Saturday, June 23, 2018

The Incredible Hulk

Not one but two collaborative pieces, by me & Jennifer S. Chesler. These are new & from The Philosophy of Extremism III. For now we have The Philosophy of Extremism & The Natural History of the Cockwomble: The Philosophy of Extremism II on sale at the links.


The Incredible Hulk 

I am a relative of the Incredible Hulk. No, I am not green, but my clothes rip when I flex my mighty muscles over David in bed. I bend my arms at the elbows and touch my fists together, Grrr, I say. I can see the fear in David's eyes, sometimes he even cowers. My rippling muscles glisten like they are oiled. My sebum production is unparalleled. Studies have been done on my skin's oil production because of how I shine.
 

Being a relative of the Hulk has its benefits. If I am angry when I get out of the shower, there is no need for moisturizer. David wants to write something, but I am not letting him, because I am a relative of the Hulk, and my skin is glistening as my muscles ripple through my clothes and tear them at the seams. Grrr, I say, David can't help it; he's scared. I see the look of panic come across his canine features. I want to rip him to shreds, but my human part stops me. I become like Bill Bixby; maybe I should give him a hug.

Fear and Loathing in Anderson, IN 


Today Jennifer decided to play dominant, since I took a leaf out of Masoch's book and sort of told her to be cruel to me. She pinned me down, with her massive BMI of a whole 20, and spit me right in the face, also over my hands, chest and head. She produces prodigious amounts of drool. She twisted my nipples, enough to cause some considerable discomfort, and slapped my face, cheeks and jaw, as hard as she could. She then decided to kiss me, and, as she did so, projected a copious wad of drool/snot into my throat. Oddly enough, the whole procedure produced a tremendous engorging of the beast, which led to her grinning salaciously and flipping over onto her back to apply the tremendous and most economical Isabel Fay Natural Water Based Lubricant. "I pity the fool", she said, "that uses Astroglide." She is evidently unaware that the Hulk and Mr. T are not the same large person.
 

The fear on his face, cringing as I raised my hand to slap his cheek, was palpable. I knew he would rebel against me and use his paltry strength against my Hulk bulk. The turning of his head to avoid the slap made it impossible to get an accurate hit, so I gathered enough saliva in my mouth to shoot down his throat when i pretended i was going to kiss him. "Ha ha ha," I laughed; I could tell he liked it. I used the massive strength in my quadriceps to pin him down while i held his face in place to exert more Hulk strength as I got a good slap in, only barely getting his jaw. "Grrr," I said. Boy, was he scared. Some of my natural body oil dripped onto his nipples. I took my fingertips and squeezed as hard as I could, it looked like milk came out but I may have been imagining this, because i was thinking about my mother.
 

Jennifer is a good girl, very imaginative, and maintained the Hulk fantasy even though I put one hand between her legs, lifted her straight up by her pussy, and flipped her over on her back, squirming like a beetle transfixed by a pin as I drove my stiff rod deep into her. It hurts right out into her ovaries, she claims. She resolutely refuses to follow any normal scripts, and cursed and groaned as she was savagely nailed to the mattress. I tried to explain to her that fucking her was totally unlike any pleasure I had ever felt, but this digression seemed to enrage the cat, who is a stickler for correct procedure. He left the bed that he had pulled up to a good vantage point to view the show, and disconsolately batted a toy around. I finished by a minute or so of bellowing and cruel and unusual banging, and she moaned most gratifyingly. She is the best daughter that a man could wish for.

Friday, June 22, 2018

Poems for Jennifer III

Though I had decided to stop writing, when I met Jennifer S. Chesler I changed my mind a little & decided to write, roughly, a trilogy of books of poems about her. Here is the third & last of these from Nickel Hole Press.

In the future I shall devote any time I have to promoting her career, since I regard her work as of greater significance than my own. I do, however, feel that these last three books, especially this last one, Poems for Jennifer III, are easily my best work to date.

Here is the first book by the way, Poems for Jennifer, & here is the second one, Poems for Jennifer II, both at Amazon.


