January 1: Still in Amsterdam. The election cycle in the U.S. beginning to heat up. No reason to return to America any time soon to be inundated by the quadrennial shit show.
January 2: Decided to leave Amsterdam for the hell of it. Spending several months there reinvigorated me. I had also fallen into the delusion that the rest of the world, besides the U.S., was probably doing okay by now. Time to find out. Train to Berlin.
January 3: Got off the train to Berlin. Changed my mind before leaving the station so took another train to Moscow.
January 4: Disembarked in Moscow. Got a hotel near the Kremlin. Super expensive, waste of money, but I’d made a small fortune over several months gambling in Amsterdam. What’s money, right?
January 5-10: Wasn’t sure if credit or debit cards were good everywhere so I got about 60,000 rubles through foreign exchange and decided to wander about to see some of the sights. Over the next several days visited the Kremlin, Red Square, Saint Basil’s Cathedral, the Alexander Garden, Gorky Park, Lenin’s Mausoleum—a personal favorite—the Bolshoi Theater to see a ballet, and much more. Such a rich history, grand architecture.
January 11: Had a few conversations with locals and ex-pats over the previous few days. No one had negative opinions of Putin, although one ex-pat whispered that no one speaks negatively of Putin. A scary guy, kills his political opponents, at war with Chechnya, Ukraine, Syria, something going on in Crimea. I didn’t think much of it; sounded a lot like the imperialism and political nefariousness of the United States to me. Pretty much used to despots hiding in an oligarchy pretending to be a republic. Mostly ate at restaurants and sat at cafes reading English translations of Russian literature, accepting my bourgeois status by ignoring the plight of the underprivileged and persecuted. I fit in well.
January 12: I felt the wanderlust and boarded a train heading to Europe. Berlin first stop. Next stop?
January 13-16: Next stop turned out to be Bucharest. I stayed for a few days and all I heard was, “Trump, Trump, Trump.” A small wave of nationalist fascism was headily swimming in the thought of an American president as cuckoo as one of their own. As fascinated as I was, I was sick of American politics so I fled.
January 17: I flew to Reykjavik thinking Iceland should be a peaceful oasis of calm and cold. It was cold, sure enough, and calm enough, but even in Iceland I was being asked about the “buffoon Trump” and why the Americans liked him. I hadn’t a clue why anyone liked him, though I guessed it was celebrity/idol worship. If Americans aren’t pagans … come on.
January 18-22: I had a fling with an Icelandic lighthouse worker. Perfect job for an on-the-job affair. Never have to get dressed!
January 23-28: Flew from Iceland to Dublin. Had a blast drinking with Irishmen and women. After several days, though, I got tired of hearing about how Donald was ruining the reputation of gingers everywhere.
January 29-February 23: Spent a few weeks on a rustic farm in Scotland milking cows and helping with other farmhand work. Didn’t hear a peep about politics or anything else for that matter. It’s possible the old man was mute, but he wasn’t deaf as he always gasped when I used the Lord’s name in vain. While eating a supper she had made for us, I asked the woman if they were Calvinists. Unfortunately, she spoke so softly I couldn’t make out anything other than a few low moans and a couple sighs. What it must have been like all these years having sex with this woman. If they had sex.
February 24: I thought about Madagascar and then thought better of it. Wasn’t in the mood for Tasmanian devils. America was, though. Damn, I had picked a good three weeks to disappear from “civilization.” I stayed in a small family hotel in a small northern England town for the night.
February 25-April 1: Took a train to London and fly to Finland. Kept hopping, plane by plane, up north until I arrived at the last manned outpost. I had found a cabin to rent, online, during the travel of the day. Rented it for a month. Did nothing but write, sketch, ice fish, and daily chores. Ate mostly canned goods cooked over a wood-fire stove. Baked beans and generic-brand soup. When I wasn’t doing anything else, I went on cross-country skiing jaunts or, during blizzards, sat inside near the fire wrapped in a blanket starring out the window at the white noise.
