Carnival of the Vaginosi Arts

Of course, she liked him and enjoyed having sex with him, a true bonus if she could manage him sufficiently to sign him onto The Producer's Centermost Lane Fucking agenda. Unfortunately, though he desperately needed the money, his cooperation was never a certainty.

THE CENTERMOST LANE STAGE

Their Centermost Lane Stage was no Pigalle Place or Soho or Combat Zone in Boston, Pyotr raged suddenly. This was revolutionary theater was by nature existentially different. They were crushing age old norms, he would scream in one instant; but she was prepared to hear simultaneously that her inveigling him into "Classical Street Fucking" was cannibalizing his soul.

"An instant restatement of The Brandenburg Third into a concerto and cantata for street fucking! That's a ludicrous corruption of a man's reason for being. If I have been complicit, may Zeus help me. No! I have a more destructive answer! I will compose for you a plagued hallucinogenic anthem to Timothy Leary or Sid Vicious." As was his custom, he impotently cursed his anger, fear and contumacious spirit.

Pitch of resonance signaled that she had shifted her key. Now this Pacific Heights Venus was depicting Pyotr's risks in essaying Classical Performance Fucking on The Golden Gate Bridge as the equivalent of Petrarch's having ascended the mountain to view his own face in the fundaments of God; or Erasmus leading the medieval soul into the "Glories of The Renaissance" or Martin Luther posting his 95 theses.

At this juncture, he understood that her soliloquy had crystallized, and her Sanskrit prayer had settled upon him as Odin's handmaiden, The Valkyrie, ready to crown him as her hero or lead his barren, bruised soul to Valhalla. Suddenly, Pyotr asked if there were "houses of ill repute in Valhalla.

"If there are no whores or whorehouses in Valhalla," LinLu said, "I will write home to Copenhagen and order a dozen and call Austin to hire the world's best whore house architects."

"And I shall write a concerto dedicated to the whores of Copenhagen, Austin and Valhalla," Pyotr exclaimed, his enthusiasm overflowing as he took his Stradivarius from its case and began playing an old UT football fight song, "Pussy on The Pedernales."

"Even Amadeus Wolfgang Mozart could not do that!" He knew that his interest was rising as he spoke and stared into her eyes seeking assurance.

"Yes! You could do it! We know that Jean Baptiste has been adapting 'Tartuffe' for a Golden Gateway Conservatory operetta; and he has asked you about motifs in the Third Brandenburg Concerto. Remember that just last week you suggested the consonant and dissonant chords of Ravel or Debussy instead of your sacred Bach, and he became very abusive and insistent. Have you forgotten how pathetically you caved to his Berkeleyan barbarism? It was so out of character for you to be intimidated."

LinLu smiled with false compassion as her voice modulated again, and she was saying, "I witnessed your agreeing to arrange the Third Brandenburg for a brazen juxtaposition of a fucking farcical swinger's party porno sound track. I also watched as you scored an amateurish libretto to a brisk tempi of Bach's 'Goldberg Variations.'" And you took another very respectable fee. Oh, yes! I was watching as you took your pay in untrackable gold dust.

"But you hired bus loads of pussy and paid the 'Hunter Point and Bayview Collectors' nothing.

"Your good health depends on that money. The collectors for the Embarcadero Indian Casinos will not abide your disrespect much longer. What is there for you to do? You know the Third Brandenburg better than the Berkeley goose steppers know their Dildo Rock. You must tell The Producer that you will arrange Bach's select pieces for Oboe for The Centermost Lane Stage and compose his Concerti Grossi for Performance Art Fucking!"

With that she thrust a letter toward him that bore the Bi-Continental Potomac Seal. What was this? She pointed to the address of the feared Hunter Point Racket Services Incorporated. Their Pacific Rim representative would send an agent to collect his annual mortgage payment of 62,000 pounds if he did not remit that amount by Tuesday. With late fees and interest, the required payment at that time would be 69,228 pounds.

Obviously, no artist of The Pacific Rim Emirates would consciously forfeit his laboriously earned stature and fame by being evicted and eviscerated by agents of the The Bayview and Hunter Point Racket Services. Living on Marina Drive only 200 yards from the mooring for his 48-foot motor yacht made him a man for all seasons, someone of importance in the Pacific Rim Emirates.

Pyotr froze in fear as the implications dawned.

"Jean Baptiste most certainly will advance the money," she counseled.

"Jean Baptiste does not trust me," Pyotr said.

"It doesn't matter," she responded. "He has confessed that he knows that, though you are unaware of your talent, you are a gifted master fucker, a natural for the Centermost Lane stage."