New work by Jennifer S. Chesler

There are a couple of new posts on the blog of my wife, Jennifer S. Chesler. Here is Birth of a Portrait, & here is Little Jack.

These pieces are both drawn from Fragments, her book linked here from Nickle Hole Press. This is also available at this link from Amazon.

The book can also be seen in part via Google Books.

I have written three different posts about various aspects of the book further back in this blog.




Saturday, June 9, 2018

Of Teratology

Jennifer S. Chesler writes of people in a manner reminiscent of the discussion of the "New Philosophers" in Deleuze. So do I, McLean. Everything becomes teratology. The human is no longer the rational animal, but the defective monster.

This extends from Tiny Tom with his micropenis to the "porn star" Michael, with a dick half the size of mine. The same applies to the religious and arrogant psychiatrist, Dr. Bunghole, as he is so appositely called. He sees himself as intelligent, but is in the 97th percentile. He is thus the opposite of an intellectual, a monster who pretends to an interest in literature, mediated via the vulgar phenomenon of the "book club". It is a moron that pretends to a life devoted to Christian charity, revealing itself in a fascist policy of turning his uneducated clients into drugged and bovine zombies.

In the earlier pieces by Chesler in her novel Fragments, teratology enumerates a series of freaks. From the inarticulate morons who inhabit "Rick's Gold Room" to the character "Little Jack", a primal non-human emblem of male homosexual desire, none of the characters but the narrator are fully human. The character with the micropenis, Tom, is also seen in these earlier pieces as a psychological freak possessed by his narcissism, in addition to his physical handicap and ensuing inability to satisfy any woman sexually. Here is Fragments at Lulu.

The similarity between the earlier procedure utilized by Chesler and my/our present procedure is that we react to the defective, the inadequate, not to condemn the marginalized, but to condemn those who affect to be what they are not.  Porn stars, in one case, men on any level in the first case, or people who display Christian charity and service in the latter. They are scumbags, and that which makes them monsters is the most egregious bad faith.  They seek an identity that is not theirs: they seek to be that which they are not in order not to scream in the dark night.

"Daddy Wins a Contest"

Daddy wins a contest, and a limousine comes to get us from our house to take us to the father/daughter ball. He says he wrote an essay about what a good little girl I am. I can read real books, so I find what he wrote in his big trouser pocket. It is all about how he peed in my mouth after he stuck me with his hard stick.

I say, “Daddy, what kind of contest did you enter this in?”

I don’t understand how letting him do what comes naturally to us would win us a ride in a fancy car, much less get an invite to a ball.

He says, “Oh, little Jennifer, it’s a special ball for piss fuckers.”

“Oh,” I say. “Is piss fucking what we did last night, Daddy?”

“No,” he says, “take off your panties and sit on my lap.”

I say, “Okay, Daddy.”

He lifts me up and puts me on his stiff willy. It hurts.

“Daddy, please, no,” I say.

He slaps my bottom and spits on me, moving his hips up and down so he goes deeper and deeper into my tiny cunt hole. Then I feel him squirt a lot of stuff up into me and hear him groan. He lifts me up. His pee runs out of my special spot. I feel all tingly.

He says, “The ball is for that sort of sex.”

By this time the little whore has me monstrously hard, pretending the sofa where I am pinning her down is a limousine, and my shit-stained jockeys are a suit. I slap her face with my right hand and twist the right nipple a quadruple twist with my left. I can see the yeasty juice run out of her cunt. I want to taste it but she starts running, although the lurch betrays her.  Grabbing her ponytail I drag her to the sofa, bend her over it whimpering, and drive my swollen powerful cock straight up into her ass without lube. She twitches as I rub away the brown stain round her asshole, it makes me harder instead of turning me off.

“You’re so dirty, slut,” Daddy says.

By this time one writer is hard and forces Chesler’s lips down over the swollen head of his cock. Chesler is ashamed to admit to herself how excited and wet she is as the stiff rod runs down her gagging throat. She’s not the big girl she thinks she is.