April 2: Back to Helsinki. First fucking newspaper I see and there’s a gigantic caricature of Trump’s face. What the Christ? It was a foreign language newspaper so I couldn’t make out what was said, but I wanted to know so I found an Internet cafe and looked up news about Trump online. It was awful. Atrocious. Beyond imagination. Trump was winning the Republican primaries. Part of me was giddy. “This is what America deserves! Hahahahaha!” And America did deserve Trump. They’d become glib, shallow, careless, inconsiderate, self-absorbed, proudly ignorant, myopic, and dumb. The dumbness, that’s what got to me. The same people I had known 15 years earlier? They talked as if they were slower and dumber than they had been. I wasn’t sure if that was a cultural thing, a shift in norms: “Can’t show people you’re smart; be simple and down-homey and everyone will leave you alone so you can download barnyard porn in the middle of the night. Best we keep our peccadilloes under wraps. God forbid people know that fetishes exist everywhere around the world!”
April 3-6: I had enough of this. I flew to New York and stayed that night in the Trump Tower. Life seemed like it had been the last time I stepped foot in New York. Busy. Dirty. Smelly. After a few days in New York, though, I could tell there was a different vibe. No, not a vibe. Nothing that weighty. More like a mild fascination sweeping the city in slow motion, a Trump Category 2 gently blowing the plaque away from the routine lives of all the different cliques of New Yorkers so that they could move their lips and talk about something they haven’t already talked about eight million times since Saturday. Trump. That was the word. There was passion about him, love and hate, but a lot of buzz, a lot of hoopla, a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing (other the end of the civilization as we knew it).
April 7: Flew to Tucson and drove to a border town. Got a hotel and stayed the night.
April 8: In the morning, I went to the local diner and ate breakfast. I met two bonafide members of a citizens group that, along with about a dozen others, unofficially patrolled the border every night along a thirty mile stretch of land. They told me their biggest difficulties were with the Border Patrol. Turf wars, they called them. They said the Mexicans they caught hit the ground immediately when they shined their truck lights on them and yelled at them to hit the deck. “They know complacency, when to get into the fetal position. We aren’t the government. We’re not handing out diapers and snacks.” I wondered why they weren’t in prison.
April 9: I talked to James and Earl, the two Arizona border militiamen I’d met the day before, into taking me with them on one of their runs. They said sure. They were happy to have another member, although I told them repeatedly I was not joining, just observing. They didn’t seem to bother with intricacies such as the definitions of words. “Words and meanings, never the two shall meet, that’s what I always say.” No one said that, but if one of them had been more articulate he might have.
April 10-15: Made nightly border runs with the guys (and one woman who loved to declare her hatred for Mexicans every five minutes). We saw nothing. I mean nothing. Not even a deer. Well, there were there two run-ins with Border Patrol. No, the U.S. Customs Department definitely does not like these guys. They looked at them as dangerously close to being outlaw cowboys and a potential lynch mob. I didn’t disagree, although I thought this particular group was a bit too lazy and incompetent to effectively get much of anything right. In the case that they found any Mexicans trying to cross the border I had to admit that was a potential bloodbath waiting to happen.
One night sitting around the campfire, I talked with a guy named Marcus, young guy, maybe 25, from somewhere back East. I asked him how he wound up in Arizona. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “A girl.” Ah. Of course. What better reason to join some sort of resistance than having been dumped by your true love after you moved across the country to be with her.
There was another night when I asked Gloria Mae why she hated Mexicans. “Because they exist.” That was direct. “It’s a race thing. We’re white. They’re brown. They don’t belong with us. You can’t have no pure-ty and love with different colors of blood running around.”
“Well, I don’t think the blood—“
“It’s our God-given right as white people to bedevil the devil, be he brown-skinned or black.” James was wild-eyed, waving around a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
“Don’t we also have free will?” I asked.
“What has that got to do with anything?”
“If you have to hate people or think they don’t belong together based on skin color then it’s a race thing, but it’s not a choice. If I have the choice, as a white person, to say, ‘I want brown and black children to go to the same schools as my children,’ then wouldn’t it be my ‘God-given right’ to bedevil the devil by loving others to keep him at bay?”
