Carnival of the Vaginosi Arts

COMEDIC PATHOLOGIES

OF THE VAGINOSI ARTS

Salute: No one could take my musings seriously. I write for fun and the linguistic adventure. So! Just another scribble at tea time intended as a suggestive catharsis for HDK and his many erudite friends, accomplished writers all. I love them dearly and frequently review their many contributions to the Literotica literary arts. To my three bemused readers and the splendidly enigmatic JPB, I say, "Top o' the morning and remember that we anachronisms must hang by our thumbs before breakfast; but, in any event, be sure to write if you find work." Note: All rights are reserved. Characters depicted in sexual or erotic situations are at least 18. Any resemblance of any of the characters in these pages to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Prologue: Spontaneous giggling always plagued Pyotr when he smoked dope.

As if disembodied, he heard himself bleating; and if his eyeballs would cease rotation clockwise long enough to read the time on his gem encrusted Swiss watch, he would organize his responses to the writer's anticipated questions.

"Would he marry the leading lady in the Performance Arts Fucking Revue?" they surely would ask.

They would ask only for the purpose of stirring trouble between San Francisco's elite and the stinking masses.

How would he answer?

Was not the archaic institution known as marriage anathema in post Christian San Francisco? Was not the barbarous sickness known as pregnancy repugnant if not yet outlawed?

To be sure, he answered himself; but there is the greater world, the contemptible milieu of seven billion morons who must be persuaded to accept the progressive art form of Presentation Fucking. They must buy the tickets if The Producer and Performance Arts Fucking Revue were to survive and generate power.

Marriage? He would lie. Of course, my fucking diva will soon be my wife, he would answer. The Producer would be pleased with his duplicity.

Out in the conference room, he could hear the bouncers calling for order.

Comrades! Please check your straight razors and brass knucks in the coat room before indulging your literary hubris...

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Culture writers of San Francisco had just that day named him "Male Artist of The Year." Inevitably, their obligatory questions about his many civilizing accomplishments in "The Arts" had embarrassed him and stung his sensibilities at the most primitive level.

They all knew that Pyotr Ilyich and his Stradivarius had betrayed Saint Michael and the forces of righteousness; yet, they persisted in addressing him with respect. It was as if they had not witnessed his dress rehearsal in the Performance Arts Fucking Revue.

Ah, Yes! The creaturish commentator from Telegraph Avenue, acting from the darkest of motives, took the point in the media assault. She knew of his treachery, and she was preparing to spear him. Media madness makes money. Stir with nihilistic contempt the witches' brew and assure your fortune in 21st Century existential socialism.

There's always a mystical taste of misanthropy in all intellectual affairs. Smart "J" school empowered commentators have the key. They will bring the venom to a toxic boil.

Only this feminista Jihadist from Berkeley had come to the press conference prepared for the assault, the news commentators "money shot." To do so, however, it was necessary to prop up the long irrelevant strawman of marriage.

She scratched her crotch unconsciously as she read her question from her polished steel clipboard.

"Is it true that you have an elephantine penis and that you have received $100,000 as an advance to fuck this woman, LinLu, for three hours on the Golden Gate Bridge?"

The sweaty woman with hairy legs from the East Bay's Telegraph Avenue Weekly Barbarian, however, set herself apart. As she adjusted her recorder, a twisted smirk complemented the bloody determination in her narrowed, snake-like black eyes.

Pyotr flinched visibly as she moved in for the kill. As the dozen reporters, cable news miniskirts and camera manipulators fell silent and turned to watch, she impaled Pyotr with her probing stare.

Was it not true that he would play Bach's Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 on his Stradivarius while fucking this woman, an accomplished cellist, doggie fashion? Furthermore, was it not true that this woman was a featured artist in The Bay Area Feminosi Carnival of Stars?

And could he maintain a seven-night-a-week performance agenda for the duration of his contractual 52 weeks?

Eyes blinking uncontrollably and sphincter tightening, the famed Maestro shrugged and inspected his fingernails. His nemesis smiled mordantly as she consulted the Revue's brochure.

"It says in the Revue's press kit that your cock is sixteen and three quarters inches long and three and one half inches in diameter," she said, her voice strong, her words enunciated as if fired from a pistol.