She barely has time to start with the “Oh, Daddy, you’re such etc,” in order to make me come faster, before I stick my dick up her ass for real and piss the rest of the suppository out of her.  (The suppository sex is very much for real.)



Friday, June 8, 2018

When Daddy Fucks Me Good

Little Jennifer lies in bed feeling all damp listening to Daddy bang around cursing in the bathroom. She turns on her side as he comes in, pulling her knees up to accent the curve of her muscular ass and letting a tit slip out of her skimpy tank-top. He lurches towards her, spins her over on her back by grabbing a knee and tearing her legs apart, sticks his hand between her legs, and violently rubs her there.

"Oh, Dad, no, not my special place, my quim, my pie, my little nickel hole," she gasps. But she carefully positions her arms in between her knees as he pulls down her shorts and thrusts his powerful cock deep into her. She knows that he likes the whole palsied effect, and, indeed, he yells that a retarded little slut like her is a shame on the whole family.

Bent at the wrists, her hands shake, further displaying the palsy that so excites him that she feels the head of his thick cock slam into her cervix, pushing her womb up towards her stomach.

"Ow, ow, ow! It's so deep, it hurts, Daddy"

I'm so hard I feel like I'm going to explode right then and there. I feel the semen pulsing up through my cock.

"It's going to be a huge load, little Jennifer, get ready for Daddy. Are you thirsty?"

"No, Dad, no! You don't mean the yellow stuff, do you?"

"I can't take any more. You shouldn't have said that. Now you get a double dose."

"Ow, Daddy, you're going in too deep. I want my Mommy. She wouldn't do this to me, she just makes me put my hands there between her legs."

"But she doesn't have a rod, her little clitoris is half the size of yours and she's so smelly, like liver pate."

"Please, Daddy, finish, it hurts. Punch me so you finish faster. I've been naughty, I'm all wet, please punish me harder."

Goddamn little whore. That messes me up and I feel the hot cum spurting between her skinny thighs and filling her tight little cunt, which is dripping as much pussy juice as jizz, as my load pours back out of her. I grin down on her as she lies pressed together, her knees on each side of her head, and start pissing over her face. She looks disgusted and horrified, it gurgles out from between her lips down her face.  She mumbles something I can't understand through all the piss in her mouth. It is only now that I notice that she is being racked by an enormous orgasm, squirting over me as much as I have over her.

"Oh, Daddy", she says. "Can we wait to change the sheets till tomorrow? A good fuck always makes me so sleepy."


Monday, June 4, 2018

Jennifer S. Chesler

The blog of my beautiful & brilliant wife, Jennifer S. Chesler, is linked here.  Though most of the recent posts are often humorous collaborative pieces, the older posts include some tremendous texts that are included in her novel Fragments, of which I have written below in this blog.

Most exceptional among these pieces are perhaps:

Down and Out in Muncie, Indiana

& Bourgeois Dreams.

Having read these, you may wish to purchase the novel itself, which is here at Lulu or alternatively here at Amazon, if you like corporate multinational scumbags. Lulu actually save at least one kitten for every copy you buy from them.

Somewhat less than a fifth of the texts in Fragments are available on her blog. If they don't make you want to buy the book, then I wish you'd stop reading my blog.


Saturday, June 2, 2018

Suppository Sex

Suppository Sex

Jennifer had problems shitting, a "poopy problem" as she calls it, and as I fetched the suppository to give her I was excited to learn that she had never had suppository sex. This is when the woman in a submissive role is administered a suppository before an enormously hard fuck.

Neither of us likes the brown, and do not get off on films such as Poop Tornado. This makes it all the more delicious. She is pounded like a submissive little animal while her stomach churns like a manufactory of brown butter. The fear of soiling the sheets petrifies her, she feels the tremendous force of my powerful thrusts and the excitement she feels constantly threatens to loosen the tight clench of the anus. She forgets to assume the twisted hand posture of the palsied and even to flap her legs around helplessly. This slows my orgasm, naturally, and it is difficult to finish. I'm laughing too hard, almost drowned out by the squeals of "Please, Daddy, no".

