Plankticus #276, Jeremy Sigler This hypothetical dot-com company would be yet another innovative way for me and Cory to survive if we were to eject ourselves from our current lives. The urge to pull out or pull up from our nose dive to the undergods of the soul. Due to what? I’d say the affliction of the average anxiety caused by an overdeveloped capacity to suck flavor from the drab palette of fantasy? Or is it that this is never the life we wanted to grope in the first place? What ever happened to Martha’s Vineyard in the off season? Winters living like lazy dogs on abandoned sandy carpets soaking the winter sun. We still come across that very park bench in Williamsburg across from the diner where in our early twenties we were devising our next underdog step. Due to Angel in Breads, Ramone had offered to interview me for the Dean & Deluca Café up at the Guggenheim (I must have seen myself as on my way); it was just before we crossed under the BQE and migrated down into the North Side where the Earwax guy with his 2 or 3 milk crates of records seemed to be waiting for us to arrive, and then we discovered the phone number of the super of our first railroad apartment David Sanchez on the littered, layered Merz of a kiosk outside the health food store on Bedford. Anyway together we have rope-towed each other along and up the ungroomed slope, braiding our love along the way. Call it a plunger, and maybe one day we will just be tired of pushing it in, pulling it out; combusting forever like the spurting Model T. I can only fuck frankly for like 3 minutes max. Or am I or our we dry humping life even. Grinding with our clothes on in the wayback of the Vanagon in the pop pan rain, fogging the windows with our fishy heat. I think this pre-teen kind of taboo teaser may be under-rated? There should be more Judy Blumish talk about the so-called dry hump. Or was it Dr. Mickey’s talk at McDonogh in the ancient Eddy’s gym auditorium one day in upper school about safe sex that forever equated it with caution and condoms with contamination; not a Trojan of confidence in the safe pleasure to be had, but at war with a sky of repressible diseased spears. I remember giving a girl in her parent’s walk in closet two pumps and slipping the filled condom off with I swear a single efficient jerk so that it flew direct from my penis low under the hanging shirts and suctioned to something back there in the darkness; all sped up so not to miss my ride home with Rusty and Pete who where like revving in the driveway with no idea what I was doing in there with this geeky ballerina. It was the first time I’d be approached by someone’s friend and informed of that someone’s wish to fuck me, so I just sort of obliged her, but without a real good bye. I was told the used rubber had eventually been found when the mom had slid the hangers of those two old tops apart and reached in for a pair of old Ugs. That was nice of me. Conceivably I’ve been petrified of penetration long before I became afraid of sex. Perhaps it all started back when my dad would hand out compliments to me for my world series home run swing after I’d drizzled another one back up to the pitcher and squashed my knees out to first. I was being comforted in my ability to disconnect. Meaning, my fantasy of the hit would be confirmed rather than articulated as a distraction from the pragmatic task at hand, which was still unresolved, pending, the gluing that is if my the eyes to the actual ball, stepping in, and really getting the fat of the bat onto it’s red rows of stitch. This happened only once for me and the hollow aluminum stick made a perfect pitch, a ping, a sexy little bell snapped at the start of a boxing match for a mouse. And my eyes were so on it that it took me like a really long time to drop the bat locate the ball, which was like sailing way up in the blue past the outfielder and it was only then that I realize I had all the time in the world to trot around the bases. This would be called a homerun, or to me more specific: the object of the game. Up till the fluency of this one pragmatic rational “connect,” I had no way of knowing what work my irrational swing would get me? What work my work would bring. Only to first. So that I could toil my way onto second, maybe to third -- one small opportunity at a time. Like my life-long busboy silent movie skit still playing itself out in my daily theater; as the taller blacker others played each other demos of their Prince cover bands, I’d be a fast forward busboy carrying plate-stacked trays, saran-wrapping the salad bar. But the safety of the fantasy was secured in advance of an inkling of interest in the girl’s sub-neck regions. Tatum O’Neal. Did she want to be fucked? Probably. Bad News Bears is still the most erotic film of all time. Because that really bad really sleazy boy on the motorcycle was not sitting at home jacking off imagining how cool it would be to harass an entire little league. He was in full penetration of that field. His dirt bike was leaving real treads, not Raushauk skid-marks on a cotton-puffed daydream. My dad took me to see that sloppy Walter Mathaw flick, but also to see that motorcycle accident. This was where the crumbled chrome of the bike sitting there peacefully embraced by the guard rail and the huddle of firemen and paramedics back about 20 feet into the flashlit woods struck me and clung. So that was a vibrating vehicle I was never going to wrap my burning nuts around. No F.T. Marionetti Manifesto would ever inspire me to mount a human firecracker. Also my cousin who eventually died of a gay disease called “oblivion” had shown up like the last surviving member of the Village People to a huge family seder at the Smelkinsons in a body cast one day he was like propped at a angle against the wall in head-to-toe straight jacket plaster—this was from a motorcycle crash presumably. A homo-cycle crash? Who would know now. Who to ask. He never existed. Myles who? What a tall bush maze those cousins used to have in their back yard before the clay courts were added. Like a Passover Shining. Kubrik was Jewish I believe. And as all this explores, I’d imagine, on some level: that sexual pleasure is the contradiction of caution and the disconnect of grounding out so to work the bases of fantasy, thus to connect the home run swing with the home run hit. Safe is not sex. Hard is not a home run. Caution never brought anyone to an orgasm, unless getting a handjob by Ann Frank with Nazi’s walking the floorboards above in their solid boots above gets you off.  