Horni Soit: Come with us now on an erotic (clockwise) journey through time and space...
4000 B.C.
Zog mmm Grak in bog. Grak mmm Zog in gob.
It goo.
1378 A.D. “The Hardener’s Tail”
Sadly friends, although we think it more, Each human being is nothing but a whore, Thinly-veiled and wrapped in social morays,
Seeking nought but poly-sexual forays.
Such is it that Horni this week brings
A piece of smut that’s truly fit for kings;
Some are choice but you shall find ours Chaucer:
“Yes!” you cry, “Please one or two page more sir!”
Thus I speak you, verily and forsoothe,
About a lad whose tastes were most uncouth;
A younge manne with poor and ruddy diction –
His only love most strange: erotic fiction.
Madly would he in the depth of night
His odes to twat and penile preludes write;
Dipping quill pen in a pot of cumme,
Churning out an ode to tit and bumme.
But twas more than that I fear to add
(I mean not merely that his lust was badde),
But also that his text was more absurd
Than sixteen monkeys playing draughts with Kurds.
Example of this crud I will now give
That you may thank the Lord this man did live
Four hundred years before your parents met
(And did your mangy little self beget)...
2008 A.D
There was something decidedly effete about Christopher. Perhaps it was the fact that he once became physically exhausted while watching two mechanics change a car tire. Perhaps it was the fact that he had 13 surnames, with ‘de Medici’ repeated twice. Or perhaps it was his penchant for bathing in melted chocolate and sleeping on a bed of dandelion spores. It was multi-factorial.
But there came a time – 2:45pm on Friday 29th August, 2008, the Common Era – when Christopher’s parents decided something needed to be done. That’s a bit vague, of course, because ‘something’ always needs to be done. Right now Lorna McAllister needs to do her laundry, your boyfriend needs to lance that hideous boil on his neck and you need to get your dog off my leg before I hit it with a wrench. But none of these somethings are relevant to Christopher, are they?
At any rate, in the interests of linguistic clarity and specificity, Christopher’s parents decided that something had to be done to make their son less like a sack of overdue cheese and more like an autonomous adult humanoid. They spent many days mulling over some appropriately mulled wine about how to transform their progeny. First they considered sending Chris to military school, where a variety of rigid things (including, but not limited to, discipline) would make a man of him. Then they remembered that Chris was 41 years old and the school boat had probably sailed. Next they considered pummeling him with a sack full of oranges for 19 days in order to toughen him up. But, as gratifying as that sounded, they weren’t exactly sure how it would mold his character besides giving him a well-grounded fear of citrus.
Suddenly and without warning, like the implosion of Hilary Duff’s miserable career, it dawned on them like Dawn Fraser would if she was a verb: they had to send him overseas! By exposing him literally and figuratively to the literal and figurative rigors of life abroad – and by teaching him the all-important distinction between ‘literal’ and ‘figurative’ – they would give their son the gift of self-determination. And probably typhoid.
And thusly it was that Christopher found himself bundled aboard an Air Mexicana jet some 2 hours later, bound and gagged and bound for some exotic destination. And gagged.
Christopher had flown once before, but that was in Business Class from Sydney to Tamworth. There he had sat comfortably ensconced between his parents while a troupe of midgets wearing solid gold tuxedos served him owl meat and scrambled Faberge eggs. It was so blissful, in fact, that he was genuinely disappointed to arrive in Tamworth for the Biannual Rural Incest Festival.
But this flight, the one we were talking about a paragraph ago you amnesic idiot, was altogether different. Now he sat tightly enclosed between a 250-year-old Salvadorian lady who spoke a raucous dialect of Portuguese comprehensible only to her 260-year-old mother, hadn’t bathed since the Spanish Armada and brought a packed lunch on board (consisting of pickled lizards and congealed bear fat); and a distinguished middle-aged gentleman whose head resembled an economy-size fishcake and smelled accordingly. A plastic bag full of severed limbs had fallen on his head twice during takeoff, the safety lecture instructed him to use children as a flotation device, and the chief caterer was too busy contracting hepatitises A through F via sexual congress with the co-pilot to bother bringing him his semi-dehydrated Meaty Snacks©. I don’t mean to impugn the quality of Air Mexicana. Wait, actually I do.
