the privacy of an unguarded moment. The members of the audience became voyeurs, and an uneasy vibration oozed through the crowd.
But then the man stiffened, came to his knees, stood up, and turned to face the people. He smiled and bowed. And with that, the accumulated tension broke and they showered him with a thunderous ovation. The applause and cheers went on for over a minute.
The man, now a star, nodded to the faggot who picked up the chain, curled it, and carried it into the wings. It was clear that he served, offstage as well as on, as the chain man’s slave.
Chet ordered a beer and stood sipping it as the crowd returned to its ordinary anarchic state, having been temporarily galvanized into an army of appreciation by the performances. He felt refreshed and cleansed. He wondered at the acts he had seen, and knew that one could do a doctoral dissertation on the meaning of it all. One saw the end of a civilization, the birth of a new liberty, theater, psychological dynamics, and a host of other categories of definition. Chet had always been amused by the academic naivety of Americans who, upon discovering something, always assume that it hadn’t existed before. All the so-called novelties of the sexual revolution offered such shock value to a society only because most people have been hypnotized into accepting official descriptions of reality as the reality itself. When the current period of breaking out came to its cyclical end, the civilization would go back into the closet, and millions upon millions of people will imagine that homosexuality, orgies, swinging, and “perversions” have disappeared. And then be outraged again when the next cycle of exposure arrives.
However, fist-fucking was something else. Chet wondered whether this might not be a historical first. The Babylonians had orgies, and the Greeks had little boys, and the Romans had a glut of various excesses, but he couldn’t recall any reference ever being made to fist-fucking. When was the first person fist-fucked? How did it come about? Was it a voluntary or a forced act? When was the term coined? Does the term exist in other languages? Chet, whose girlfriend, he still imagined, had yet to be fucked in the ass, and who couldn’t imagine himself taking a fist, was suddenly taken by a lively curiosity about the subject. He had one friend who was a fervid practitioner. And since he had begun being fist-fucked several years earlier, his health improved, his complexion became glowing, and his mental alertness went up several notches. He spoke of it as a supreme yogic exercise and grew eloquent in almost religious praise of its virtues. He once described an experience to Chet in which he had taken mescaline, and while peaking and watching the color-explosion sequence in 2001, he inhaled poppers and got fist-fucked.
“What more could there be?” he had asked.
The thoughts having peripherally brought Constance to his consciousness, Chet tried to focus his awareness on the problem of her kidnapping. It was difficult to compute, because she might already be dead, in which case he felt the best thing to do would be to forget. If she was alive, he knew he ought to try to find her. Fleetingly, he had a fantasy of using the computer to plot the place and time of the next disappearance, catch the Slavers in the act, and follow them to their lair, there to rescue Constance from her captors. But she could be anywhere. The Middle East, India, Africa, South America, in a dungeon of a Southern California mansion.
He thought again of the FBI, and decided that that would be his best chance. If she didn’t return within a week, he would take her published story, the printout of the program he had worked out to help her, and any other facts at his disposal, to the bureau and see if they could do anything.
Meanwhile, from across the room, he could feel the stare of a thin, very effeminate boy who wore a velour Fauntleroy suit, three-inch heels, nail polish, eye
But then the man stiffened, came to his knees, stood up, and turned to face the people. He smiled and bowed. And with that, the accumulated tension broke and they showered him with a thunderous ovation. The applause and cheers went on for over a minute.
The man, now a star, nodded to the faggot who picked up the chain, curled it, and carried it into the wings. It was clear that he served, offstage as well as on, as the chain man’s slave.
Chet ordered a beer and stood sipping it as the crowd returned to its ordinary anarchic state, having been temporarily galvanized into an army of appreciation by the performances. He felt refreshed and cleansed. He wondered at the acts he had seen, and knew that one could do a doctoral dissertation on the meaning of it all. One saw the end of a civilization, the birth of a new liberty, theater, psychological dynamics, and a host of other categories of definition. Chet had always been amused by the academic naivety of Americans who, upon discovering something, always assume that it hadn’t existed before. All the so-called novelties of the sexual revolution offered such shock value to a society only because most people have been hypnotized into accepting official descriptions of reality as the reality itself. When the current period of breaking out came to its cyclical end, the civilization would go back into the closet, and millions upon millions of people will imagine that homosexuality, orgies, swinging, and “perversions” have disappeared. And then be outraged again when the next cycle of exposure arrives.
However, fist-fucking was something else. Chet wondered whether this might not be a historical first. The Babylonians had orgies, and the Greeks had little boys, and the Romans had a glut of various excesses, but he couldn’t recall any reference ever being made to fist-fucking. When was the first person fist-fucked? How did it come about? Was it a voluntary or a forced act? When was the term coined? Does the term exist in other languages? Chet, whose girlfriend, he still imagined, had yet to be fucked in the ass, and who couldn’t imagine himself taking a fist, was suddenly taken by a lively curiosity about the subject. He had one friend who was a fervid practitioner. And since he had begun being fist-fucked several years earlier, his health improved, his complexion became glowing, and his mental alertness went up several notches. He spoke of it as a supreme yogic exercise and grew eloquent in almost religious praise of its virtues. He once described an experience to Chet in which he had taken mescaline, and while peaking and watching the color-explosion sequence in 2001, he inhaled poppers and got fist-fucked.
“What more could there be?” he had asked.
The thoughts having peripherally brought Constance to his consciousness, Chet tried to focus his awareness on the problem of her kidnapping. It was difficult to compute, because she might already be dead, in which case he felt the best thing to do would be to forget. If she was alive, he knew he ought to try to find her. Fleetingly, he had a fantasy of using the computer to plot the place and time of the next disappearance, catch the Slavers in the act, and follow them to their lair, there to rescue Constance from her captors. But she could be anywhere. The Middle East, India, Africa, South America, in a dungeon of a Southern California mansion.
He thought again of the FBI, and decided that that would be his best chance. If she didn’t return within a week, he would take her published story, the printout of the program he had worked out to help her, and any other facts at his disposal, to the bureau and see if they could do anything.
Meanwhile, from across the room, he could feel the stare of a thin, very effeminate boy who wore a velour Fauntleroy suit, three-inch heels, nail polish, eye
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