that?”
“ Yes.”
“ How do you know this?”
“ The odor.”
He leaves the room without elaborating.
*
The recordings have been edited and the operating theatre — a lumber room — is ready. The Prosthetic Libido lies on a table, its brain exposed pink and grey like a cloud above the rising sun. A heavy black curtain divides the room into two sections. The stretcher on which Hulferde will rest is head-to-head with the table, on the other side of the curtain, and it stands on an enormous wooden spool of metal cable.
Now to bring the prosthetic up to full start. After several misconnections finally they throw the switches. For a moment there is total darkness and a silence in which everything stops. Now a dim glow can be seen. The light gradually returns, with a lazy stirring in its — his — genitals and extremities. Life always just trickles in at first.
The breathing deepens... an expression of dreamy relish creeps over his features, his eyes open to two fringed slits, and mineral oil perspiration sequins his sides steaming with musk. Life rises and ebbs, rises higher and ebbs higher, higher still each time, like the swelling breast of a symphony, the Prosthetic Libido’s life trembles on the verge and then spills over, becomes self-perpetuating. It draws deep and pleasurable breaths. The folds of its membranes soft as if they were just made of sky like silky wads of dusk about a disk of blue wands, spokes from an off-center opening in the base. They shiver, then it’s as if they’d never moved, shiver again. A ribbon of pressure comes into existence nearly encircling the aperture from the outside. Its shadow is faintly visible on the interior canopy. At roughly regular intervals more such ribbons appear until the canopy is striped with spinning shadows, and now the lighter bands between them become shiny, a pink lambence makes them sparkle with heat mounting in gentle intensity as the instants develop them. The ribbons tenderly squeeze the canopy from outside, without deforming it, and the wands flex as a formation bows them outward. The off-center opening is sealed with a brittle film of some mineral like abalone lining—
— now it buckles before a gush of light, frothing in the wands and against aperture walls. In channels of soapy metal it sluices away into the body, bubbling up white and volatile where it touches the sides of the channels, shedding and reabsorbing thin shells of intense, pure hues on top, the color of the streams are pastels lit from inside that throw off striped fans and strobing marquees. The light thickens at the edges, then pulls apart in strings. The Prosthetic Libido sighs and shimmers a profusion of colors which, as I move to and fro, fitfully takes on the luster of sunlight — a hum of a hundred men I feel tremble in my throat and chest, then open out to a great and joyous cry I don’t hear but that runs a hot river down my body to the floor.
The Great Lover gets the machinery running while Hulferde attaches contacts to himself, unable to see the machine through the sable curtain. He lies down on the stretcher in his street clothes, face down; there’s a padded ring into which he inserts his head to keep his spine straight. The Great Lover dons rubber gloves and applies a topical anaesthetic to the skin at the base of Hulferde’s skull. With one expert shove he drives home the point of an awl-like cutting instrument with an adjustable barrier around the base to prevent it cutting too deep. A brief sound of surprise issues from Hulferde, he jerks once, then goes limp. Only a drop or two of blood.
The Great Lover presses a release at the end of the cutter’s handle; he extracts the device from the wound, leaving behind a small metal tube, angling up through the spinal aperture at the skull’s base. Through this tube, the Great Lover introduces a number of wires one at a time, expertly twisting them so as to position the end of each wire in the proper brain area,
“ Yes.”
“ How do you know this?”
“ The odor.”
He leaves the room without elaborating.
*
The recordings have been edited and the operating theatre — a lumber room — is ready. The Prosthetic Libido lies on a table, its brain exposed pink and grey like a cloud above the rising sun. A heavy black curtain divides the room into two sections. The stretcher on which Hulferde will rest is head-to-head with the table, on the other side of the curtain, and it stands on an enormous wooden spool of metal cable.
Now to bring the prosthetic up to full start. After several misconnections finally they throw the switches. For a moment there is total darkness and a silence in which everything stops. Now a dim glow can be seen. The light gradually returns, with a lazy stirring in its — his — genitals and extremities. Life always just trickles in at first.
The breathing deepens... an expression of dreamy relish creeps over his features, his eyes open to two fringed slits, and mineral oil perspiration sequins his sides steaming with musk. Life rises and ebbs, rises higher and ebbs higher, higher still each time, like the swelling breast of a symphony, the Prosthetic Libido’s life trembles on the verge and then spills over, becomes self-perpetuating. It draws deep and pleasurable breaths. The folds of its membranes soft as if they were just made of sky like silky wads of dusk about a disk of blue wands, spokes from an off-center opening in the base. They shiver, then it’s as if they’d never moved, shiver again. A ribbon of pressure comes into existence nearly encircling the aperture from the outside. Its shadow is faintly visible on the interior canopy. At roughly regular intervals more such ribbons appear until the canopy is striped with spinning shadows, and now the lighter bands between them become shiny, a pink lambence makes them sparkle with heat mounting in gentle intensity as the instants develop them. The ribbons tenderly squeeze the canopy from outside, without deforming it, and the wands flex as a formation bows them outward. The off-center opening is sealed with a brittle film of some mineral like abalone lining—
— now it buckles before a gush of light, frothing in the wands and against aperture walls. In channels of soapy metal it sluices away into the body, bubbling up white and volatile where it touches the sides of the channels, shedding and reabsorbing thin shells of intense, pure hues on top, the color of the streams are pastels lit from inside that throw off striped fans and strobing marquees. The light thickens at the edges, then pulls apart in strings. The Prosthetic Libido sighs and shimmers a profusion of colors which, as I move to and fro, fitfully takes on the luster of sunlight — a hum of a hundred men I feel tremble in my throat and chest, then open out to a great and joyous cry I don’t hear but that runs a hot river down my body to the floor.
The Great Lover gets the machinery running while Hulferde attaches contacts to himself, unable to see the machine through the sable curtain. He lies down on the stretcher in his street clothes, face down; there’s a padded ring into which he inserts his head to keep his spine straight. The Great Lover dons rubber gloves and applies a topical anaesthetic to the skin at the base of Hulferde’s skull. With one expert shove he drives home the point of an awl-like cutting instrument with an adjustable barrier around the base to prevent it cutting too deep. A brief sound of surprise issues from Hulferde, he jerks once, then goes limp. Only a drop or two of blood.
The Great Lover presses a release at the end of the cutter’s handle; he extracts the device from the wound, leaving behind a small metal tube, angling up through the spinal aperture at the skull’s base. Through this tube, the Great Lover introduces a number of wires one at a time, expertly twisting them so as to position the end of each wire in the proper brain area,
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