Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Correspondence

FLG, like many of you he's sure, asked himself, "Self, what the fuck happened to C.S. Perry?"  FLG emailed him.


Dear FLG,
Jesus Christ. Well…you’ve managed to catch me at one of those strange, meaningless periods of my life; one of those weird, mysterious times when everything you may have ever believed in starts to seem either like a bad idea or a bad joke.
 In answer to the oft-asked question: “Whatever happened to C.S. Perry and his maniacal style of Magic 8-Ball juicing writing?” Well…C.S. Perry was forced to take a long, hard look at life and the fiduciary stresses of fatherhood…and child support…and having, you know, the wherewithal to meet the standards laid down long ago by decent, civilized people everywhere of just how, precisely, one should live in these United States of America. 
The end result? It seems that technical white papers, product brochures and press releases pay far better than long, meandering, stream-of-consciousness rants about haunted couches, werewolves or squeezing various fresh fruits over the naked bodies of young, nubile girls late on Saturday nights.
I’ve spent far too many hours since then as a corporate stooge; waiting around in airports for late flights or hunched over the keyboard in the vain pursuit of satisfying the Shareholders expectations with yet another insightful, thought-provoking press release all about how the Company is bound to make zillions of dollars on the latest pipe dream of some star-crossed engineer who honestly believes that some half-baked New Product will change the face of the Marketplace. But…I still like collecting that check at the end of the week.  After all, we all need money. And my son likes to eat, not to mention the occasional trip to Monkey Joe’s. By “Occasional” I mean weekly, of course.
But don’t let my rambling opening darken your heart…yet. Although these things have kept me busier than a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest, I still find the time, occasionally, to delve deeply into my own moral turpitude; such as it may be these days.
Your recent message caused me to go back and review my long-ago notes on the much-vaunted Renegade Motorcycle Daredevil Sex Cult.
Jesus. Four long years, is it? It feels like eons ago and I suspect, in my own inimical way, that all of us were different people back then. Lord knows I was and I’ve never gotten in too big a hurry when it comes to questioning exactly what Lord may or may not know. So I’ll just toss Him the benefit of the doubt on this one.
My self-confidence level has most assuredly not increased since then and it gets hard to rev up the kind of exuberance and moral abandon that it takes to pull off a thing like that successfully, even at a marginal level. Not to mention the intense lack of fund development that followed all too quickly on the heels of the cult’s inception. It was a beautiful dream though…while it lasted. My erstwhile “partner” at the time, while indeed a fine specimen of sexual engineering, decided that any Good Act swings and therefore, apparently, it should be taken on the road. So I was left, once again, holding the proverbial bag, as it were. The financial and emotional bills came due and I found myself footing a bill too big for my purse. My relationships at that point all seemed to head to where the Woodbine twineth, if I may be allowed a small bon mot, and I was forced to seek Professional Reassessment. After a rather agonizing reappraisal, I was forced to severely trim my list of non-productive associations and get back to Basics, so to speak.
In the wake of these events, I turned my full attention to spending time with my son and focusing on furthering my career (the one that pays well, that is) and I had little interest in revamping my more bohemian tendencies. Four years and two promotions later…
But…well…we all know that, eventually, the same old ghosts will return to haunt us once again…and man doesn’t live by bread alone, eh? Right; not unless it’s some very sexy bread that will let you take various and sundry liberties with it in the square-ass middle of a rainy Sunday afternoon.
So, I began, late at night in libraries across town, to seek out ancient tomes of occult and forgotten lore that might aid me in my never-ending attempts to further the science of Cunnilinguistics in the hope of improving the nearly-soured relations between the sexes. (And I had some success, as I was to learn later.) But I wanted to continue the research by inventing a machine that could be hard-wired directly into various parts of the anatomy to help the process along. But, as usual, unwilling scientists, technicians and venture capitalists caused the plans for Vagitranslator to be abandoned very early in the R&D stages…and I was forced to find more economical means to continue fruitlessly plumbing the depths of my depravity. I was also forced to file, unpublished, my treatise on the bread and circuses world of the sexual exchange rate which I had tentatively entitled, “Fellationomics.”
