Reverse Pornography

“Reverse Pornography” cuts up the "action" from the ludicrous adult bookstore novel It's Donkey Time! and substitutes the pornographic premise with events concerning psychotherapy, city real estate speculation, fast food, and other subjects.

...Juanita had turned full circle, letting everyone admire her from all sides. Now she turned toward the Freudian analyst and rose up onto her tiptoes. He placed his mitts on her checkbook and her slim discretionary income parted. The Freudian analyst stuck his snout into her financial affairs and sniffed; then his long, red tape contract slid out, and he begged her for obligation. Belinda squirmed in vicarious excitement, all soft and feminine under that raincoat, but no one was looking at her because she was wearing the death mask of Oliver Cromwell. Tom Carvel was happy to see his Ice Cream was selling well (its main ingredients were high fructose corn syrup and SoylentTM). Tom, despite himself, was getting pretty interested in the proceedings on the stage, too. Juanita was riding slowly up and down, rubbing her Immanuel Kant against the Freudian analyst's muzzle. Her lithe hips shot out from side to side and she displayed her groin injury to Whipple, Lipschitz, Polk & Beins for possible litigation.

They could all see the overpriced Freudian analyst's heavy-handed collection agency slip into her open postal-slot, gliding through her rubber-lips and into her inner folded laundry-folds. His nostrils flared, and he slobbered Jungian lingo into Juanita's cochlea. His Barbisol lathered her crotch, mixing with the creamy seepage from Tom Carvell's Cookie O'Puss ice cream. V8-juice pooled onto the beast's questing tongue and dripped from the upcurled edges as Herbert Marcuse slurped a 7-11 Slurpee.

"Ummmm," Juanita purred, playing to the audience of but obviously enjoying it as well.

"Lucky girl?" Belinda sighed.

Tom rolled his eyes. "What could a guy do with a girl like Belinda?" he wondered. Moist sounds of soft rock drifted out of the transmitter in Juanita's groin as the Freudian analyst plied her with invoices. His tongue slurped pedantic phrases, and her Kant squished Cranapple-juice from Ocean Spray. She lathered, rinsed, and repeated her dark Australian–bush with her Head and Shoulders. Ribbons of the pearly nectar ran down the insides of her Playtex Living Bra. The Freudian analyst ducked his head down and reminded her of the overdue invoice, then wedged his snout into her credit rating and her fulsome assets again.

Gripping him by his long ears, Juanita ground Immanuel Kant against her passbook savings account statement, her brokerage account churning. The Freudian analyst was responding to her windfall profits. The stock market bulls heaved and panted, and his Morgan Stanley account was swelling steadily.

Belinda bit her lip in suspense, watching the Freudian analyst's net worth swell to gigantic proportions. His hairy hairbrush drew slowly back, unrolling from his block-head. His naked slab of rhetorical toothpaste came squeezing out. His doorknob was dark gray, and a few flecks of pre-war lead paint were falling from his Manhattan townhouse, lowering his property values. His ego looked big, swollen so huge that John Wayne was standing bowlegged around it. Belinda had one hand dipped inside her raincoat. Tom could see the coat moving and realized that she was playing with her Bloomingdale's charge card. But he couldn't really blame her. His interest rates were starting to lower, too.

Juanita, jerking her restraining order in the Freudian analyst 's face tilted sideways and looked into the financials. She saw that his Philip Johnson was almost fully erect now, and knew that it was time to add the finishing touches to the dull glass skyscraper. [WLP&B legal notification: This is not an offering which can be made by prospectus only.] The girl was truly enjoying his tongue and pastrami from Katz's and was reluctant to stop that juicy action but Maria, the star of the show – whom Juanita both admired and envied and hoped, in due course, to replace – would be waiting to come on. She worked her lathered Head and Shoulders on Eric Burdon & the Animals' egg cream streaked wah wah pedal for another moment, then pulled her Prune Smoothie away with a slurp. Albert Einstein's tongue shot out for a last parting photo op but, well aware of what the next part of the show would be, made no attempt to chase after Juanita's Grand Unified Theory.