The group sat quiet while James, seemingly confused, brewed for a minute. “Look, all I know is that you can choose God’s will or you can choose the devil’s. So, yeah, you got your free will. And what’s it going to get ya? A beaner whore of a wife and the devil waiting for your soul. No, thank you, mister. I am an American and I say ‘Fuck that!’” That brought out whooping cheers from the rest of them. I tossed in the towel and slept through the night.
April 16: Bid adieu to James and his crew before renting a car to drive to Vegas. I was wiped out when I got there so I just went straight to my room and crashed.”
April 17-26: I liked gambling. Made a lot of money gambling. Lost a lot of money, too. But when funds start to look low, it’s time to hit a gambling town, preferably one with chumps from all over the world.
After losing nearly everything the first day, I got on a streak and just kept winning for days. In the matter of a week, I’d have money for the year, probably much, much more.
April 27-May 25: Yeah, I made my money, fistfuls of it. Hell, a bagful of it. And that’s without all the money I used on escorts and blow. But, whew, I needed rest and clean, potently fresh air. I flew to Tahoe and rented a cabin on the lake for a month. I donated my old clothes, the ones that still had life in them, and bought new clothes at a local fashion shop, a woman who hand-sews clothing in various ways. From sports coats to socks, I bought a whole new quasi-funky, certainly eccentric, and ridiculously expensive wardrobe (“artisans,” am I right?). Made-in-house shoes next door. What was cool about it was the dude allowed me to have input on the designs so we essentially collaborated before the actual productions began. Then I got an eyeful of how he did it. I learned quite a bit, including the fact that the best changes made often occurred during the final composition.
When at home, I typically spent mornings looking out a floor-to-ceiling window at the lake while wistfully applying paint to a canvas on an easel wearing nothing but my birthday suit, allowing the day’s sun to bathe my skin in its golden bounty of warmth and joy. I loved love. Love love. Love love love. I painted only in different shades of yellow as I couldn’t bear any other color in that morning environment.
In the evenings, I sat at a large oak desk in the second floor study and hand-wrote fiction of the type most people find ghastly. Which, anymore, is all of it. I took breaks on the balcony, smoking cannabis, drinking Scotch, and watching the stars fill up the sky. In the afternoons, a woman I hired for cleaning came over. It was during her third day that we started having sex.
I had rented a car. On certain days, usually during the week, like a Tuesday morning, I would go for a ride, somewhere I had never been, randomly choosing a direction and purposefully not looking at maps. These were what I called “desperate attempts to get lost.” I never got lost, and that was the pity. My visual-spatial skills were too well-developed from a lifetime of traveling. That feeling of “There might be a lost city of gold just after the next hill” was lost by the time I reached ten years old because I’d pretty much studied the geography of the entire globe by then. I knew there were special places, special cities, rare natural wonders, and all that. But a city that defied all of the norms of how the world is thought about in semi-literate popular culture narratives? That would be amazing. Especially the idea that no one else had heard about it.
The Internet does the same thing travel does—you take the immeasurable mass of it for granted. Nothing’s unknown, nothing “surprising” like a lost city. You have to go to history or, if you’re a scholar, you’ve already been through history so you have to travel and experience what it’s like in the flesh. You can do that today, but you can’t do it in England during the reign of Henry VIII. So the imagination plays us off the hook and we travel to where no one else has ever been and we burrow into a hovel, strip naked, wait three days, climb out whilst voraciously hungry and pert-near dehydrated, make use of a nearby toboggan, slide downhill through the freshly fallen snow, the wind literally chapping your ass, and come to a skidding stop at the back door of a mountain chalet. Old Mother Wheeler comes to the door and wraps you in a warm blanket and fusses over you until she gets you sat down in “Granpa’s Chair,” which astonishes the little ones, Harry, just past five, and Lucille, a full-figured three, as they had never seen anyone sit in Granpa’s Chair!
