Boy Copy

TRANSCENDENCE

When you’re getting righteously fucked every which way to Sunday, when every hole is being rammed and jammed and thank-you-mam’ed, a certain…

calm descends.

The bodhisattvas called it — well, we don’t know what the hell the bodhisattvas called it — but they had a word for it, this deep, contemplative state, beyond ying and yang, where pleasure and pain are one.

Perhaps it was transcendence. Perhaps it was Piggy in the Sty.

But it’s a feeling that pitches you way out there … beyond the body that is being so relentlessly drilled… and into the motion — yes, the motion in the ocean of humanity!

It is here where to serve others is to serve oneself, as there are no others, there is no self.

We call this The Getting Fucked in Every Orifice Moment of Self Awareness.

It is when you understand finally and fully the words of another mystic: Maharishi Yogi Iggy Pop.

And now I want to be your dog sang the sainted Iggy when in the grips of psilocybinic vision.

Here, for Western consumation, was the reddest ruby of the East: the luxurious self-abasement that is self-fulfillment.

Inscrutable, yes? But not completely unknown.

We have to look to Emily Dickinson. Yes, making her debut on a porn site at last: Here she is world, here she is boys, the Maid of Amherst. It was she who wrote:

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

We need not dip any further into the poem for dear Emily rushes right into her death trip thing, and it becomes all about tombs and stone and “the hour of lead.” A little Dickinson goes a long way, as they say in the cathouses of Las Vegas, where no Dickinsons, no matter how small, are refused. (All major credit cards accepted.)

Let us aspiring acolytes of the Higher Porn meditate upon that opening line and give ourselves to the trance it casts upon us

After great pain, a formal feeling comes.

Surely when the pain happens to hurt so good, no one should be surprised that a sacred threshold has been crossed, the veil between life and death rent.

You merely have to look sensitively, intuitively, into the face of the man in the middle of all these sandwiches to glimpse the afterglow of something ecstatic, something eternal.*

His journey to there and back again is now on display in the new Hi-Def Gallery of the Inner Circle.

Enlightenment is but a click away, gentlemen! May the peace of He Who Gets Royally Fucked be with you!

 

*Yes, the photos have been removed from this reprinting, but you have memories, don’t you?