Millions of Masturbating Men
by Marc Peacock Brush
Naked girl with legs spread. Naked girl on all fours, glancing backwards. Two naked girls licking each other. Two girls, one guy, playful oral sex games. One girl, two guys, stuffed like a stuffed pig. Two in the morning, various websites, lights off, door closed. The war in Iraq. Inaugural democratic elections. Reelections that augur poorly for democracy. Self-indulgency. Any distributed policy of forced freedom. Any presumption that one way of life, however fatuous the luxury, is preferable to another. Suspected terrorists. Everywhere, balloons of fear, blown fuller with hotter air, stretched wider to ridiculous volumes. Men targeted and profiled. Dark hair, dark mustaches, tattered dress shirts and slacks. Known to frequent certain hot spots. To circle in dangerous crowds. Morning commute. One lost hour, in the dark. If there’s sun, there’s glare, more. Keep it on pattern: 9 to 5, 9 to 6, 9 to 7, etc. Corporations, rows of gleaming windows, banks of whispering cubicles. Internecine politics. Providing for wives and families without providing for oneself. Profit motives, economic efficiencies. Hundreds of bullet-point email messages each day, no need for sentences. sOundss good . . . kill the sparrow . . . $5k by thurs . . . sweet deel. Naked girl with inserted toy. Insertion, extraction. Insertion extraction. Up down up down. Waiting for her. Waiting to make a connection with her. Waiting faster. Waiting too long. Starting all over. Click. More men, more dark mustaches. So many scary dark men! Bad intelligence? The smell of wildflowers nearby. Fresh. Clean. An innocence to the breeze v. orders, clear and direct. Move at the shoulders with the target. Wait for the open shot. Wait for the easy kill, for commendation. Waiting for answers. Video clips. Files sent, files received. Viewed in secret on tiny pixelated screens. Men with no heads and ranting terrorists. Women with no heads and shaved vaginas. A minute for each, between phone calls. Before the boss gets back from lunch. Coworkers gathering round. The spectacle of it. Watching it happen. Not believing it. Not believing it could happen. Waiting for it to end. Naked girl with legs spread, bound and gagged, lacerations across the thighs, dirty from the elements, raw in dirty places, in a desert, alone, on film. Grainy and authentic. Everyone will watch this. Everyone will see her, every warm-blooded American male, and what is it that we will all do in response?
Naked girl. At war. With you.  |
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