Did the Telegraph Avenue cum dump journalist say that Pyotr had a sixteen and three quarter inch cock? Pandemonium ensued as the writers scrambled to find the brochures they so casually had thrown on the floor without reading them. All of the members of the culture writers phalanx gasped enchorus and seemed to coalesce in stupefied union.

"There in the brochure it says he has a sixteen and three quarter inch cock," whispered the writer with red rimmed watery eyes. "So it is written, it must be so!"

"I think the Revue's brochure speaks clearly and succinctly," Pyotr answered, hoping his tortured voice did not reveal his humiliation.

But part of his conscious spirit rejoiced that his betrayal of his God and the glorious music of Bach now had been stipulated. Surely, now that she had opened the door to his despicable agreement with The Producer, the culture writer's brigade would find its bile and peel his spiritual skin away centimeter by centimeter. He needed the cleansing Sadism

"My question is this," the Jihadist from Telegraph Avenue hissed. Again, she read her question laboriously from her clipboard. "Since your leading lady is only five feet two inches tall and weighs only one hundred ten pounds, how many sex divas did you have to audition before you found one with a snatch that you could pork all the way to the pubic bone?"

Pandemonium reigned briefly until Pyotr sobered and raised his hand for silence. He appraised the hairy legs as the smirking woman moved forward extending her microphone, smugly awaiting his response.

"You have a beautiful pelt of healthy thick black hair on both legs," Pyotr said, gazing at her muscled legs as they lay exposed under her micro miniskirt. "Since the thin layer of hair on your head appears to be escaping a diseased scalp, I suggest that you use the same shampoo on your scalp that you use on your legs."

As the woman's face darkened, many in the news contingent gasped and spluttered, but they were soon mesmerized by her audacity. She studied her clipboard as she nurtured her malignant smirk.

"I have only one other question," she said cagily, pausing to allow the noise to cease. "It's about this God you say you serve."

DID EVERYONE HEAR THE QUESTION?

How big was his god's cock? Did everyone hear the question?

"Enough!" cried a priest as he emerged from within the crowd. "Your blasphemy cannot go unanswered."

What happened next will forever remain a hauntingly oversimplified image on history's retina. From behind the woman stepped two towering bodies wearing their trademark black leather coats, their faces enshrouded darkly in a professional's anonymity; and they proceeded to pound and stomp upon the priest until his pulpy mass could no longer squeal and scream.

Though there were many variations and revisions, all agreed that the priest had moved his arm and might have shifted his position menacingly; and with that as evidence of the priest's assault, the police arrested him, and the prosecutors ordered him cuffed to his hospital bed until he died of brain, liver and kidney malfunctions.

Everyone seemed embarrassed. But it was only a moment of silence after a three-hour delay before the news conference resumed. An almost casual calm prevailed.

During the quietus and once the ambulance team had removed the priest's twitching body, the writers diligently reviewed their notes. After a respectable lapse of time, they all gathered about the feminosi Jihadist from Telegraph Avenue. And, with ostentatious cunning, she shared her toxic commitment.

Did Pyotr feel that appearing in the revolutionary sex Revue could compromise his ability to serve his God? Could he in good conscience continue as Bach's premiere interpreter?

"Evolutionary is the correct adjective," Pyotr responded thoughtfully, "not revolutionary."

Epochs of history not moments in time determine truth, the writers heard Pyotr say, though the few objective thinkers among them doubted Pyotr's conviction. They reluctantly questioned him.

"But is Performance Art Fucking a truth of God's time or just a convenient truth of the pedestrian moment in time?"

"If Bach were living in the 21st Century," Pyotr pontificated, though his sleazy performance before these august agents of the Fourth Estate choked him, "he would probably be writing his profound cantatas for our Infanticide Era rock bands, Zero Sucks and Satan's Gonads."

He had given the Revue's bands a plug with the Bay area's most prestigious writers. Enduring the remainder of the interviews produced stomach searing enzymes, but he persevered.

Since he had swept upon the "serious music" scene 22 years before this terrible day, Pyotr had commanded the stage as the virtuoso defender of the Providence inspired music of Johann Sebastian Bach.

Even as a ten-year old wielding his Stradivarius as if an Excalibur, Pyotr had extolled Bach and thereby the God given merciful human psyche! All human values citing human life as sacred were derived from the revelation of Pyotr's God's love. And he did so through his Stradivarius and the exemplification of Bach.

