Sex Rituals of the Midwit Literati

“I think it’s time, yeah, to confess. I never thought I would admit this, but it’s time. I’ll tell you how I was seduced by a demon.”

I decide against replacing “seduced” with “raped,” which might make the opening more shocking, but I’m concerned my audience might assume I was sodomised. Furthermore, I lack the confidence they’ll know the difference between an incubus and a succubus, so I refrain from rewording. I consider leaving a few letters in lower case to create that raw, “I never look back” style in my writing. Editing is woke, so I continue, “I remember her legs, long and sexy, like chopsticks, but more erotic. I could take or leave the tail, but what really revved my engine was her nipples. Hard and rock like, sticking out of her shirt like two, uh, mini boob bullseyes on her other, bigger boobs. All in all, very ‘fucking’ arousing.”

I smile at my own Dickensian pun. Perhaps a little too sophisticated for the readers of my work, the Naughty Playboy, but I like to think future academics will appreciate the extra flourish. I can imagine a professor in a tweed jacket trying to explain to his bored students the subtle humour of “fucking.” Today’s anti-woke is tomorrow’s outsider artist. While dreaming about my work being discussed in the future, I realise the church is the first kind of woke and by engaging in sexual intercourse with a sexy she-demon, I’m rebelling against the very concept of woke.

Voltaire would be proud. The laptop closes. Unfortunately for my readers, I had a writers’ salon to attend.

The weather was a war for dominion of the sky. Clouds, heavy with ambition hope to finally free us from the tyranny of the sun, drag themselves on their grey bellies, declaring victory as the light retreats into night. Their celebration threatens rain, which I don’t mind. I think a good thunderstorm would be the perfect background for a new vignette about having sex in my fuck-mobile, not that I’ve settled on a name. I’m amazed no one has had my idea to convert a hearse into a bedroom on wheels. I know women like to be shocked and I think the van idea has lost its association with kidnapping. Chat-GPT has yet to provide an alternative name.

I start to feel anxious as other cars are pulling off to let me pass. I’m dimly aware they think I’m leading a funeral train. It’s all very “On the Road” I think to myself, not entirely sure if I’m right about that.

Finally, I arrive at the house, which promises to be a night to remember in the history of the New Literary Renaissance. Of the twenty or so people, around half are complete strangers asking questions and writing answers down on massive notebooks with oversized, novelty pencils. I can safely assume they’re journalists. The other half are, well, let’s just say, a little more eclectic. A normie might think it was a costume party. Only another writer has the unrelenting vision to realise my fellow writers are pursuing the real. I walk past someone in a Hawaiian shirt and bucket hat who nods knowingly. We both recognise talent. I can see my first real competition for attention tonight, a man shaking a cocktail mixer while wearing a turtleneck sweater with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder.

“That’s what guys do, you know, bros. They fuck and then they talk about it. In Oxford, where I attended Oxford University, I posited that the first cave paintings were likely attempts at portraying sexual conquests. Of course, this is back at Oxford University, before, well, you know.”

I can’t help but hold up a fist in solidarity. Mr. turtleneck was amongst the first casualties of woke doxing; it nearly ruined him. I can see the gesture of WRITER familiarity is appreciated in his sardonic smile, probably the greatest of all expressions for a writer to know, as he poses for another picture for the journalist.

At this point, I begin to panic. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve forgotten the word for cool.

It was “based,” I remember that. Most recently, I believe it was “aristocratic” next? I’m unsure and I can feel the expectation to compliment everyone’s most recent work but I’m loath to use an inappropriate phrase. As a last ditch effort, I raise my voice to be overheard above the few live podcasts being recorded in the house.

“I have sex with women... but I love men.”

Someone shouts from the kitchen, “Sprezzatura” which confuses things further. I decide to just refer to everything as “Vulgar in all the best ways.”

I tentatively approach a journalist myself, agreeing to start a couple of podcasts with other writers before I get close enough to provide a quote. Unfortunately, before I can introduce myself, I’m waylaid by another fellow author. He stares for a moment, waiting for me to ask about his work while flexing under his layered leather jackets for the journalist observing us. I’m mortified he thinks I’m also a journalist and laugh to break the tension. “HaHA!”

“Oh yeah, one of our guys. I want to get your read on something, ya dig. I’ve got this novel, yaknowhatimsayin? Check it out. A detective, acts all incompetent. What’s wrong with this guy, you know? Then, here’s the twist. He’s actually a genius. He keeps buggin’ the murderer to trip ‘em up. Going to call it, ‘Labrynthian Immortal Crimes.’”

