The Unequivocal Art Of Masturbation 

The Unequivocal Art Of Masturbation 

“By Gis and by Saint Charity,

Alack, and fie, for shame!

Young men will do ’t, if they come to ’t.

By Cock, they are to blame.”

• Ophelia in Hamlet (Act 4, Scene 5), By William Shakespeare. 

…

I.

It begins with seed. A burrowed down conniption in a hurricane long time untouched. This is the result of a destiny forsaken and a one-hit wonder coming to pass, coming to realise simply how rare she was.

II.

This is the unravelling at the seams of a workaholic oriental who unshackles the thoughtless act of welcoming a man to be born again between her legs. This is the unravelling of an amateur college girl avoiding eye contact with the millions of prying eyes on her debut. This is the unravelling of the madwoman Ophelia, and the agonising tears of a hundred thousand mothers and fathers. This is what we call the build up. This is what we call teetering to the edge, and a child unwrapping presents on Christmas day. 

III.

This is the real demonstration of love in its greatest, purest form, behind the prison of a camera. She's smiling. Look at those bangs and those breasts. That is cardinal beauty. Say no more to the trivialities of sweet nothings and red roses and I love you sos. This is what we know as collateral copulation; a reckless form of love that we cannot put into a jar and contain, but leave it all for the helpless, loveless bastards to streak a hot mess over their tissue papers to be our grandiose audience. Oh, our most esteemed guests!

IV. 

It's the way the light hits her nose at just the right angle and his perfectly chiselled chin throws back the sunlight from the studio rays to compliment her eyebrows. It's the way every thrust rocks the bed, as they say again and again;  “I love you, this is just business, I love you, this is my daily bread.” It's the way her arms lock around his neck and legs imprisons his hind; how their tongues wrestle with each other that make this a majestic work of art. The penetration makes a mark of a sanguinolent, torrid love affair, where the final frontier has been broken and there's no more turning back. 

V.

It is the symphony of a pot of macaroni stirring and the slapping of wet meat against wet meat and a body against the floor. The sound of a squeaking, stirring mouse putting her fingers in her mouth; or his in hers, both work. It is the infinitely understood mithering of “fuck, fuck you're so big” (as stated in the script) and “kimochi” or “yamete.” The sound of squealing in ecstasy as it all comes away; victorious, ultimately. The man shall be silent. All are perfect contenders to create a painting upon which no morals will be its easel. It stands alone and uncaring, full of itself, proud of its immoralities for you to enjoy. 

VI.

It is called possession. It is called property. It is called flinging a piece of flesh– a carcass of a newly slaughtered cow onto the steakhouse floor and beating it to death for a second time. It is called the chains that bind her feet and arms and ankles and the chain of command that he should be able to spit on her and spit in her face and spit in her mouth and she should be expected to swallow it. Ingested scorpion venom with gold leaf. It is this that Ophelia should throw herself into the river, and be pure, born again. 

VII.

It is called a close-up. It is called a money shot. It is called the wonderful, breathtaking display of a grand defloration of some thing; some animal put to rot on a hotel room bed. And the sweat and the stench and the slop over her chin. This is what we call the primal human urge upon which not even God can call out our gross negligence. This is a predator marking his prey like urinating on a bush and saying this is my lover. This is what love is. I’m going to pull on those pigtails, harder. Your lovely glasses drooped while your head was ducked down over it. Push them back up. 

VIII.

To fit in a world of shame. A world of delusions and reckless recompense that you can never have her nor ever be him. To never be him, him on her nor her on him. There is no more pleasure but the unrelenting finality that you have put to death millions in the sake of some kind of half-pitiful performance brought before the twilight of the new day. 

IX.

Silence. 

X.

I still think it's art.

In its most shambolic, primal and raw and unfathomably animalistic, they roar and quiver and moan and scream. Put your finger into it, anywhere it can go. Go further; deeper into a near Christlike sanctity where your libido screams a dictatorial regime upon which your laurels rest. I know it's all not real. Do you think I think Ophelia really drowned herself? Get yourself to a nunnery.

If I wrote erotica, you'd all be dead by now.

12 June 2024