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October 24th, 2007

SOHO GADABOUT

by Anthony Venditto

Happy Halloween everybody! The Season of the Witch is upon us all. So to celebrate in true macabre fashion, I’d like to present both a trick and a treat in one super cool package: My homage to the author of Frankenstein, Mary Wollstonecraft Shelly. For those of you not familiar with her story, I’ll splain:

Mary created the modern classic, Frankenstein, on a bet over a weekend while drinking wine and frolicking in the countryside with a bunch of dudes (none of which were her husband). To honor her memory I set out recently to try and recreate that magic.

I grabbed a notebook and a pen then went to Flashdancers (a respectable Gentleman’s Club in midtown) for lunch and to write me a horror story while ogling the dollar fueled lovelies! I whipped out my notebook, began to write and they threw me out. Apparently, the no-necked goons who run the joint aren’t fans of fine literature. (Pricks!)

Undeterred, I traveled downtown to Toad Hall, a bar where a man can get some quality writing done while getting good and hammered at the same time. I settled into a spot in the back, by the pool table, and commenced with drinking and letting my creative juices flow. By the end of the night I actually wrote a horror story that was mostly coherent!

Now, I don’t want to ruin the suspense, but my story, surprisingly, is much, much worse than hers. In my defense she was pals with poets like Polidori and Percy Shelly. I’m friends with sexual deviants, felons, and the guy who used to sell me weed in college. Also, I’m not much of a fiction writer, which you’ll soon discover.

What follows is mostly unabridged and appears just as I wrote it that one fateful Tuesday. All spelling errors, jumbled verb tenses or jumps in continuity are either intentional or symptoms of my state of drunkenness, which grew exponentially as the story wore on.

BEWARE, the tale you are about to read is not good. It has absolutely no redeeming social value. It is neither fun nor funny. If you are easily offended, easily disgusted or particularly turned off by frank discussions of human sexuality and bodily fluids GO NO FURTHER. If you are pregnant or have a predisposition to nausea, I implore you, skip ahead to The Video Guy. He’s got some great stuff this month.

But, if you are brave, fear not the dark forces of perversity, and feel like you just have to do it, by all means, continue. However, know this: I had no clue what I would create, and the final result is an embarrassingly shameful mess that can best be viewed as the literary equivalent of Michael Richard’s comedy club breakdown (only a LOT less racist). You have been warned. Happy Halloween and enjoy!

Prepare, yourselves, kiddies, for a frightening yarn so shocking and disgusting it will redefine the way you view the universe! Prepare yourselves for a tale so blood curdling and loathsome it will blow out your colon as it simultaneously moistens your erogenous zones. Prepare yourselves for… (Cue maniacal laughter and lightening bolts. “MuHaHaHaHaHa!”)

TAINT THE CASE! Or THEMODERN PROMETHEUS II: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

There is a beast that lurks inside me. It’s not so much in the darkness of my soul (which is damned I assure you) or the hole inside my heart (which will never, ever mend). No, the Beast within me is a burning lust which resides in a migratory pattern betwixt my brains and my loins.

The lusty Beast Within is more sinister than any run of the mill erotic anomaly; it’s way, way more retardeder than a simple psychological stutter. The BeastWithin is a doubleheaded demon that overshadows my humanity and presents itself in an apocalyptic atrocity heretofore inexplicable in this or any other world.

There is no way to wrap your feeble, human mind around the grotesqueness of my Beast Within, but know this: It hungers. And when It hungers there is nothing I can do to fight It. I must feed It and the only thing that will satiate this monster that consumes me is to give It what It wants. And what The LustWith Two Heads that festers inside me hungers for with such a blinding ferocity is…(Cue dramatic piano flourish: DUM DUM DUMMMM!!!) pancakes and heterosexual anal sex.

You heard right Ladies and Gentleman: Pancakes and Heterosexual Anal Sex!

(Flashback)

For as long as I dare remember I’ve always spent quite a bit of my waking life daydreaming and reminiscing about the sublime experience of both pancakes and heterosexual anal sex. I enjoy mentally visualizing them and openly conversing about them. I totally dig how diggable they are in both their simplicity and sheer outrageousness. However, when it comes time to put semantics aside and just settle in for a forbidden taste, the dew on the idea has definitely bade adieu to my libido.

Ya see; it’s not that I don’t enjoy pounding pancakes or giving anal, Jesus knows I do, it’s just that with all the gusto with witch I wax poetically, nearly daily, on both subjects one would naturally assume I was an ass tappin’ flapjack snackin’ enthusiast of the highest caliber. But friends: that just taint the case. For me, both activities were but a rare treat, a passing whimsy, an occasional indulgence if you will.

So I was just as surprised as anybody when one day I found myself prepared to kill just to get a taste of either forbidden fruit.

One morning-outta nowhere-things just began to change. I started trolling IHOP’s and sections of Craigslist I never even knew existed. I’d wake up in the middle of the night outside of SCORES on 28th Street, harassing off-duty dancers with traces of butter pecan syrup on my breath.

I would call out of work, habitually, while the Beast ran through my bowels longing for short stacks and ass cracks. My sleep became plagued with unholy images of ladies bottoms and luscious pancakes and the delicious damage I could inflict on either one.

Before long all my time was spent in a cold sweat: Afraid to sleep, afraid to leave the house, afraid to move. My mouth and bathing suit area were constantly tormented as the BeastWithin bombarded them with the twin unholy hungers for the big brown eye and gooey, golden griddle cakes. The BeastWithin was in control and I was helpless to resist. I lost my girlfriend, I lost my job, and then I lost my mind!

(Flash Forward)

Now: My very existance has become an extreme sport pushing the boundaries betwixt pleasure, gluttony and sphincter flexibility. The Beast rules my actions, but my mind is still, torturously aware of the crimes against nature I inflict on others. Then the diabolicility of the situation got even more diabolical. As my life turned into a never ending series of anonymous sweet, savory cakes and sets of asscheeks with no names–I found…. I began–To–Enjoy Myself!

(cue: Bloodcurdling Scream)

For me it became all about the sensory overloaded, visceral thrill of it. That, 0;and the inherent taboo of pleasures widely accepted as wholly unhealthy for you drenched in butter, syrup and various store bought water based lubricants. Even better was the anticipation.

The anticipation of knowing for a certainty that at some point in the future I would be afforded the God-like opportunity to either feast once again upon some syrup soaked pancakes or lunge into a little lube laced backdoor ballyhoo. In either circumstance I know I would gorge myself on a gluttony that I am simultaneously hungry for and disgusted with.

For even though I lust like a lumberjack for both delights, I’m still human and on some level deep down my humanity knew I had to stop. Much like Darth Vader in Return of the Jedi I was torn between the man I once was and the pancake lovin’ fecelfiliac I had become. It was that electric duality, that hot convergence of polarly opposed emotions that made every hair on my body stand up and shout, “Thank you sir, may I have another!”

So lock up your sisters, steer clear of all-night pancake buffets and watch your back, for the Beast hungers, and the Beast waits. I can no longer make excuses, there is no more me inside of me. There is just the primal entity I have become that lives only for the chance to get funky with flapjacks or cheeky with some lass’s asses.

The Man I was is dead. LONG LIVE THE BEAST!

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