If there was any shit, which there wasn't, the ocean of jizz that I drenched her with would have washed it away. She weeps as she runs to the bathroom, you're cruel and naughty, Daddy. Defiant little whore, I'm so proud of her. I fetch the paddle. She calls the paddle cruel too. She thinks she's such a big girl, she's so proud to sleep in Daddy's bed. When I first told her that she could take Mommy's place, I could feel her gushing juices run down over my sac.

I ask Daddy "Where's mommy, I want my mommy, I'm scared of the white stuff in my special place, it makes the special place all tingly", but he tells me that mommy's dead now and I'm such a big girl i can do her job and take it like a grownup. I know that always makes the goddamn big cock bastard come fast.

She says that I burst a blood vessel in my right eye while fucking because I had to shit and was holding in a monstrous dump, but I maintain that it was the sheer power of the fucking. She was freaked to learn that I always hold back, and that it is natural to shit after sex each time, since the stomach moves hard and fast and churns mercilessly.

I hope Daddy isn't holding too much back, I really am such a little girl and he's such a big man.

Friday, June 1, 2018

More on Chesler's Fragments

Further Considerations Regarding Fragments
 

In "Four Propositions on Psychoanalysis", Deleuze does not consider psychiatry as such, but some arguments hold true of it in modified form, & relate to Chesler's book.
 

Firstly, psychoanalysis stifles the production of desire. Psychiatry attacks the brain's chemistry to render desire an achievement. As a victim of mismedication, Chesler writes of the mental hospital in "Down and Out in Muncie, Indiana" - as an artist, we do not want to stifle & conquer the alleged unconscious, we must produce it - & it is not easy to create this infantile world, but it is our duty. Fascist psychiatrists may believe that they mean well, but as Bukowski notes: there are no good cops. Chesler's desire was stifled before then, deviated & suppressed, but it sought itself in art, it found itself in me. In the story in question, she is seen as surrounded by pointless ciphers, each of them barely human, vermin. The mentally ill, the Herr Doktors, & the fascist camp guards on the medical staff all played out their allotted roles, like all the unintelligent they were unable to be outside of their clearly delimited borders.
 

Secondly, psychoanalysis abuses language, it keeps people from speaking, it takes away the conditions of true expression, & thus it stifles utterances, that strive to be indefinites, infinitives, proper names of becomings. Psychoanalysis separates the expressing subject from the subject of the utterance, Chesler does not try to speak her "I", except in  the meta-level excerpts alluded to in the previous analysis of the work. She even masquerades this alleged "I" through the character "I" – she subverts the entire psychiatric/psychoanalytic subversion of thought by assuming the "I" as a proper name. The establishment uses personal pronouns as weapons; they are part of its rape kit. The psychiatrist sees the patient as part of an anonymous group categorized, in this case, as "bipolar I" – this is horseshit. Each of them, these various victims, is a unique name, indicating a haecceitas.
 

Thirdly, psychiatry, like psychoanalysis, destroys utterance & desire by a machine that interprets, & a machine that subjectivises its subjects. They, this enemy, tell you who you are. Chesler defies the process by the representation of an irreducible intensity, though this book is full of placeholders, wasting space while an equal awaited her unknowing, so the irreducible intensity is a failure & a sense of despite, of disgust, spitting arrogant hatred at eyes that are full of junk & nothingness.
 

Fourthly, psychoanalysis involves power relationships. Now this is doubly true of the psychiatric institution. Chesler's current psychiatrist, whom we call Dr. Bunghole in our texts about him, is a moron who actually boasted that his IQ was 130 to her, as if this were impressive. This ludicrous arrogance stems from the fact that the branch of the police called psychiatry is a medium of social control. It exacts an enforced docility from the unruly bodies of the insane by the brutality of the anti-psychotic. Chesler narrates in the story in question of a cretinous nurse who behaved like a camp guard, a scumbag.
 

Art should reveal truth, should indicate it & engage in the strenuous activity of thought, says Heidegger. This Chesler does. 


