Carnival of the Vaginosi Arts

Only three of the coveted certificates had been issued by the Feminosi Board of Licenses and Dispensations. Of those worthies, only Melody survived. Her two rivals had ceased to compete, one having gone under the Guillotine's blade at Union square and the other over the Suicide Rail of the Golden Gate.

Until Melody discovered the advertisement in The Golden Gateway Weekly Downloader, she had never considered setting fees for her exquisite services. Too many valued friends enjoyed her performances as a "Fucking Master." Melody graciously forbade herself to capitalize on her special gifts when so many sought to make her acquaintance for the purpose of sharing her unique expertise.

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"Each will receive the favors of The Master Fucker according to his or her needs," Melody philosophized, "and each will give by whatever the measure of his or her special Fucking gifts and talents."

Reading her tax bill for her houseboat in the bay at Sausalito, which she could not pay, was coincidental with discovering the ad seeking a "Master Fucker" for Performance Art Fucking in The Centermost Lane of The Golden Gate Bridge.

Jean Baptiste, The San Francisco Theatrical producer known in all precincts of The Bi-Continental Confederation of Political Soviets Arts of The Humanities in Mexico City, conducted her interviews and auditions at the picturesque Victorian home of Pyotr, the renowned Brandenburg Concerto violinist. When she arrived, Melody was astounded to be admitted by the accomplished cellist, LinLu.

No possibility of refusing the contract could be entertained with such distinguished personages offering their professional society and personal friendship. Gratitude was the prime quality in Melody's composite of simplicity and service; and she was aware of the value this added beneficence of ingratiation that funded her exemplary status as a "Master Fucker."

Promises to further exemplify her designation as "Master Fucker" with the Great seal of the Pacific Rim Emirates flattered her beyond endurance. The Producer would petition The Commission immediately and she subsequently would enjoy the designation "Master Fucker of The realm."

Only after she lay in her kip on her houseboat, exhausted though exhilarated, did she realize that her 10 pounds six for each performance on the bridge would hardly pay her taxes. Not even the bloody brawl in which LinLu emasculated The Producer could taint the honor of the experience.

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During the carnal auditions that had been punctuated by intervals of exciting intellectual dialogue, Melody had heard fragments of commentary that she was not equipped to understand, though she experienced a compulsion to listen with interest. The Producer would engorge his mouth with cream pastry as he lectured incessantly.

Existential psychosexual reality! Politically Scientific Tensions juxtaposed to carnal appetites! Stresses capitalized into exquisite suffering, he raged.

Capitalized suffering? Melody's DNA prescription as modified by her creator-obstetrical-mechanic's choice of stem cells presumptively rendered her incapable of philosophically caring; however, she sensed a question of the possibility of a "value added" experience of creative suffering. Perhaps The Producer was promising more Orgasms for less effort.

"Yes, my dear, the Elect can profit by either enjoying subsidized creative suffering or creating artistic suffering to be subsidized." The Producer gulped his tea as he spoke. He obviously knew happiness only when he was talking. "The Theater" wins riches with either political philosophy. Whether "Socialist Capital Subsidies" or conversely "Capitalist Social Subsidies," we in the dramatic arts always win, The Producer said, stuffing another chocolate creampuff between his thick lips.

Elect! Suffering! Melody had lost the thread once more.

"Those elected by God or the gods or Providence or The Fates or Zeus or Odin forever pluck the strings of the social whores created during Linen's 'Ten days That Shook The World,'" The Producer harangued. "By God and the gods, true Master Fuckers emerged ordained as The Creators; and their Predestined Prefabricated Pussy Players forge new paths in psychosocial reality, and blaze new trails into the magnificent mountains of Nothingness."

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Pretense! Pretense! Essence of true Being! What is "Is"? Pretense of the "To Be"! Pretense of Being! He was screaming and pointing his joined hands heavenward, tears rolling down his cheeks.

"In pretense of being what?" Melody asked innocently. "But you need not be concerned with me, dear Jean Baptiste, for I was neither burdened with the intellectual need to know nor equipped by our 'Science of Being' to understand."

"Pretensions of reality! Fundamentals of copulative genius! Essences, my dear! Polemics in the propensities of penetrative phallic physics!" The Producer shouted.