Lucille, or Celia as she was known to everyone, asked with great vigor, “Do you have magic powers?” You shake your head no, but smile, anyway, because, well, she is just so adorable. “How come you get to sit in Granpa’s Chair?” You don’t know so you say, “I don’t know. I guess I just do.” This response elicits a look of shock and the placement of palms on the chubby cheeks of either side of the girl’s face. You say, “Some day you’ll be able to sit in Granpa’s Chair.” Even greater shock! Celia ran off to find an adult who could make sense of such a convoluted disturbance of the previously very simple and seemingly sturdy tale of Granpa’s Chair as it had been understood by the smallest and youngest person in the house.
When you think about it—taking a break from our imagination—children are remarkably well-suited to adapting to news that turns their worldviews upside down in an instant. Nothing’s concrete. Everything’s still a surprise, so a record-setting snowfall is just the amount of snow that fell and the first black president was just the most recent president. Seeing the Colorado Rocky Mountains for the first time, the New York skyline, the Eiffel Tower, Yellowstone National Park, a California beach, first taste of a peach, first touch of silk, … endless. But it becomes stale and thus … perceived as being ridiculously more predictable than reality actually is.
How? As I imagined James saying (even though he never did), “Words and meanings, never the two shall meet.” No. That’s not right. Even imaginary James can’t get anything right. Well shit. Time moves on.
May 26: Still had my rental car when my month’s rent was up. I packed up what little I had accumulated and hit the road. I knew the roads well from all of my excursions this way and that without any maps as guides. Just my senses and my wits. Shouldn’t it always be that way? Fuck no, you simple old fool! For fuck sakes, you want to live in a stone cave having to kill fresh food almost daily because you don’t have a fucking refrigerator or any other way to keep food from rotting? Okay, we got that out of the way. Point being, I knew the area well and so I set my car heading south through the Sierra Nevadas to Yosemite National Park. Weather was kind.
May 27: I didn’t have a camper or anything so I slept at the main hotel in the park. I got up early, bought some clothes for hiking, and set out to wander. I made my way here and there, but mostly followed along the creek, walked in the creek, climbed a few trees, threw rocks at squirrels, took a shit in a grove of trees with not much ground cover, talked to three women hikers, all in their twenties and decked out like they were going to film a climbing documentary, and I accidentally ate a butterfly because it flew into my mouth and down my throat. Crazy fucking butterfly.
May 28: Drove south to Fresno then east to King’s Canyon and Sequoia National Park. I paid to ride one of the park’s horses for the afternoon. Great way to experience the grandeur of the space. I took several shits during the day. No fever, no nausea, no stomach ache … I’m not sure what’s happening to my bowels, but I’m getting a little concerned.
May 29: Woke up on a sheet covered in shit. My shit, it appeared. What the fuck? My insides were screwed up. What to do, what to do? Showered, cleaned the bedroom, showered again, did a couple loads of laundry, ate breakfast in the continental room, and talked with an old woman about King’s Canyon in the 1930s. I didn’t understand most of what she said because she spoke while chewing with cereal in her mouth. It didn’t matter; I was imagining the universe as a room full of cluttered dust bunnies. As humans, we perceive through our senses and use our technologies—telescopes, etc.—to “see” or discover something either “there” or not. All of the universe’s galaxies are just little dust mites using gravity to suck the stars and other detritus found in the corners of rooms with hardwood floors, maybe an old Victorian that was rundown in the middle of the past century but was renovated in 2012 and is now a spectacular example of what the neighborhood had been in its heyday. Whether there or that old shed in the back of McCluskey’s yard. Shit, that hasn’t been used since the 1980s, but that don’t mean there ain’t no universe of forsaken cobwebs among the dust piled on everything, everywhere. Just means there’s probably a better analogy sitting around in someone’s mind right now. We can’t access it until the corporations implant wi-fi chips in everyone so that people can log-in to access one another’s thoughts and, if you’re willing to pay—there are plenty of someones willing to provide, the price is right—then you can experience another person’s dream as they are dreaming it. Oh, there’s more, but I was hungry for pancakes.