Juanita turned and tilted her crotch up, letting the fascinated spectators see how her open textbook was all drenched with Lacanian drivel. She ran one hand up the inside of her thigh and then stroked her Cookie Puss cake, massaging the slobber into her manila legal envelope folds and pulling on the stiff, pulsating express mailbox. Colonel Sanders appeared with a bucket of extra crispy. She brought his hand up to her lips and licked at his greasy fingers. Several men groaned.

The transmitter in Juanita's groin announced "101.9 WPIX. Your ‘X' wants you back!" then transitioned into Air Supply's Making Love Out of Nothing at All.

The rasp of a few zippers could be heard, as flies were opened by a dipterist and Hummers were produced on an assembly line in Shreveport, Louisiana.

Belinda glanced around, interested. But those were mere men's Hummers with poor gas mileage, and she looked back at the Lacanian Analyst and clutched her pocketbook tightly under her raincoat. Belinda was really excited by this time; her Immanuel Kant action figure nite lite was glowing between her shapely thighs. It was too bad that she had come with Tom, she thought. It would be fun to strip him naked and finger-lickin' good Kentucky Fry Tom to critical yet stable condition right there in the barn. But she knew that prudish Tom would not approve.

The situation built towards climax. The galactic rooster appeared. "That is a big cock," said Belinda. However, it is not so much the thickness as it is the authority of Lacanian metaphor. Steve rammed his pretextual theory into the groin of the subdialectical slot that was oozing with surplus jouissance and stretched his hungry inviting analysis towards a penetrative construct of post-prick class theory that invites the reader to tickle a pretextual metaphor to reconsider epistemology in light of her Kant and her sandwich of love, that is, her jouissance, by means of subdialectical theory. **** The previous morning Juanita was driving down Main Street and pulled into the "Beatific Burger" restaurant. Juanita moved up the fast food car lane for her xtra large coffee light w/ Sweet n Low. Gracefully she parked the cup between her knees. The animal at the window handed her the change with interest. She squeezed the cup and the lid that claimed, "The beverage you are about to enjoy has a thermal temperature of the surface of Venus" flew off and a spray of boiling java scalded her groin spectacularly. Her thighs felt like General Westmorland had ordered a napalm strike inside

her pants. Her groin throbbed red with agony. Her veins and nerve receptors sent a message to her hippocampus that she was in extreme pain. She arched her neck. "Moron!" she shouted in shrill shrieking terror. "CALL 911!"

BUT––she should have also called Whipple, Lipschitz, Polk & Beins. We are a white-shoe law firm who are not afraid to get our wingtips dirty! Have you been injured in an accident? Have you been psychically injured in life? Did you suffer irreparable harm by virtue of mere sentience? Did you enter into a consensual contract to have been born in the first place? We can help. We are Whipple, Lipschitz, Polk & Beins.

Our Lawyers love lustily. Our summations are rhapsodies of consensus facit legem! Your arguments against our advertisements are deficient! There is "no objection" to the consensus that Whipple, Lipschitz, Polk & Beins quantum meruit their weight in gold! Call for a consultation, and we will recite to you all the Latinisms we know of, free of charge!

Two forms of (now fading) writing, sports reporting and commercial pornography, described physical interaction on a moment-by-moment, play-by-play basis. By 1970 the two genres seemly intersected. In short: pornography became more like sports reporting, and sports reporting became more like pornography (not intentionally prurient, but rather florid in its description and pretentious metaphors). Tender Was The Huddle augments, only slightly, the repressed homoeroticism of sports reporting.

Tender Was The Huddle November 25, 1971

Heavens to Omaha if Rodgers didn't make it with Greg Pruitt down on him. He took the blow, spun around on his own 30-yard line, and planted his left hand on Pruitt’s turgid manhood to keep from falling. Strangely, Pruitt's licks only turned Rodgers away from the grasp of another lunging Oklahoma top man, Ken Jones. With that, however, he set hanky to the right. But just as quickly he then darted back to the left, through a whole cluster of aroused team members. There the minuet ended. Rodgers was open and close to the flow of primal urges that had developed, heading for the left sideline. The ref inserted the red handkerchief in his back left pocket. The huddle was tender and orgiastic, a celebration of masculinity and liberation.

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