Halfway through the flight, the destination of which I have yet to disclose, Christopher noticed a particularly attractive flight attendant. I guess flight attendants are people who attend to flights. I always preferred ‘stewardess’. Or ‘steward’ if it was a man, although it sounded too much like they were all called ‘Stuart’. Maybe they were. Do you think you could refuse to hire anyone who wasn’t called Stuart? I doubt it, what with equal opportunities and so forth these days. What are your feelings about equal opportunities? If you ask me, I think all women have the right to be bricklayers, men have the right to be midwives and children have the right to be thoroughly confused by the whole thing. But I digress.
Halfway through the flight, the destination of which I have yet to disclose, Christopher noticed a particularly attractive woman who works on the plane handing out food, beverages and vomit bags. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have been too shy to talk to her. In fact, under ordinary circumstances he would have immediately retreated to his room and then practiced his conversational skills on a live halibut. But he was not under ordinary circumstances. Rather, as the plane struck a large air pocket, he was under the flight attendant.
“Hello” she murmured seductively – or at least as seductively as anyone can murmur anything with a bag of peanuts wedged in their right nostril. “Please excuse me for falling on you.”
She was lithe, he thought to himself. Lithe means the same as ‘nimble’ and ‘lissom’, Microsoft Word Thesaurus thought to itself. Thesaurus sounds like a dinosaur with a large vocabulary, you though to yourself.
“My name’s Christopher” he stammered. “P-p-p-pleased to meet you.” Christopher often stammered, but usually only when he wrote.
“Nice to meet you Christopher,” replied the flight attendant whose name was Teresa and favourite meal was tuna lasagna. “Let’s get it onnnnnn.”
And so, as the jet hurtled towards its first unscheduled stop-over in a Guatemalan cornfield, Christopher learned an important life lesson: any woman willing to have sex with you within 5 hours of meeting you has probably done that many times before, so don’t start boasting about your animal magnetism until you’ve had a physical and a thorough blood workup.
2345 AF (not a typo, read Brave New World jackass)
It was a crisp Catillsday morning, and Bettel Squizliad was feeling dyspeptic. Emerging from last night’s soma-induced haze, she rubbed her eyes with her endoplasmic micro-retinal reticulator, which was essentially a sponge that had been genetically-engineered to have a very long and technical name. The Ministry of Neologisms was always coming up with scamaphlactic ideas like that.
Turning on the four-dimensional tele-sensory news emitter, Bettel watched a series of wryly satirical jibes by the author of this story at how early-21st century social phenomena will someday be relegated to the annals of history (as opposed to the histories of anal). Scientists were investigating ‘The Fossilized Cutter’, an emo who had been preserved in the tar pits of Old Newtown with The Used’s last album in one hand and his wang in the other. The United States of Pangaea had invaded Planet Mugabe. The Kate Laing Centre for Kids Who Want to Learn How to Read Good had announced record profits for the 2344-45 financial year. And the second moon of Saturn had just lost to the Springboks in the Tri-Nations grand final.
Walking into her kitchen which was full of futuristic appliances I can’t be bothered to describe, Bettel was peeved to discover her Servantbot© performing oral sex on the toaster. Bettel had been sexually neglected ever since her virtual husband was taken prisoner during World of Warcraft LVIII, and the last thing she needed was for her possessions to start shtupping one another all over the joint. “Cease copulation,” said Bettel briskly, briskly walking to the oven to reheat some brisket. The robot and toaster uncoupled sheepishly, even though that word had lost its meaning since sheep became extinct in 2287.
Sitting at her iTable, Bettel did the Dodecahedronword and a much-maligned space-do-ku® while eating her beefy breakfast. Every now and then she snuck a furtive glance at her Servantbot©, which was puttering around the apartment rearranging the furniture and humming the Fibonacci sequence to the tune of Katy Perry’s “I kissed a girl” (Oceania’s supra-national anthem since 2198). Sure, Bettel knew that the Servantbot© was a mass-produced multi-purpose domestic solution made from 60% nickel, 30% titanium and 10% asbestos. She also knew that it had entered a civil union with the dishwasher about 5 years ago. But she couldn’t help wondering whether humans and machines could perhaps have relationships that transcended the limitations of the instruction manual.
At that moment – which is a pretty good time for things to happen – the Servantbot© bent down to pick up a pencil. Bettel was suddenly overcome by futuristic lust, which is fundamentally similar to the lust we know today except with more sweating and half the fat of regular peanut butter. The robot leapt with simulated surprise as Bettel mounted it, and the two began an elegant pas de deux. She fondled its wing nuts and ball screw while it emptied its sump all over the floor.
It was celasperous.