After these setbacks, I even entertained reviving the cult idea but I then realized that anyone who might be remotely interested and possess the necessary humor, temper or tolerance for such an undertaking would either be too old or too young to promote any kind of real awakening or valuable research, also…I couldn’t find anyone to go along with the idea without considerable compensation.
I even planned out an entirely new idea: Sexual Archeology. Yes, the ongoing search for long lost sexual codices, scrolls, pictograms, Truths, practices (and moderated pricing tables for same) dating from as far back as the Mesozoic. But then I had the horrible vision of the whole thing ending badly in Guyana in a Kool Aid-stained, bizarre little make-shift town called “Indiana Jonestown.”  And that’s blood I don’t need on my hands right now. So I quickly left that idea behind as well.
I decided then to abandon the whole cult or “group” concept in this field of endeavor and focus on a more one-to-one strategy. After all, focusing on aberrant sexual desires will eventually and almost certainly kill your appetite for the more normal ones. And since I had been put thoroughly through a rather emotional wringer, I felt that anything normal would probably do me good.
As it turned out, the first thing to “do me good” was a young Italian girl from up North. We had a raucous and exhilarating fling during which she discovered and truly appreciated my hard work in the field of Cunnilinguistics. I encouraged her to branch out on her own in the science of Fellatio-manipulative-nomenclature so that we would more readily complement each other. While she was willing…I’m afraid the steam went of the thing before we reached any kind of real Common Ground. She didn’t have the patience for my Southern Prejudices or the bite marks I left on her sundress-exposed bronze skin. Besides, I could never really understand a word she said. And so she cut out on me while I wasn’t looking and added yet another expensive set of Emotional Baggage to the collection that I will have to jettison later. And so my Important Work was halted yet again while I took some time to lick my psychic wounds and regroup.
Then I rekindled my proclivity for tender, young, willowy blondes with lithe bodies and lobotomy eyes. A truly unique specimen drifted onto my radar and into my neighborhood around this time and we engaged in many strange and assiduous experiments. I was soon to discover that some of the fantasies all men may harbor from years of exposure to pornography may seem like the best taboos to break…until you realize that at least a little pushback is expected. When you suggest, in the throes of passion and wanton carnality, something vile and outrageous, you expect to have to lobby for your cause…but when they just shrug and say, “Okay” with no argument at all, well, you begin to wonder what has transpired in their lives to make such a thing seem utterly commonplace. It gave me pause to be sure…but it certainly didn’t stop me from doing it either. We had a good run of late nights, days off, deep experimentation and naked debates…but eventually, she too, like all the others, hit the bricks without looking back and so…the Research stalled again.
All of this was, of course, still entwined with varying and copious ideas, note-taking and several surreptitious liaisons that have kept the Blood flowing, if you understand my meaning. And I assure you that my Work will not be left to wither on the vine…if I can help it in any way, shape or form. I still hold out the hope that I will find my Place, as it were, and dispel the myth that my ability to maintain a normal, human relationship is nonexistent. That is, of course, if I can successfully navigate the unending sea of questions about group “Play” parties, hookahs, toys and the unrelenting fact that I have seen more than is Good for me.
And so that’s where it sits now, Old Sport…even though I have still managed to raise that age-old question of Love from time to time, for all the good it’s done me, and that’s about what you’d expect.
In the interim, despite my sell-out status as a corporate shill, I have managed to keep my hand in a few creative endeavors; for those interested in words, music and all things C.S. Perry.

Well, Gee Whiz…Looking back on this thing, I realize that I had no intention of writing a novel…but, well…there it is. Ask and you shall receive, eh? Sure, and why not? It feels good to flex the muscles now and again, right? Right. I thought so.
So now I’ll Shape My Orbit Home as the old spacemen used to say and leave you now to ponder on the history of tongues.
And I trust that you and Mrs. FLG and Miss FLG are still well and imbibing the fullness of life.
Until next time Ace…
Ciao.

Jesus, FLG misses his blogging.

2 comments:

The Maximum Leader said...

Me too.

C.S. Perry said...

If I had a nickel for everything I missed I'd be...well, at home counting nickels.

 
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