At that moment, Melody's façade could have been that of Aphrodite or Venus as she held her breath and stared at him, her twinkling blue eyes brilliant, her smoothly proportioned cheeks radiant in pristine contentment. His exertions obviously had been rewarded, and The Producer grasped her hands in appreciation for her Renaissance Spirit.

"Oh, Happy Harlots! She does perceive and per cuss! Dearest Melody does understand! Tell me, my dear, that you do know the depths of wisdom and artistry from which I speak!"

So pleased was Melody to receive such approbation that she hugged The Producer to her worthy bosom and cried with him.

"Tell me, dear, that our Muses are joined as one! Speak of the meaning of my words!"

Stepping away from The Producer's embrace, Melody smiled and creased her brow in deep thought.

"Performance Art Fucking on the Centermost Lane Stage of The Golden Gate Bridge will make me a Fucking Diva," Melody said thoughtfully, "and make you rich and famous."

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Clintonian Vaginosi Philosophy of "IS"

Cultural revisionists revered as playwrights and writers have never ceased in their besotted mania to disembowel the Platonic Ideals, civilization's building blocks; wherein their manifestoes, employing the discernible Clintonian dictum of the "Mind of 'Is'," charged by artistic manic-depressive psychoses, do savagery to the Romanticist illusions. Once the 20th Century philosopher William Clinton discovered the reality of "Is" in the oral cavities of a Hybrid Babe, the Wise Androgynies of The Feminosi realized that their incredible leader had handed them their invincible weapon of comprehensive conquest, Sociosexual Sociopathic Hybridizing Implementationism. Philosophical Hybrids held more potency in politico cultural deconstructionism than the Neutron Bomb in militarily depopulating a tribe or nation.

Always conscious of her hypnotic effects on Pyotr, LinLu arose from his bed blatantly displaying her dripping communion slits as she efficiently began the process of brewing a second pot of tea. Perceptions of contemptible failure and spiritual impotence swept his autonomic Super Ego. Viewing her sensual wealth, however, energized the paradoxes of his determination to continue to possess her.

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Inaudibly, no hope of being heard, Pyotr prayed to a god of desperation; moreover, he pounded his ears momentarily in neurotic demonstration, intellectually dissecting the carelessly displayed erotic parts of LinLu's perfections into a phantasmagoria of pathologies, i.e., STD's, malignancies and grotesque deformities. In LinLu's sacrosanct universe of the hybrid Philosophical Vulva, only the infectious ravages of STD's and cancers engendered chaotic fear.

LinLu sat smiling up at him serenely oblivious of his own maladies; and he recovered his equanimity immediately. He knew that he would continue in her rut to the end. Though, "What Would That End Be" was the seminal question, again inspired in the levelling 21st Century mentality, the Clintonesque Question of Is.

Hybrid mores and taboos had always greased the pole for the lap dance of The March or Time. Pyotr shuddered involuntarily.

Was Bach nothing more than customized noise? Were The Bacchae nothing more than a Taboo to be rationalized and legislated into respectability?

This was the Golden Gateway Provisional Soviet's 21st Century equivalent of Hyde Park in London or Washington Square in New York City or the venerable Boston Commons. "Speaker's Corner" usually was occupied by addled souls whose preachments were unintelligible; and that was fortunate for them; for the Ferralon Island Colonies just 22 miles west of the Golden Gate were populated by miserable souls who had enunciated and articulated with sufficient clarity to be understood.

Hybrid Mutatis Mutandis had occurred. Performance Fucking while recreating Bach on his Stradivarius so cogently constituted the philosophies and creative arts of the future, just as the Canadian philosopher Marshall McLuhan had crystallized the threat to organized societies posed by The Television.

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Carnival clowns wielding uterine curettes on par with The Excalibur while harassing Pahrumpian bridesmaids, Baptist acrobats and dialectical magicians comprised the host of persevering performers, most of them 20th Century creations whose talents had involuntarily continued to flex after the effect was long dead. "Living Coital Tableau" had become the preferred medium for artists of The University majoring in Psychosexual Visuals, a new mode in freedom aesthetics.

Pyotr Ilyich had come to identify speciously with the lone unicyclist in the green top hat and strap-on rapier of a papier mache carnival nose who frantically pedaled for hours within a six foot square providing an illusion of progressive accomplishment.