"The Producer has said that?" he asked, staring at her doubtfully. "When did he impart that crumb of information?"

LinLu's face flushed with color and heat.

When had she seen Jean Baptiste when Pyotr was not present? Where did they meet? Did she fuck him? Perhaps they were conspiring to enslave him in a chastity cage!

No! LinLu swallowed her panic. Realization that she had set off his unpredictable though entertaining sociopathic rage frightened her. How stupid was she?

"Calm yourself, Pyotr, my love!" she soothed. "You must never doubt my love and devotion."

Stretching her mouth obscenely as she thrust her pelvis forward and spread her pussy lips, LinLu began to sing his favorite fucking song. Surely this would provide the antidote to his sudden dissociative disorder.

When Pyotr began to fiddle a Kentucky hullabaloo stomp dance tune, her heart stopped. The "ditty" was designed to provide tempo for group fucking after a wedding; and when Pyotr's eyes rolled back into his head, she began to conjure exculpatory explanations. The Producer would hold her responsible for losing his pivotal genius. Momentarily, she experienced a snap shot of The Producer dragging her before a Feminosi Arts Court and her subsequent beheading in Union Square.

Had she over stepped her privilege? She enjoyed pinching Pyotr's soul at times. But her recognized genius in applied Sadism Masochism had prevented her from falling into fatal excesses. Always her punctuated insinuations and prickly observations had created consternation but always within the permissible bounds.

Suddenly his fiddling stopped. He began to cry, and she wiped away his tears.

Once again, her presumed gender nobility had prevailed. She relaxed and wiped sweat from her brow. She smiled a thin lipped image of satisfaction as she rolled a joint.

Pyotr once more had succumbed to her superiorities. He embraced her and begged her forgiveness for his display of flaws and weaknesses.

"I should have kept you informed of The Producer's efforts to write his own librettos," she said. "And I am at fault for fucking The Producer, but I assure you it meant nothing and was only one fuck."

"No. You could never be at fault," he sobbed. "You are my rock!"

"Pyotr, my love," she gushed. "You are the perfect man!"

"It is you, LinLu, who exemplify human perfectibility. You are forever persuasive in my behalf, always protecting my interests. You speak with authority. I cannot refuse to hand the accursed Jean Baptiste the score and libretto to my sacred Bach Festival Operetta. Just today I told the editors of Performance Sex Journal that they must review our Centermost Lane Performance Fucking recitals with enthusiastic appreciation unless they wanted to risk missing the inaugural of the next epochal shift in global culture."

"What did they say?"

"They thought I was a wonderful comic; but they did offer me a stipend of $5000 a month to write a learned commentary on the 'New Gospel of Freedom Fucking' in the 21st Century.

"Prepare yourself! I hear Jean Baptiste and Madame High "C" on the stairs."

As they had correctly surmised, Jean Baptiste had completed his plagiarized libretto for the opening night's performance; however, the theme had been borrowed from Shakespeare's "Troilus and Cressida," a Tragedy of feministic casualness in the arts of Romanticizing and betraying the "white" male's Trumpesque devotion to a presumption of Mother Eve's erotic perfections.

From Shakespeare? Plagiarist! Pyotr laughed derisively. Jean Baptiste complacently listened to Pyotr's tirade.

How can Golden Gate Performance Art Fucking be promoted and advertised as "Avant Garde 21st Century Theater" if Jean Baptiste's themes and librettos invariably were lifted from Shakespeare? Jean Baptiste ignored Pyotr's outburst and began wolfing down a plate of Sushi left from Monday's take-out.

"You moron! Shakespeare is patently Elizabethan," Pyotr screamed. "Genius of the 16th Century fucking or making love, as you will, is not 21st Century cultural advancement in The Fucking Arts!"

"Would you be happier if I said that I purloined my book from Chaucer's rendition of Troilus and Criseyde?" The Producer sniffed. "I am also acquainted with the classics."

Page 22

"Why not steal from Boccaccio's Filostrato instead? Chaucer stole Criseyde from Boccaccio and Boccaccio stole her from Benoit de Sainte -Maure," Pyotr whined pitifully.

Now they had broached into LinLu's realm of forbidden and covert literary pleasures. Their petulant and incompetent allusions to Chaucer's early English creation of an easy virtued Criseyde or Shakespeare's self same sexual gamester, Cressida, struck an interest in her that demanded expression.

"Though The Producer is an ignoramus, he has stumbled upon a veritable Fucking Arts gold mine," LinLu said authoritatively. "Criseyde was among the first accomplished Master Fuckers in recorded history."