May 30: I turned in my rental car and was about to board a bus to travel out of the National Park, but a well-dressed man speaking Russian stopped me. I told him I didn’t understand what he was saying. He winked at me and said, in English, “Oh, but you will soon enough.” He walked away escorted by two gigantic thug-like men. It kind of freaked me out so I decided not to take the bus. I caught a ride with an elderly couple, Ron and Judy, from British Columbia who were driving an RV north to Lake Tahoe. We chatted about the weirdness of American politics for a while and then I slept.
May 31: Woke up in the morning and had breakfast with Ron and Judy. We were in an RV Park near Lake Tahoe. It wasn’t where I wanted to be, but at least I didn’t have to worry about the weird Russian dude. I told Ron I needed to get going so I called a cab from the nearest town and told the guy to drive me to San Jose. He said no way, but changed his mind when I unfolded a wad of bills. He threw my stuff into the trunk and we were on our way. I had friends there, but I needed to clear my head before calling them so I stayed in a hotel downtown.
June 1: I tried calling my friends, but just got voicemail. I forgot that no one answers phones any more, just texts. I didn’t like the custom so I decided to rent a car and head north to Oregon.
June 2: Woke up in a hotel in Ashland. I walked around the hippie town, scored some weed, rolled a fatty, got high, and wasted the day in the kid’s section of the local library reading Curious George books.
June 3: Ashland seemed to like me well enough so I repeated the previous day’s practices, the only difference being that I read Dr. Seuss books.
June 4: I don’t know how the fuck the Russian guy tracked me down, but he did. He stuck out like a sore thumb with his tailored suit. At least he didn’t have his goons with him. He invited me to have lunch with him at a local cafe. I told him the only way I would go with him is if he smoked a joint with me. He was apprehensive, but said, “If that’s what it takes for you to trust me, okay.” We got baked, ate tons of food, and laughed are asses off about shit I couldn’t remember. He had a room at the same hotel where I was and that sort of spooked me again, but I was too wasted to care that much.
June 5: Spent the morning masturbating to “grandma DP” porn on my iPhone until six NSA agents knocked down my door. At first, I thought they wanted to question me about my contact with the strange Russian, but it turned out they were concerned about my use of a hand towel to wipe away the cum. A female agent, about 30 years old, told me I should wipe the semen all over my face because the proteins therein helped eliminate wrinkles. I asked her why the NSA cared. She said it was a matter of national security. I asked her how that was possible. She said she couldn’t tell me why because it was a matter of national security. Then I asked how the hell they even knew that I was masturbating at all and she said that, too, was a matter of national security. I asked if they were watching me through my iPhone and she refused to answer that question because it could jeopardize national security. I asked if there was anything that didn't jeopardize national security. Again, she said the answer to that question was a matter of national security. *Sigh.* All of the agents left except for the female agent who had been speaking with me. She stayed and ordered me to eat her pussy the rest of the day. I surmised that cunnilingus was not a matter of national security.
June 6: In the morning, the NSA agent told me that she wanted me to work at a store in Ashland, masturbating into bottles that were to be sold to the public as healing facial lotions. I didn’t want to do this, but she said I had to because it was a matter of national security. So after eating her pussy and sharing a breakfast, she took me to a shop called Lotions in Motion in downtown Ashland. We entered through the alley door to a back room where eight other men were masturbating into bottles which were labeled Organic Facial Cream. The directions said to apply evenly on one’s face and to keep the bottle refrigerated. There were expiration dates put on the bottles saying the lotion was effective for only seven days. She allowed me to peak into the front of the store which was filled, maybe forty people in all, mostly women and a smattering of men. Some were applying samples onto their faces and there was a long line of women waiting to purchase the cream. She set me to work masturbating next to a very large man whose palms were red and raw. I told the woman that I really wasn’t all that concerned about national security, but she said I could either be renditioned to a secret prison or jerk off into a bottle for the rest of the day. Not much of a choice, really.