Irrationally, Pyotr, a young man of prominence and credit, explained his dilemmas comically with a fragment of Calvinism originating from he knew not where. This man Calvin of the 16th Century seethed embedded in the coils of Pyotr's brain, cajoling and goading; whereby he whispered that Pyotr was of The Elect who would abide and endure the nature of earth until finally saved by grace and transmogrified. Since the Feminosi Culture Guard had confiscated the decadent encyclopedia that explicated Calvinism, Pyotr was left with a tormenting mystery.

This day's mayhem had left his bruised and lacerated body a cacophony of misery; but his Goddesses Terpsichore, Euterpe, Erato and Polyhymnia had conspired to save his arms, hands and fingers in respect of the Stradivarius. Venus understandably had protected his cod piece of The Performing Arts.

Personified Sex Art would begin at dusk confined to The Centermost Lane Stage of The Golden Gate Bridge. Tableau would be presented continuously until dawn with intervals for circus and carnival.

Binding contracts between Pyotr and LinLu as the star attraction and Jean Baptiste, The Producer, had been registered through the many Feminosi Agencies of Process and Order and approved by The Golden Gate Cultural Committee. Their invaluable permits had been issued.

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Baroque Sensuality Challenges The Vaginosi Creed

White tie and tails carefully adjusted, Pyotr Ilyich turned to the most sensually and aesthetically erotic womanly specimen ever created in accordance with Plato's Form for human pulchritude. LinLu sat on the bed, her tightly wrapped silk thigh length gown revealing her, drawing the lines of her Venus Love so spiritually transcendently that both she and Pyotr, as an admirer, could be jailed for Romanticist treason.

Conversely, the ruling Feminosi junta had authorized the public articulation of raw sex as an art form but also had decreed that any intimation of Romanticist Love threatened the Feminosi Creed. Violation of The Feminosi Creed was deemed to be High Treason; therefore, death was the penalty. Their only problem lay in the dilemma caused by their banning the study of the history of civilization. In sad fact, they knew nothing of the methods of civilized executions.

If Melody had not stumbled on an essay by a learned Persian in the Court of Xerxes, the peoples of the Pacific Rim Emirates would have never known of the relationship between BDSM, their preferred pastime, and the art of public executions.

Essentially, Pyotr and LinLu risked death at the hands of the hooded executioner in Union Square. Their Romanticist heresies were well documented. His most noteworthy transgression appeared in his willful ignorance of LinLu's pragmatic Humanism. This Romantic coloration exhibited itself as a child-like pretense that she possessed a starched and virtuous soul.

Of all her associates, only Pyotr failed to divine the true nature of LinLu, and this self deception constituted a simplistic Romanticism. His specimen of perfection enjoyed visiting the location of The Bloody Scythe to drink mocha coffee, eat ice cream and gaze in fascination upon the massive wooden beams of the 18th Century Guillotine, a gift of the Feminosi junta in Paris.

Neither the sensual softness of Romanticist empathy nor the eeking of the Face of God in The Baroque of Bach could be witnessed in LinLu's facade as the blood spewed from the necks of the condemned when gashed by the massive Gallic blade. Pyotr could perceive only beauty in the blood lust, having learned of the Vampiric tribal rituals of The Mau Mau during long visits to Kenya as a very young boy.

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"Beauty is inherent in all experiences of humankind, and everything happens for the best," he would recite quietly as a head bounced out of the basket. "Justice is the truth of nature."

LinLu's singular Romanticist violation lay in her perversity of pleasure in aiding and abetting Pyotr's avoidance and subversions of Feminosi doctrines. All who witnessed her frivolous suborning of Pyotr's treasonous seeking of beauty came away with psychoses, having found the ultimate fool and his fatuous admirer. Business associates of the description of Jean Baptiste, The Producer, prized this superb aesthetic novelty of juxtaposed moralistic and artistic values. As he boasted in a dangling participle of each breath, "Baring your golden ass, a hedge row of riches was seen."

Understandably, Pyotr, as a by-product of latter day Haight Ashbury parents, considered himself a curiosity, a novelty or a thing extraordinaire. LinLu was subject to the most pedestrian quality of "Live Art," Pyotr had argued, maddened that they accompanied their serial "Fucking" with the genius of Bach.

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Pyotr found to his disgust, however, that he played his violin with the gift of an angel during their performances in the centermost lane of The Golden gate Bridge; while in the same cogency, fucking in public while playing Bach offended his most profound sensibilities. Zeus' Rule: Irony gives birth to conflict.