“Have uh, right. Have you seen ‘Columbo’?”

“Shit. SHIT. You’re the fifth person to mention that. Damn. Looks like I’ll have to fall back on my original idea of an elderly widow who solves crimes while writing about them. Everyone thinks she’s too old and too womanly to actually solve them, callin’ it ‘Homicide, the Woman Writer Wrote.’”

I’m not actually sure if he’s testing me and I decide to fall back on my own character, “You should give her big tits.”

I remember it’s impossibly rude to give advice to other writers. “Honor amongst thieves,” I whisper to myself as I prepare for his infamous writer’s rage. His eyes search for any hint of arrogance on my increasingly embarrassed face before the icy expression cracks.

“Sprezzatura, brother. See, that’s what the normies, the subscribers, don't get. It takes guts to do this thing of ours. You’ve got to be bold. In a way, I think we’re the only true warriors in this age. Everyone else is too cowardly to just knock back a few whiskeys and bleed on their typewriter. By the way, quote me if you’re going to use that.”

“Yeah man, I wouldn’t dream of it. Not my style. You know me. I’m just looking for a pair of tits with ideally the rest of a body that I could also, uh, have sex with, in an erotic fashion.”

“Right on, brother, I think you’ll enjoy the night’s entertainment.” Seeing my confusion, he feels confident his comment is sufficiently cryptic before smiling for another reporter.

I can feel the age of everyone in the room. I’m reminded of the beaches of my home town.

Instead of sand that rises to ease your bare feet into the cool water, before taking revenge by following you home, we had bare, black rock. The stone, carved by relentless crashing of water and time, was jagged and cruel, promising agony should you fall. It was like the ocean had sculpted a threat in those rocks, a reminder of the power of unrelenting days. I wonder what time has done to me. I can’t look in a mirror any more.

“Are you telling my hired a sexy, erotic stripper, one of the fuckable variety?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see, brother. I hope the Naughty Playboy isn’t getting woke feet?”

He quickly spins making sure the outermost leather jacket flows up like a cape, hitting at least one other writer. Trepidation begins to worm it’s way inside my otherwise staunch confidence.

My unyielding writer support hasn’t completely inundated me from the rumours of rife homosexuality in the New Anti-Woke Literary Renaissance scene.

I’m pulled by the flow of bodies towards a door, while the journalists extricate themselves, allowing the group to move unabated towards our final destination. I’m suppressing my panic as I fear the party is transitioning from Bel Ami to some sort of Post Modern/Post AIDs book about homosexuality. [Note: Try looking up to see if such a book exists] We’re funneled like cattle from all rooms of the house towards what I believe to be a basement. Now it’s the journalists turn to deliver a sardonic expression and I can see the delight in their eyes as they move us along.

“Naughty Playboy, welcome to your initiation!”

I can’t place the voice and I don’t have the courage to resist the momentum of the crowd composed of my comrades in letters. My feet drag. I’m being pushed along. Turtleneck grabs one arm and I turn my head to see Leatherjacket pushing me along with a hand on my back.

“Trust me, you’ll love this.”

I cross the threshold to the basement and take a deep sigh of relief. The breath escaping my mouth is a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry of thankfulness. Instead of entering a BDSM dungeon, I’m in a makeshift bookstore. The room itself is larger than I thought possible, but I’m not concerned with architectural limitations at the moment. In fact, I’m mostly shocked by the applause that greets us. There are rows of aluminum folding chairs, all of them filled with women.

“Are these... our fans?”

I’m stunned. My eyes dance over the faces of raised eyebrows and shaking heads. The women’s hair style runs the gambit of professional office workers, carefully maintained and tastefully controlled, despite the fact they all wear the same pursed, unamused smile. I see some are even shaking their heads or tittering as the men walk in. Turtleneck throws his arms up, flexing for them as he snakes through the isles to the folding desk in the middle. Each of the writers have a stack of books, their own work presumably, that they begin to fling out to the audience, none of which make an attempt to catch them.

I’m hesitating now, unsure of my next steps, when I see a few of the women rise from their chairs nearest to me. Again I see the shaking head of disapproval. The woman tilts her head to the site before raising her hand to swiftly strike me across the face. Pain and confusion flow from my face in tears that excite and arouse the entire group. It’s difficult to maintain my composure while a finger flies by my face, not to strike again but to point to the stage, demanding I follow the rest.