June 7: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 8: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 9: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 10: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 11: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 12: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 13: Spent day masturbating into bottle.
June 14: Was allowed to leave the store at the end of the day and be on my way, but not before signing a nondisclosure agreement. The female agent told me that I would be killed by a drone strike if I ever mentioned this to anyone. I asked how they would know if I had. She told me that she couldn’t tell me because the answer was a matter of national security. I shrugged and she took me back to the hotel where I had been staying. She told me to wait inside my hotel room for three days and order room service for meals before leaving Ashland. I was instructed not to masturbate for at least a week. I didn’t think that would be much of a problem as my hands and penis were raw and sore.
June 15: Stayed in hotel. Ate roast beef sandwich.
June 16: Stayed in hotel: Ate Fruit Loops.
June 17: Stayed in hotel: Ate tacos.
June 18: Checked out of hotel, got in my rental car, and drove north on I-5 to Eugene. Stopped there and stayed the night in a hotel near the Interstate.
June 19: Drove to the University of Oregon campus, walked around, and was pepper sprayed by a woman of indeterminate ethnicity who accused me of being white and male at the same time. I pled guilty and was carried away to an undisclosed location by a large band of women who said they were part of an organization called WHAMMO, an acronym for Women Hate Anglo Male Misogynists Openly. I tried to explain that I wasn’t a misogynist, but they claimed that I was in denial, like an alcoholic. I said, yeah, but some people who say they aren’t this or that sometimes aren’t this or that. They told me that would be determined by a WHAMMO trial the following day. They put me in a stable and had me sleep in a stall next to a donkey they said had been been rescued from a bestiality show in Tijuana.
June 20: I was fed raw tofu for breakfast and then shackled in chains before being led by dozens of women clad in red robes and pointy red hats to an open field somewhere outside of the city of Eugene. They locked me into stocks that resembled those depicted in the Salem Witch Trials. Then the women formed a half circle around me and threw tomatoes at my face for five minutes before declaring that the trial was commencing. I thought it was decidedly unfair to unleash a punishment before a trial, but I said nothing because I suspected reason and logic were against their laws. One of the women stepped forward and asked me, “How do you plead?” I wasn’t sure what the charges were, but I was convinced I was guilty of whatever it was they believed was a crime. “Guilty,” I said. As an answer to that they all whooped and hollered while disrobing before running off toward a stand of trees. Well, all but one. She came over to me, spit in my face, and said, “Good answer,” before letting me go free. It took me several hours, but I made my way back to my hotel.
June 21: Driving north had been a decidedly bad idea so I headed south along I-5 and stopped in Sacramento to sleep.
June 22: I got up from bed in my hotel fairly early in the morning because there was yelling and screaming outside. I peaked out the window and saw a massive mob of people with protest signs. I made out a few of them, most of them lambasting Hillary Clinton or proclaiming a desire to make America great again. A Trump rally. Just what I needed. I showered, dressed, and went down to the lobby for a continental breakfast. I was the only person not wearing flannel and a red “Make America Great Again” cap. There was only one seat left by the time my bagel popped out of the toaster. I walked over and asked if I could sit down. “Sure,” said a very wide man with a scruffy beard so I took a seat. There were four of us, the bearded man and two women. One woman was middle-aged, dyed blonde, wearing a t-shirt with a red, white, and blue eagle on it. She smiled at me and I noticed one of her front teeth missing on top. The other woman was younger, blonde, with a beautiful face, She also wore a t-shirt with the image of Hillary Clinton on it and the words, “Life’s a Bitch. Don’t Elect One,” over the top of it. They asked me if I was going to march downtown along with the rest of them. I looked down at my clothing. White tennis shoes, gray cargo shorts, and a Hawaiian shirt. I shrugged and said, “Maybe.” The guy jumped on me and said, “You gotta come! We need as many red-blooded Americans as we can get. You don’t want Hillary