"I will not defame women," Pyotr protested. "Criseyde has become a symbol of constitutional lust inherent in the female gender, infidelity personified; and Presentation Arts Fucking is not synonymous with failures of character and the retail production of orgasms."

"However!" The Producer interjected. "Presentation Arts Fucking is about the distillation of the Vaginosi Arts and extracting the gold coin to make us rich; and my operettas, either 'Tartuffe' or 'Troilus and Criseyde,' are expletive of that magnificently aesthetic objective; moreover, Criseyde is the perfect little after dinner cunny idolized by the Golden Gate Elite and Tamalpais Oracles."

Boccaccio's Criseyde was more interesting and more agreeable to dramatic interpretation, LinLu advised. How so? Well! Chaucer dismissed the implications of his Criseyde's indiscriminate fucking by directing his readers to focus their attention on their own Godliness instead of Criseyde's fascinating employment of her cunny. Boccaccio, however, explicated his Lady Criseyde's fucking performances as the norm, credible expectations of the corporate nature of women and the fulfillment of their natures.

Page 23

"Ah! Yes!" The Producer became energized once more. "Criseyde was a widow; and Boccaccio knew that widows by natural selection are ready to get laid any time and any place. Perfect for 21st Century Performance Art Fucking Theater!"

Good show! And there you are! The Producer's adaptations of "Tartuffe" and "Troilus and Criseyde" are essentially packaged in erudition and intellectually qualified as required by the Feminosi arts counselors. Feminosi are ironically enthusiastic about the classics, though their utilitarian mentalities calculably adhere in public forums to the philosophy of "Whatever Works."

And Madame Cungonde?

Jean Baptiste effusively depicted her as singing uproariously in the scene in which Criseyde happily pleasures Agamemnon and all 40 subordinate Greek Kings. Madame Cunegonde would be superb!

"But I am not a widow!" Madame Cunegonde exclaimed.

"True! But you are always in the market to get laid!"

All present lauded her mastery of Mother Nature's own dramatic scheme for rutting.

Madame Cunegonde graciously accepted their obligatory adulation. Though she had understood nothing of the forgoing colloquy, she was pleased that all three companions alluded to her genius in portraying Criseyde, the erotically democratic widow.

Ignoring LinLu's presumptive nudity, Jean Baptiste peremptorily spread his handwritten notes and fragments of the script on Pyotr's dressing table, sweeping the contents to the floor with a flourish.

"This is not the lyrical notation of 'Tartuffe'!" Pyotr shouted.

"What of 'Tartuffe?'" LinLu asked cautiously, widening her eyes as a warning to The Producer that Pyotr had become agitated beyond the norm.

"Too frivolous!" Pyotr shouted, spewing The Producers face.

"You unconscionable fool!" LinLu screamed. "You agreed to take his money and screw Bach over."

Page 24

"Too frivolous? Surely, you jest! Golden Gate Performance Art Fucking is becoming an astounding philosophy of life and a 21st Century dogmatic explanation for the origin and meaning of Darwin's Fucking Universe!" Jean Baptiste exclaimed. "We must have a premise for the libretto of Golden Gate Performance Fucking that is as powerful as the new philosophy itself."

"Philosophy? You can't be serious! All of you are insane!"

Pyotr once more was incensed. This stood four square as Jean Baptiste's wildest corruption of Aristotelian, Platonic or Rush Limbaughian reasoning. Golden Gate Performance Fucking was nothing more than "cashing in" on the perversion de jour, not a "philosophy" as defined by the scholars who required a hand tool for theological speculations.

Shame facedly the young scholar, though honor burdened by centuries of cultural integrities derived from Ur and enhanced in Western Hemispheric cultures, accepted the bribe and asked LinLu to negotiate greater percentage. Pyotr acknowledged his corruption of his innate goodness, a sorrowful result of taking "filthy lucre" from the Pimp Producer and his soiled company.

Furthermore, of even more compounded humiliation, Pyotr confessed that he was addicted to the tainted money yielded by performance fucking venues. He blushed in the perspiration of obscene betrayal as he hypocritically condemned the pragmatic Jean Baptiste, the pedestrian producer of Golden gate Performance Fucking, and Madame Cunegonde, the diva of the magnificent operas of The Enlightenment, the putative star of the Golden gate Bridge fucking extravaganze. and marathon orgiastic fuckathons of the current calendar in Berkeley and Palo Alto.