The book is on sale here:

https://smile.amazon.com/dp/1387747967

Fragments, by Jennifer S. Chesler

Fragments is the third written, but first published, of Jennifer S. Chesler’s four novels to date. Fragments has the form of an anthology, but functions as a sort of aleatory novel, in that Chesler randomly ordered the texts when she first wrote them, & I, who ultimately edited the book, reordered it & added new pieces from her archives. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic & linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies of ordering. This reordering was particularly necessary, by the way, since the book had been massacred by a worthless agent & was not in its first form. I write this since I am, according to the author, the only person who knows the back story to every piece.

The book is brilliant & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. Among many topics covered in the book are dog sex in the Phoenix area, the stupidity of the average American, the patriarchal nature of society, the worthlessness of almost all sexual relationships, & the author’s mental illness & poverty (caused by an upbringing in a hostile family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags as a consequence of a low self-esteem & "political correctness" in the sense of thinking that all humans have equal value, which they obviously don't).

The book portrays the effects of defective child-rearing & a dysfunctional attitude to sexuality. A character in the book, for example, portraying male sexuality, assumes the form of a non-human mythological creature who is without language or intelligence, & exists solely as an inhuman form of generalized homosexual desire. He is totally without value, & this reflects upon the early experiences of the author with predatory & abusive males with a low mental status, the death of one of whom is described in the book.

There is an emphasis on nausea & anxiety & a description of how societal values together with familial pressure actually validated anorexia, giving vomiting a higher value than might be usual in more well-regulated households.

The effects of prostitution are portrayed, along with the fact that most marriages in the wealthier strata in the USA are basically a form of whoring. Some pieces are basically included to offend, & speak of prostitution as though it were acceptable on any level, although feminist consciousness is retained in the underlying tone of sarcasm, describing degrading & disgusting practices in a way that seems to normalize them. The people are egoistic & the fault with prostitution is the fault with much sex nowadays, according to Lyotard - everything & everybody treats what should be an incommensurable & invaluable intensity as though it were a unit of exchange.

The author uses direct quotes, & in every case the speaker is barely human: they are stupid, selfish, & without any redeeming features. The reported speech is full of colloquialisms & non sequiturs.

Among subjects ridiculed are the American obsession with veterans, dog masturbation (apparently used as a dog training method), the general stupidity of any pretense to knowledge in a country where dysgenic fertility is rampant & idiocy reigns everywhere supreme. Chesler was told as a child to conceal the fact that she was more intelligent than others, perhaps in case she would not be able to get a man. The men she encountered were so worthless & bad in bed that she became a lesbian, but the women were such scumbags that they were worse. One character, The Narcissist in the book, had a micro-penis to which he never alluded, such is American arrogance.  

The whole familial & societal analysis bears traces of Deleuze & Guattari; prostitution represented a failed line of flight from the static familial constellation, this first line of flight was actually a flight to degradation that transformed into a retreat into perversion that was actually a retreat into intellectualist & literary perversity that became a successful line of flight - leaving the city, the family, the social to assume a nomad existence in a fictional world. Several pieces reflect this, the author writes on a meta-level, & gives advice to the reader in various fashions, each of which reflects the construction of an alleged identity.

A writer whom Chesler once interviewed is included, although the interviews were never published since they were so abusive & dismissive of the writer, who had written a childish book about BDSM featuring "advice" about "safewords" for people who don't know what they're doing. The short pieces in fragments are classic dismissals that mock the interviewed writer's defective grasp of English. Chesler never met a real dominant, since there are almost none of us around, & the work in Fragments related to BDSM is funny in that the feeble nature of the egos of the participants is exposed.

One of the best pieces, written high on meth, describes dental work on, & sexy dentures for, stillborn babies in a dialog piece that resembles Plath on mothers in form. Elsewhere rhymed prose is used, some pieces have the form of doggerel poems, & the pieces have been ordered to reflect the structural peculiarities of the texts, & thus of the book.

The book can be ordered here at Lulu.

It is also on sale on Amazon at this link.

A preview can also be found on Google Books.