to be the next president, do you?” Admittedly, I had no attraction to Hillary Clinton whatsoever. I would have liked Bernie Sanders to win, but he was already out of the running essentially. I wanted Donald Trump even less than Hillary, but I also thought it might be interesting to go to a Trump rally. I said, sure, I’ll go. The guy said, “That’s right. We whites, we gotta stick together, you know. We lost too many of our kind to the liberal commie faggots and those no good Muslim niggers. It’s gotta stop.” Huh. Well, it wasn’t like being surrounded by racists was new for me and I seemed to be a little safer with them than I was with WHAMMO. Plus, I wanted to see what a Trump rally was like. The guy said he had something for me and left the table to go up to his room. I sat waiting with the two women and thought it might be nice to fuck the younger one. She kept flipping her hair and batting her eyelashes at me. It seemed the only prerequisites for fucking were being white and racist. I had half of the equation worked out and figured if I went marching she’d probably assume the other half was true, too. When the guy came back down, he had four placards, one for each of us. “I always bring extras just in case we meet a like-minded fellow.” The one he handed to me had a picture of Hillary on it. She was bleeding from the eyes while giving a Nazi salute. I asked the guy—turns out his name was Gil—if this was for or against Hillary Clinton. He said, “Against! What the hell, man?” I pointed out to him that Nazism was a form of white supremacy. He looked at the picture and scratched his head. “By God, you’re right. Sends a mixed message, don’t it?” He ripped it apart and threw it in the trash and said, “That’s okay, you can use mine.” His happened to be a sign of a smiling Trump giving a Nazi salute. I didn’t even bother to ask him about it; I just took it from him and walked out the door with the three of them and joined the angry mob marching toward downtown Sacramento. …
June 23-Nov. 2: Unfortunately, I was snatched on the way downtown. I don’t know exactly what happened, but I remember a van screeching to a halt and several masked men departing the vehicle and running toward me. That’s it. The next thing I knew I was in a torture chamber. Well, it turned out to be a sub-basement lair for a mad scientist. For months, I thought the guy was a serial killer, but he was more like Josef Mengele. First he flayed my skin, slowly, only strips at a time between days of recovery. That went on indefinitely as far as I could tell, but it was more likely a few of months. A servant girl brought me food, water, sponge bathed me, tended to my wounds, and sang soft, whispering melodies in a language I could not understand. They felt like lullabies and when I was in her arms she felt like motherhood. She was my light and he was my darkness.
Nov. 3, 2016-Dec. 31: The thing is, though, his crazy medical experiments worked! By November of 2016, I was 6’3” tall, 205 pounds, total bodily symmetry, facial symmetry, everything. He had made me into a “natural” blonde-haired black man. Diamond back, eight-pack, pure athleticism, pure hunger, and pure sex. I don’t have a cock any more; instead, I had a multitude of cocks, cocks sprouting and slithering as if they were from Medusa’s head. Seems like it wouldn’t be a good thing, but, let me tell you, nine near simultaneous ejaculations is like nothing anyone else can imagine. Wow. Also, though, each cock-head is of a different thickness (not necessarily uniform) and length. One woman I seduced told me it was as if I had nine different dildos on offer. She said she could never go back to a man with only one dick. I don’t what she’s doing now, but I’ve never seen her since. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t abandon her. No, instead I contacted the doctor who had tortured me into who I am today. I said I thought she would be a perfect candidate to become a nine-vagina woman. I tried to get ahold of the doc after he took her in, but he never returned my calls. I even went by the place, hoping to at least see the servant girl who nursed me to health, but she wasn’t there. No one was there. Well, an old crone. Literally, a crone. I’m not using a derogatory term to label this woman. No, she fit the definition of “crone” to a “t.” An old woman, withered, thin, and ugly, not more than a week from death. She called me Stan, maybe her dead husband’s name, I don’t know, but I walked inside and went to the basement. The entrance to the sub-basement had been sealed with cement, now just part of the basement floor. It was depressing. But then the old crone came down the stairs with a grilled cheese sandwich and I thought, all in all, it had been a good year.