Performance Art Fucking paid his gambling Debts! Taxes! Feminosi Arts Council Dues! Prurient compositions for Avant garde sound tracks fattened his bank account as playing Bach in Golden Gate Park with Christian purists could never do. Providing dissonant sounds for LinLu's superb artistic genius was rewarded by her incomparable cunny as well as "filthy lucre" from the pussy corporations on Wilshire Boulevard in The City of Angels. Gawdy neonesque graphics that LinLu created for Vaginosi Singular Preoccupations, Ltd., required additional nerve grating sounds for synthesizing dildo innuendoes for vulgar video ads, sadly furthering his fund for buying his Lamborghini.

Of course, Pyotr must never minimize his addictive need for his Marina Drive residence, a Victorian with a bay window view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Now, that was status that even the "Old Billionaire Socialists" commanding City Hall must reward with a certificate of achievement.

Pyotr uncharacteristically was emptying his intellectual spleen upon the trio, and for awhile they stared at him in paralyzed awe. But they soon recovered and efficiently deflected his penitent bile. They could not delete him in totality, however, for they required his genius.

As Jean Baptiste opportunistically led Madame Cunegonde and LinLu in forming a trio to roast Pyotr with their shared gaze of condemnation and loathing, Pyotr characteristically shrank aside. Jean Baptiste resumed his synopsis of the "Troilus and Cressida." Essentially, Jean Baptiste pontificated, the new philosophy required an art form as uncompromising as 20th Century Rock Music.

Sex Pistols! Renaissance of The Sex Pistols.

"We must project awe inspiring drama and power. Since few in our perfected 21st Century can read the Hebrew Bible or Gospels or Book of Kells or French Book of Hours or the happily expiring anti American New York Times, we must make the Golden Gate Bridge Centermost Lane Stage the Mount Olympus and Delphi of the 21st Century.

These legions of frightened withering souls must have a quick transplant of core beliefs. We must recover the indestructibility of Zeus and his Pantheon of invincible Gods and Goddesses. They created our Fucking Arts. In this Great Span of Steel Stresses we have the ideal location of our source of incontrovertible Fucking Truth. Now we must populate our sacred steel edifice with Mercurys, Athenas and Venuses. On your Performance Fucking Stage, we must create dramas and myths that will captivate these worthies.

Page 26

DOING ANAL WHILE SHE EATS GRAPES...

Madame Cunegonde asked Jean Baptiste to elucidate the artistic scenario for that evening's living art performance. Before complying, Jean Baptiste made the happy announcement that The Arts Council had agreed to move the stage from the second lane of the bridge to the centermost position. Bay police agents were working with bridge maintainers to halt the monstrous flow of traffic as they spoke.

"All is well as we proceed to a glorious opening night," The Producer sang. "Of course, the Feminosi negotiators asked for another excessive bribe, but I outwitted them."

"Wonderful world, Jean Baptiste," Cunegonde whispered in unleashed admiration."

"Just how did you outwit them?" Pyotr asked, his suspicions overwhelming his zealotry.

"That is irrelevant," Jen Baptiste growled, nervously quaffing his wine. "Now let's get down to the business of the librettos."

"Not so fast!" LinLu interjected. "How much of our share did you use to bribe the Feminosi?"

"None!" cried The Producer, his eyes darting about. "Now, about the librettos."

"Then what did you give them in this bribe?" LinLu persisted, her voice now thin and menacing.

"Very well! If you insist in imposing on my turf as The Producer," he said, raising his eyes to heaven and lowering his voice to a whisper. "I pledged that Pyotr would demonstrate his incredible abilities with his museum piece of a penis."

"What!" Pyotr squealed. "You did what?"

"When and where?" LinLu demanded.

"In a private performance tomorrow at tea time," The Producer answered peevishly. "It's necessary! Our Opening Night and the $12 million in advance sales and government grants was endangered."

"You are a sleaze bag, Jean Baptiste," LinLu sighed. To an aghast Pyotr, she said placatingly, "So! What's another hour of presentation fucking?"

"You will not be involved," Jean Baptiste muttered, pouring another glass of wine and gulping half in one quick swallow.

"Explain yourself!" Pyotr demanded. "If not LinLu, then who have you compromised, you scoundrel?"

"Cunegonde," he muttered. "You will ass fuck Cunegonde while she eats grapes, sips absinthe and sings the aria 'Ritorna Vincitor' from Aida."

Proving his worth as The Producer, Jean Baptiste summoned all his forces as a persuader. He made short work of convincing Pyotr, for Pyotr needed the money to save his knees from the Collector's wrath.

"And you my dear Cungonde," purred The Producer. I submit that a diva who has never been ass fucked is no diva at all."

When The Producer promised to fatten her contract another ten thousand, Madame Cunegonde quickly agreed that a "ceremonial ass fucking before a select council of The Feminosi" would greatly enhance her biography. With that fire extinguished, The Producer smoothly began to talk about his pirated librettos.