seems on the verge of apoplexy as he voids his wrinkled old sac. It’s so sexual. The feeling is beyond exquisite, raw and debasing and mind-blowing. My senses are ravaged, disconnected, solely concentrating on what he’s doing to me. How he’s making me feel that familiar pull deep in my belly, tightening, quickening. NO...and my traitorous body explodes in an intense, body-shattering orgasm.

      Boy...I survived. That wasn’t so bad. I’m more stoic than I thought. I have to say that as physical experiences go that was very satisfying. But emotionallythat was about as emotionally satisfying as cotton candy is nutritious. Oh the many faces of Christian Grey. Will I ever be able to understand this mercurial man? And that, perhaps, is what once led a wise individual to say: it is better to fuck a man than to try and comprehend him.

      “Well done, baby,” he murmurs. “Would you do it again?”
      I think for a moment as fatigue clouds my brain...Again?
      “Yes.” My voice is so soft.
      “Good. So would I,” he murmurs, then leans down and softly kisses the top of my head. “By dint of performing atrocities, one’s desire to commit additional ones is stimulated; the more horrors one can perpetrate, the more one craves to perpetrate others of even greater extremity. Thus, it may become more apparent how simple lusts, when amplified by an unbridled pathology, may evolve into blood-soaking murder orgies.”

      I roll my eyes. Such is the nature of the libertine, always seeking to transgress further than his peers.
      An almost cruel smile plays across his lips. “And I haven’t finished with you yet.”

[A mash-up of 50 Shades of Grey by E L James and 120 Days of Sodom by The Marquis De Sade.]

Thursday, May 17, 2012



Colin Atrophy (Cupcake Punk, Slice Harvester)
Jarrod Shannahan (Boston Hardocre, Death Panel Press)
Lexi Lampel (Killed By Death, Superchief)
Marta Lapczynski (Pop Punk, Fat Heart Distro)
Mike ChickenMan (Street Punk spoken word)

Hosted by A.M. Gittlitz (Anarchopunk, The New Inquiry)

This month's edition of Death Panel Press will be a celebration of the punk literary tradition, even more so than ever. From the late beat prose of Johnny Thunders and Richard Hill, to the nihilistic poems of Lydia Lunch, Exene Valdez, and Henry Rollins, to the fanzine culture of Cometbus and Doris, punk is as good on paper as it on vinyl, and that's why we're proud to showcase 5 contemporary punk writers: Zinesters Colin Atrophy and Marta Lapczynski, performance art weirdos Jarrod Shannahan and Mike Chickenman, and essayist Lexi Lampel.

Tuesday, June 12th

Cage Gallery, 83 Hester St.
Free, cheap drinks for sale to benefit radical shit (please no BYOB)

Thanks to AM Gittlitz aka Boo Boo Bear for setting this up and for spelling my name wrong. 

Monday, May 7, 2012

DP Reading Series #9 Is Tomorrow, 5/8/12!

This is going to be the most ridiculous installment yet. The only thing missing is you!