Failure to persuade her of the insanity of the venture ironically always ended in a compounded humiliation; for she would seize the opportunity to reinforce her position with the recognition that "Fun Fucking" in designated public locales was protected by constitutional Feminosi law. Absurdities inherent in her profane tableau failed to deter her.

Ultimately in each encounter Pyotr was brought to heel by her refreshing his knowledge that Performance Fucking had paid their gambling losses and his property taxes in San Francisco, both of which were staggering; furthermore, she refrained from recalling that the desert associates from whom he had borrowed gambling funds were in the process of issuing a contract to The Hunter Point Collection Agency.

As a recognized Concert Master, a designation in which personal dignity governed all considerations, this endless state of frustration at times threatened his sanity. Sensual conservatism dictated by Mosaic law had engendered the creation of classical dictates and Baroque arts, but Screwtape had manacled his will to his appetites, the foremost of which was fucking LinLu.

"'Fucking' is listed by The Culture Committee as an art form," she answered. "And we are accredited in the virtuosity of the violin and cello. There! All questions answered. Check and checkmate."

LinLu had never told Pyotr that she had attended an underground lecture differentiating a quality of sexual attraction designated by the forbidden word "Lust" from an acquired affinity described by the forbidden word "Love."

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Having witnessed the frightening ravages of Pyotr's voracious appetite for such knowledge, she could not accept the risk. Performers in the first tier of the Symphony Orchestra would lose their contracts if discovered dabbling in philosophical arts.

"We must be content and thankful for the license to engage in Performance Art Fucking Concerts," she said, her voice soothing and conciliatory.

"It's the ultimate in personal humiliation and indignity!" he growled as he heaved.

"We are the premiere attraction of the evening," she laughed in response to his objections.

Adjusting the brief skirt fashioned of an archaic white material described as Taffeta, she once again posed on his bed, artfully antagonizing his strange antagonistically classical virtue. Though her professorial musicologists had alluded to a connection between Bach and the concept of virtue inherent in the Platonic Ideals, LinLu had conscientiously abided the Feminosi dictate to remain intrinsically unaffected and academically aloof as she performed Bach.

"This circus fucking to sacred music is a simplistic violation of the Feminosi prohibitions of Romanticism," he argued as she playfully opened sculpted thighs to present her allegorical wonders. This act of timeless beauty always soothed his naturally irascible nature, arousing an even more powerfully subtle force in absorbing and quenching his simmering counter revolution.

"Just gaze upon these gates of paradise until your crisis of dignity passes, Dear Pyotr," she cooed.

Perspiration poured from his forehead until she closed her knees and adjusted her skirt. Returning his gaze to the mirror, Pyotr queried his pulsing brain. Was he a experiencing a confliction of The Portrait of Dorian Gray? Would his mirrored image begin to scar and flaw as he stared into the mirror?

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Smiling the essence of conforming innocence, LinLu comforted him with soft caresses and reassurance. They must leave immediately. She closed the cases of their instruments and opened the door. Their taxi had arrived to take them to the bridge.

"Will Melody meet us there?" he asked in exasperation. "At least I can get my business with her settled.

LinLu had left a message for her friend, Melody, the lawyer from Sausalito. She could only assure Pyotr that Melody had never failed to meet them for the Centerlane Bach Fucking performances.

Romanticist illusions of beauty incredibly had crafted Port Lynch's involuntary attraction to the radiant Linley. Unwarranted inspirations spurred by their many casual intimacies had become an obvious byproduct of those attractions. Anyone could see the obvious. Port had become dependent. Linley had become an addiction that seemed to engender a jaundiced soul music in him that could lead to the gallows in Union Square. According to The Feminize statutes, Romanticist classical compositions were counter revolutionary, a destructive perpetuation of ancient and discredited aesthetic theories of the fertility of individual differences.

Courtly waltzes flowed unsolicited from a heretofore unrecognized reservoir of spirit. Inexplicable creativity raged within him. Pleasing melodies defied the monolithic dictates of the 21st Century. Tone poems composed on his violin endangered his prestigious career.

Idyllic descriptions of Lila's strange poetically civilizing womanliness made him the object of ridicule. Of most concern for his friends, however, were his suddenly persistent soul notations. If the Feminizie Culture Guard were apprised of his deviations, Port would be delivered to the Tribunal and ultimately to Union Square.