Were these stellar commentators, most of them ostensibly sensitive to his God's dictates, equating the new "Performance Art Fucking" with his Stradivarian symphony concerts celebrating the power of God's love and mercy? How could they be so stupid? Surely they had divined his duplicity, his depravity, his scandalous and corrupt sale of his incredible skill with his enormous penis.

"We have only raised questions, Maestro," one scribe protested. "You are the one who has juxtaposed Performance Art Fucking to your sacred music of Bach."

"Yes, Maestro," another talking head chided, "for the price of a theater ticket, your fan can witness your horse like cock pulverizing a girl's poor uterus; or for the price of a season ticket to the symphony, that same fan can quick charge his soul with your God's love and mercy. Am I right?"

"Bach emanating from my Stradivarius constitutes an artistic endeavor that inspires souls to the heights of compassionate creativity!" Pyotr countered, struggling to quell his panic.

"Please understand, dear Maestro," the media expert on American culture quickly added, "we are only seeking to understand and in no way are we judgmental."

NO ONE LEFT TO KICK SPIRITUS ASS...

Judgmental? Could any fool ever expect a "culture journalist" to defend or condemn any standard of human conduct? But for his own sacrilege, Pyotr would "kick spiritual ass."

"It is perfectly within the realm of reason that you could worship your God with sensuality equal to your spiritual homage."

Then suddenly the anger returned. How could these guardians of morals and propriety be so shallow? They were bending to the absurdity that he could be the super star of Performance Art Fucking and continue as the Maestro of Bach's music of love, life and soul.

"Dear, sir," Pyotr challenged, though his resolve was pathetically weakening even more so. "I must admonish you to remember that you of the news media are the centurions of Western Civilization; and you are not privileged to equivocate."

Surely these learned journalists were perversely jesting. Suggesting that he continued to possess a superiority of taste and a cogency to define beauty offended him perceptively beyond consciousness. To equate his "Carnival of Performance Arts Fucking" with his gifts as a noted performer of Bach harbored communal madness.

But he suppressed his compulsion to scream protests. He needed the money from "Performance Art Fucking." Any moment the "Hunter's Point and Bayview Collectors" would appear to compel payment on his long overdue gambling debts.

When the interviews mercifully were concluded, he returned to his flat to prepare for another lucrative achievement in 21st Century aesthetic debauchery. Their producer, none other than Jean Baptiste, soon would arrive with a bag of money, the perfected script for Performance Art Fucking on The Golden Gate Bridge and "fucking" adaptations of Tartuffe, Criseyde and Candide.

Ask Pyotr Ilyich about the pathologies of the arts.

Acclimations of his genius in the art of stringed music had extended his fame across the horizons of the Pacific Rim Emirates; but now, inexplicably and of critical pain in his contested soul, his fortunes rested with his recently discovered mastery of the theatrical skills personified in the god Priapus. Unconscionably, his phallus had preserved his fame and fortune at a time when his gifts of the Stradivarius were being insanely depreciated and the celestial music of Bach obscured.

Possessed of deep presentiments, he stood before his mirror grooming himself for another episode of creative carnality in the centermost lane of the Golden Gate Bridge. He was both artist and critic. His virtuosity with his concert violin had won plaudits from both the harassed geniuses of the suppressed Baroque Society and the ruling Feminosi junta, warring cultural antagonists linked in an historic end-game.

Pivotal moments had become the norm since the cultural watershed after the funeral of Anglo America had empowered and energized the Feminosi. Their many councils and committees could appoint Culture Constables with the authority to arrest players and close productions. There were colonies on the Farallon Islands for writers of novels and plays the constables would not approve.

Now undistinguished voyeurs with pedestrian passions applauded his Performance Art Fucking in the centermost lane of the bridge and graded his phallic genius. They ruled this interesting though unintelligible body function to be superior and of more merit than his accomplishments with the Stradivarius.

'Free Speech' required of all! Freedom to fuck in the centermost lane of the Golden Gate Bridge!

Long live San Francisco, Caliphate of The Pacific Rim Emirates!

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Awareness of the soft sensuality in the watchful eyes of LinLu, who sat nearby on the rumpled bed sipping tea, did not temper the raging resentment. Only a preposition of perfidy masked as Aphrodite could exhaust 122 exquisite phallic artists in a preview of the "world's most stupendous exhibition of fine arts copulations and slimy marathon fucking."