But with men, I’d imagine the conquest and all that leads up to yes is the peak of exotic pleasure and nothing else really needs to happen after this outstanding transgression. It is like overcoming the obstacle of the testicle—pure emotional release from captivity. The minute I’m that aware of my own hips rotating like a mechanical rotary, I get board of being so, I guess, blue collar -- all about work, work, work. Repulsed by the serial reps of my own skeleten in action. Set myself down and wait. I always figured a woman wanted just to be licked anyway. Or raked as Rusty Ward would demonstrate with his vulgar oversized British seeming choppers and nettlefloss, As if he was giving some kind of cunnilingus CPR. He called proudly, The Rake. It like never even occurred to me until I turned like 60 that a woman actually wanted to jack her legs apart and lay back in her eyelids like breakfast cereal in milk and get her brains screwed out by a ten inch black ramrod with weight lifter veins. A squirming man at the outsquirts of his own need is the real do-er my dear. Not the longer whose feet are no longer visible in his throat. Maybe my longest fuck was like my fastest pin in wrestling -- that bozo in a ball hugger singlet at Jemecy school for like teenage dislexics; 42 seconds and the ref slapped the fucking mat. Right? You just go out there and get it done before she changes her mind and decides she’s not gonna let you. I am wondering if this is unusually short. Mind over matter, mind, in this case, over the release of matter, hopefully into rubber. These days, the bigger question is can my dick stay hard long enough to get a rubber fucking on to begin with. In analysis I started referring to a new idea of “drive restoration” and the notion that the premature pull out, quitting in other words, is the fall out from ambivalence: I’m not sure if I want to be doing this, or if I’d rather not be doing this, so that I can be enjoying, somewhat masochistically, the suffering of being in a cerebral 69 with my own fantasy. This comfort fantasy this holding oneself out so to deny reality is like when I was playing football in maybe 6th grade and broke past the line for the first time ever and found myself with some running room down the sideline, up till then a fantasy, I’d seen it done by pros and rehearsed it in the back yard with the Nerf, and there I was actually on my way to the end zone before I was tackled by little freckled Alfi Wiedmann and I fell out of bounds on the one yard line with a torn ligament. In retrospect, even had I been decapitated by that unpigmented little wasp wouldn’t I have tried to reach with the ball for the end zone. What does this tell me? And It tells me that my ligament had a mind of its own and that it wanted to undermine me. It wanted to continue to enjoy the fantasy, not to go beyond such passive comforts. One touchdown would mean there’d have to be more. The end zone. It was a confirmation of my 45 yard run a kind of virgin stride and an interesting protest of conformity. I never played football again, so to keep it pure, to keep it original, never got to tuck the ball back under. Like when Cooper D pushed me into that wave on Asitege Island that dawn just as I did with Cole on the boogie board last weekend down at Point Pleasant. Her first ride. Did my leg quit me, or did I quit my leg? Hard to say. I have a hunch that there was a kind of ecstatic shut down. Like fainting. And that Alfi didn’t really tackle me at all, more that I’d collapsed in his arms. It was just too much to handle. The ligament, like a jism, ejaculated itself right into my knee socket. The fluid in fact had to be removed a day later by seringe. My dad called up a few orthopedic Surgeons and Dr. Rightmaster agreed to see me at his home. See, somewhere between wanting it and fearing it my body got its signals crossed and the tensions, tendons that elasculate the body, like pipe cleaners made of squid just became baffled. Sloppy athleticism for sure. The best athletes just have full on physicality; they are not internalizing pervs like me. They focus they don’t fantomize. They don’t know how to penetrate the dream through the permeable drum of consciousness. The surreal screen to them has no vividness, no texture. it’s not a puzzle. I was always proud of the fact I could crack the code, masterbate, for instance, purely from the realism I could create in my own mind. I figured since I could create sexual encounters in my mind without aids I was like really special. It’s like an image of god. A sacrilege to a Jew who needs no image. Right? G-d. What does the dash mean? J-w. I like that. That word should stick. It should be a sacrelige to spell Jew with the “e.” Like the ligament tear in my knee there was the brain tear from the bullet Stanley shot in his own head. Around the same time, forever linked of course to the camera he gave me that always shot blurry, like Vaseline-lens pictures but more horrific than glam. Here the question is: was the bullet already in the brain and did the gun just bring the fantasy to reality. Did the two metallic objects have a reunion on the tip of a trigger. Did the bullet explode like a butterfly as it squirmed back out the brain to the cocoon it came from? By the way, I’ve never used Vaseline to jerk off. Instead I would back then fold some toilet paper, pop a small hole in the middle of the square and slide it down my shaft so that no cum would get on my like 8 pubes. Then lower my two hairless babyskin forearms on both sides of my dick and rotate them in soft circles. When I’d bring the toilet paper bib I’d constructed back up off and away with the cum. I was clean and ready till the next break from Fonzy.