God of the Game

Ok, this is how it works in Anesidora. Female hair has feelers at the opposite end of follicles, looking like lipstick - under magnifying glass - twisted out of its case, and inserted into the male cavity for procreation. The procreation of fantasy; these sensitized tips are coated with hallucinatory spores which tickle the flesh inside the geometrical opening, causing the meat around the void to bud as though the male spine is a fecund flower. Quickly, neurons bond between the threads of her head and the soil of his soul - her brain coupled with his prostate, leading to the liberation of the mind chemically induced.

Random is the name of the game, a gamble of desire, perhaps even a Russian roulette. Each strand of lady-locks, turgid, and revealed in powdery points, contains in itself an episode of wonder; encryption codes for a fun time. This in turn sticks to the ground of man; every nano-plot of his land is fertile for a particular crop of joy.

So, an analogy is a child. Fuck on a different night and it could have been a boy, not a girl. Switching from doggy to missionary may make another baby, a prodigy swapped for an eccentric minus the innate intellect.

Get the picture?

Chaos theory. Some butterfly’s effect.

Only two differences are, one, it is the girl who has the XY. Guys’ port is a singular double X. Females determine the future. Two, Anesidora’s design is zero-tolerance against waste. Consider the inefficiencies of nature, five-hundred-million sperms sacrificed for one miserable tadpole to conjugate and evolve to the superior matrix of zygotes; preposterous, when cum-happy men squander innumerable lives on a weekly basis, a trillion in his lifetime. What an abortive genocide! Better if killed in treacherous vagina, but most are netted in rubber, flushed into toilet bowls, captive in rubbish bins with kin, relatives and strangers, or wiped off coarse, curly pubic hair by crispy towels unwashed from swabbing an earlier load - a desiccated, stubbly graveyard of semen and epidermis used to pat dry after masturbation or a bath.

No such farce in JC’s creation. Nothing is redundant. Every seed or egg cradling life is promised the opportunity to mature into a meaningful existence. And he delivers. That’s why women are given the key, the authority. They are better managers, and are more orderly. Less wasteful, they don’t go dumping seeds around.

Each hair in a single port copulates with the dirt of his ground, begetting new beings. With JC, all is hierarchal. And he sits at the top of the dunghill. King Beetle. That’s why he is adamant concerning structure; no misconstruction or misuse of his plane. Unrestricted use is unlocked only when registered users meet creative standards upon merit and distinction - original hallucinations worth a cult following or two - this way he is able to monitor all activities online; and for this reason the deal with Deity High was outlined and subsequently signed. Activation of accounts is only through the school, and hackers are ignominiously neutralized.

If you know JC, he’s one of them egomaniac gods, uncool about democracy. He must have the last say. Subscribers and tourists are free so long as they don’t piss him off. So, revelry seeking druggies don’t grasp the substances they pump are, in an ironical truth, enslaving them. All’s fun in a bright blue world overflowing with rainbow rides, but unbeknownst, they are just slaves in his parlour of machines, a Babel of memory space to store countless impregnations, births and deaths, and the copy and paste cycles in between flourishing in Anesidora within.

Women’s antennae - silkily shampooed, a wavy perm, vitamin malnourished, bleach destructed, artificially bonded - rooted on rough, raw man-holes, trigger nerve endings to multiply, and originate in his and her third eye, clones, composed of their wedded chromosomes. These replicas, resembling mummy and daddy, live in the invisible realm within daddy’s digital rear, which makes up the magical backside of Anesidora. It’s perpetually a perfect womb in here. Trippy rides, lazy-hazy afternoons forever, hot vibrant nights of hot sex, sex and more sex, getting higher and higher in heavy rotation like the music listened to in a kaleidoscopic relish. X this an infinite time; countless impressions of ourselves chilling in purple clouds of bliss; our legacy, our progeny, reflection of our fucked up selves in the River Styx; aimless addicts shooting fixes upon fixes, anticipating another wave of orgasm, another climax; evaporated and extinguished in the cuddles of a lover; her fuzzy, coloured, spoiled scalp, cuticles screwing the superficial, superfluous and supercilious hole above the asshole; the asylum, which is called mybum!

“Split ends are double the fun,” she says. “You get two babies instead of one.”

I studied the filament by zooming in the microscope embedded within my iris and saw clearer the two-headed snake of copulation squirming for action.

“You attain parallel pleasure. Put simply, twins...sometimes triplets, or more.” A pause, she squinted, and then added, “I’m very much sought after, you know?”

She was a studious dame hugging an Apple tablet upon her breasts. I was peering, looking yonder, beyond the electronic tool. That’s how I assess women, by the size of melons. Judging from the circumference of her encircling hands, she must be quite impressive.

Arcane male habits are hard to perish, even when I am the one stuck with a precious pothole of pleasure ready to gorge on follicles.

Mammaphilia versus Trichophilia, the fondness of boobs against hair fetish.

“Well...” she stated, “what are you waiting for? Unscrew the cork!”

I just gawked on, ignorant.

“Oh...yer a virgin,” it dawned, and she squeaked in tremor and delight. “Not many around, nowadays.”

Frankly, this is quite embarrassing. The first time; it always is, regardless what planet or plane; regardless if yer human, alien, god, demon or machine. Losing your virginity, awkward as hell.

“Just turn this,” she twisted me round to loosen the lid as one would to fill petrol in a vehicle. A ticklish apoplexy wrung out, giving way to weird bumps in my throat as vapid air bubbles zoomed up the lungs.

In her palm is a small blue thing. A shiny sapphire marble globe of the world toy; and she proclaims, “Every time I wind this off, the guy’s brain migrates south.” She bounces the ball around on the Astroturf, fake grass carpeting Anesidora, before popping the end of my mind’s journey into a pouch slung across her shoulder containing a collection of similar round gems and jewels. “Up there is now empty; all set for brainwash.”

She chuckled. I don’t know her name. From here on I can only relate what’s been revealed after Jai-I’s shades were removed.