Perfection of form and substance emanating from her joyous features did not obscure his pernicious fear and anger. These timeless essences of Plato's Ideal Forms clashed in his consciousness with his indestructible images of her Bacchanalian sexual expertise and exhibitionism. "Our great and glorious producer, though arguably semi omniscient, is short sighted," she said as she toyed with a soiled sex toy.

FOR THE PRICE OF A TICKET,

SEE THEM INVEIGLE (FUCK)

PLATO'S IDEAL FORMS

"No one with the wherewithal to buy a ticket to our performance art fucking would know either Bacchus or Bach," she intoned. "The Producer must find a medium suitable for informing San Francisco's 'pot head populace' that Bacchus created the orgy as a celebration of procreation or Bach composed music "to the glory of God and refreshment of the soul."

Performing with LinLu in the public arena as devotees of the Post Christian Politic Art of Democratic Fucking had consumed him at times as both a toxic erotic thrill and a betrayal of cosmic decency.

But he must have money to pay the collectors.

This surpassed all measure of indignity; moreover, to further torture the wound, The Producer had assured him of unimaginable riches exceeding the gambler's pay-off. Such a prospect assuaged his conscience to some degree. Of monumental importance, however, was the assurance that he could pay off his incredible gambling debts and forestall having his knees broken by the collectors from the insidious Bay Bridge Cartel.

Pyotr sat on the proverbial cutting edge of cultural evolution as a latter day Raphael, the prototypical 16th Century devotee of the artfully revealed breast. During the next hour, he soothed his fevered psyche by sucking LinLu's captivating breasts and fingering her soft pliable nest.

Only a nerve jangling noise down on the street interfered.

Below on Van Ness Jean Baptiste had arrived on his motorcycle, circa 1930 model, belching smoke in the fire of a mixture too rich for the chambers of the relic's rusted heart. Riding behind the world's most contemptuous arranger of the Baroque was Madame Cunegonde de la Caracas, the Diva of The Pacific Rim Feminosi Opera Company. This unanticipated sight lifted his sagging spirit as his creative juices began to flow.

"Why would The Producer, Jean Baptiste, bring this most renowned coloratura soprano to meet us?" he asked LinLu. As he spoke, LinLu suggested that Jean Baptiste had accomplished the impossible.

"Apparently she has agreed to star in his musical adaptation of Tartuffe," she speculated. "Or she has signed on for the opening night of Performance Art Fucking in the centermost lane of the Golden gate bridge."

It did not matter if Madame Cunegonde would sing in The Producer's opera or fuck on the Golden Gate's Centermost Lane Stage. With her in the starring role of coital productions, their audience and fortunes were assured.

"'Tartuffe!' You are suggesting that he has finished his libretto for 'Tartuffe'?

"Obviously! And with the Diva performing with us, the Golden Gate Centermost Lane Stage will be the great beacon of the future for The Pacific Rim Performance Arts Fucking Theater. Our fame will circle the globe. No longer will Performance Fuckers be arrested in London or Paris or Berlin or Tokyo or Moscow or Beijing."

"Are you daft? If The Producer has arrived with the librettos, it will be a catastrophe; for I did not take him seriously, and I have composed no music. Such a tableau will require the equivalent of a concerto. Even if I had some modicum of appreciation for Jean Baptiste's performance fucking creations, I could not write a concerto in four and one half hours."

After a moment's pause when he questioned his own logic, he threw his hands in the air in frustration. Deceptive profundity curled the corner of LinLu's perpetually seductive mouth as she leaned into the turreted bay window pensively watching the pair on the street below, absently tickling her left aureole with cultivated scarlet talons.

She bade him suckle. To her dismay, even her deterministic left nipple failed to calm his ire.

Her naked thighs opened slowly; and as she inserted three fingers and smirked seductively, Pyotr once more removed his Stradivarius from its gold plated case and began playing the theme from his operetta, "Dracula Does Frankenstein."

Fucking LinLu for the third time that day proved only that she was his best partner and always at the ready. Without a doubt, he knew that, though she quickly had become his best friend and confidant, she also was fiercely dedicated to gaining fame and accumulating wealth, ambitions she could fulfill expeditiously by herding Pyotr into The Producer's precincts. With his eight and half inches of sexual negotiating power, he would provide the best opportunity for quick riches.