I just found out that the WANK-O Sex Toy Company (a subsidiary of Dow Corning) gives out grants to promising lesbian writers. It’s part of their corporate affirmative action campaign to take over the world. Of course, their rising sex-toy profit rate means they probably play an increasing role in the acceleration of climate change.
So what? This opportunity came at just the right time. I am so sick of socially responsible worrying I could die. I tried to “fight the power,” only to end up with a massive persecution complex. Tried to “stop killer drones” — the only thing I ended up stopping was reading the paper. And now I’m supposed to say NO to climate change. When is it going to be my turn to say YES? Yes to fun!
Snide Lines
So I wrote WANK-O about a grant, and as part of the application process, they sent me this literary exercise. Finally, after years of looking, I have “found” myself! I am going to have fun! I am going to be the greatest lesbo porn writer ever! Regard:
Essay Question: The first step in writing is to lose your inhibitions! Think of a character who is sexually uninhibited. Now, sit down and write for 20 minutes WITHOUT STOPPING about that person. Remember to write in a completely uncensored stream of consciousness. Don’t be afraid to “go wild”!
MY LESBO PORN ESSAY
OK, clock is ticking. Cat is sleeping. Why did cat throw up on section of New York Times entitled, “Dining Out”? Can cat read? No matter, must dam up stream of consciousness; divert it to something sexy. Who do I know who is sexually uninhibited? Nobody. Will make something up. I’m not nervous. Just keep writing. Breathe. Just breathe. Now write! WRITE, DAMN YOU!
Betty Lou lay supine on the red plush divan. She was sprawled like a hot, flattened toad smashed out there on Highway 95, her hand resting greedily on her hot, pulsating ––
Her hot, pulsating thing-down-there.
Keep writing, Susie, you are so much smarter than your competition, you fucking idiot.
It was 2:00 o’clock on a hot, pulsating afternoon in mid-April and Betty Lou had no clothes on, in fact this third-person narrator could see everything. Hubba hubba.
Betty Lou began to think hotly of Bobby Jo. That feisty filly still brought up sexual connotations, even though the two ladies had been going together now for almost three weeks. “Too bad Bobby Jo is not here,” groaned Betty Lou to herself erotically. “I really feel hot and pulsating. I sure would like to be sexually uninhibited right now! I know! I’ll call on Ms. Dalloway!”
So saying, she reached for her trusty, hot-dog-shaped vibrator –– and subtle literary device. Thanks to the WANK-O Sex Toy Company’s installment plan, Betty Lou had only two more payments to go, and Ms. Dalloway would be hers, all hers. It made her feel downright non-monogamous! Hey, I’m getting kind of steamed up here, woo woo! Keep writing! Oh no! Unfortunately for Betty Lou, she had forgotten to buy AAA batteries! But wait! Ms. Dalloway could also be plugged in to a wall socket! (Kudos on your versatile design, WANK-O!)
So Betty Lou slid Ms. Dalloway’s stiff prongs satisfyingly into the hot, pulsating power outlet. Moistly, she flicked her little switch –– the vibrator’s switch, not Betty Lou’s. “Purrrrrr,” went Ms. Dalloway in a hot and pulsating manner. Oh boy! Can’t wait! Keep writing! Then Betty Lou maneuvered Ms. Dalloway’s pulsating tip into her hot, hot OH BABY PLEASE BABY YES OVER THERE NO WAIT BABY NOT THERE OW!
Suddenly there came a knock on the door! Betty Lou opened the door uninhibitedly. “What do you want?” she sneered moodily in her bathrobe.
There stood two virile lesbians from the local Power and Light Company. “We have noticed that all the power lines in the area are hot and pulsating,” they remarked sternly. “You haven’t been using any small appliances recently, have you? Appliances that would contribute in some way to global warming?”
All at once, the pulsatingly hot air that had lifted Betty Lou’s metaphorical hot-air sex balloon farted out. “I can’t have any fun!” she wailed, yanking Ms. Dalloway from the wall. Raising the vibrator above her head as she would a dagger, she lunged at the two bull-daggers as if to impale them. “Why don’t you politically correct jerks from my unconscious just go away and let me enjoy myself for a change!” screamed Betty Lou.
Suddenly, the three women froze. All eyes were fixed on Ms. Dalloway: Hot. Pulsating.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Betty Lou asked.
Tittering wildly, the three lesbo lassies installed solar panels on Betty Lou’s roof to make Ms. Dalloway go green. Then they fitted Ms. Dalloway up with wings and made her into a tiny, hot and pulsating sex-toy drone.
They directed Ms. Dalloway to make deft, surgical strikes on corporate CEOs, Congress members, lobbyists, global-warming deniers, and the entire Defense Department.
After thousands of hot, pulsating precision strikes, Ms. Dalloway succeeded in pleasuring everyone so much that they forgot all about war and making profits off things that produce greenhouse gases –– even the Koch brothers. Then everybody showed up at the September 21 People’s Climate March in New York City and were hot and pulsating. But in a good way so that the Earth’s level of carbon dioxide went down to 350 parts per million. Time’s up. THE END.
P.S. Reader, I got my grant.