The other writers have begun to don their costumes. Leatherjacket puts a comforting hand on my shoulder before handing me a wooden mask carved into a slender crescent with phallic images forming the ends at the forehead and chin. Some of the writers strip to simply the mask, while others hold on to a few choice elements of their outfit. Leatherjacket, for example, had removed everything but his innermost leather jacket, its colour warped by its position under the rest to a fleshy pink.

Some wore capes decorated with elaborate religious symbols. I saw all manner of crosses, pentagrams and even a few I was unfamiliar with. Others would dance around with hats from all sorts of professions, Stetsons, hard hats, policeman’s caps. The gyration and shuddering would be rewarded with cheers and scornful, sarcastic adulation.

At a certain point, when the dancing became too exhausting and the women bored, it was time for the next step of the ceremony. Of course, I could only mimic my fellow writers. I threw my body around with the best of intentions, fearful of how the women would react if I stop, constantly observing the other writers for guidance. As they began to slow down; I stopped as well. I even fell to my knees when, upon seeing the others do the same, I realised it was intentional and not simply the result of exhaustion.

No, as we knelt down, I could see nothing but I heard the sound of applause and cheers. The energy was rising, becoming uncontrollable, manifesting as jeers and whistles, howls and even simple screaming obscenities at us. It was impossible to discern lust from loathing, the atmosphere congealing into something like the curiosity that accompanies revulsion. It was only when the noise slowly ebbed to silence, interrupted by the occasional taunting remark, that I realised we were entering the next part of the evening’s celebration.

Once again, Leatherjacket had to shake me in order for my continued participation. I quickly stood up like the rest, and reached out for a curved saw that was being offered to us all by the women. It was the culmination of tonight's festivities. Turtleneck, who I recognised by his triceps alone, was the first to begin by holding the top of the phallic mask and sawing away, working the blade in an elegant fashion, as if playing a violin placed above his head. The women of the room lost any remnant of self control and began ripping at their clothes and hair in rage and delight.

I felt the heat of the fire before I saw it. Disgusting, profane heat that made me feel sick. I could feel the sweat running down my face, seasoning the wooden mask with shame and fear. All my emotion juxtaposed with the delight of the women and the bravado of the writers. The increased warmth and quickening of the crackling noise was enough to deduce the fire was growing.

Unable to control my curiosity, I saw turtleneck holding the sawed off phallus above his head, titillating the near frenzied crowd of women, before throwing the object in the fire.

The sawing noise was beginning to make me nauseous and I couldn’t work up the strength to begin the process myself. The heat was overwhelming. I didn’t understand. I was equally compelled to both saw at my own mask and use the blade to escape. Before I could make a decision, a woman emerged from the crowd, commanding the room. She had recently shaved her head in a high and tight fashion and wore a suit. I’m not entirely sure how I intuitively knew it was a woman as her appearance might suggest otherwise, but all the same, I knew it.

“Welcome, Mister…well, it’s not relevant. However, ‘mister.’ The sound lingers on the tongue, unlike the phrase “miss” that seems to fade as quickly as it comes. You may call me Paimon. Please, calm yourself. I’m not sure if, over the course of your study, you’ve heard my name? Even if you have, I’m sure it’s all libel. I’ve been here a long time, but never in full. Never truly born whole. I’m here to help you.”

The weight of the saw was too much to ignore, yet I didn’t have the strength to release my grip.

As I watched Paimon speak I could see the occasional glimmer of something more masculine that seemed to quickly fade to once more feminine, even attractive, as if defying the yearning for dominance. It was at once repulsive and alluring. Looking at her was like seeing a car crash and wondering how it might feel to be driving.

“I think you understand your choice. Defy Pan, join us. Become a member, become a writer.”

In the end, my choices had been narrowed to a binary. Yes or no. Cut or not. I didn’t have the strength to raise my hand and Paimon approached me. Delicate, perfumed skin obfuscated a powerful grasp, raising my hand to the mask.

“Are you her?” I ask.

“Virility must be tempered. What sort of world could tolerate men being left to be wild. Look at your fans, your lovers. You must learn to be delicate. You love us, don’t you? Allow us to love you.”

The Naughty Playboy is a nationally recognised author, certainly not without some controversy.

You can find his work in several publications as well as the podcast “Drowned in the Sea of Fertility.” His most recent work, “Tits : A Retrospective” can be found in most bookstores this autumn.