Slay, Queen
Description
Author’s note: This story is also available in Spanish.
</picture>He started calling himself Candace – Candy, actually – but it was short for Candace. Only on the internet, at first. In real life his name was Stuart. Stuart liked pornography, a lot, too much. He watched it every day, jerked off all the time, whenever he had the time. Pretty normal stuff usually but he was open-minded. Sometimes after the third shot of the day it took something weirder to get him off. He liked the videos that made him uncomfortable, not even that he was aroused by whatever weird act per se but that the feeling of discomfort, of the distasteful, of “this is wrong” could be the only thing that pushed him over the edge.
Forbidden things are enticing. And when nothing is forbidden – what then? Stuart used to lurk 4chan, not even looking for porn, just for stimulation, for a surprise. People would post all kinds of weird porn there, with the subtext being that the porn in question was presented as strange or disgusting, not erotic, and that one might make use of it ironically, as if by a dare.
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And this format of presenting something which is disgusting or ironically sexy gave Stuart the excuse maybe to sincerely “appreciate” these materials which were not, or that ought not to have been, sexual. Some of the stories or pictures had relatable sexual elements to them – BDSM usually, eventually featured P in V, but others, like vore – the fetish for being eaten alive – were just disorienting. He felt very uncomfortable the first time he read about that.
The worst thing he found was a story, he never knew if it was true, about a series of videos with no obvious sexual content, but which implied that people were being tortured, held captive, or killed by wild animals for the sexual gratification of some psychotic person.
But most of the time Stuart just jerked off to normal porn, for normal people, as often out of boredom as lust. And the more he watched, the more it would take to get him there. Half an hour, an hour of limp-dicked tendonitis jerking, like a tennis player with one hypertrophic arm, until finally he found that one stray thought, that annihilation of self, just for a moment, followed by a dry heave from his cock, a secretion of slime into a tissue, then clarity, post-nut clarity, what the Japanese call “wise man time”, a microcosm of enlightenment, when a man is free of desire.
When Stuart was free of desire, he would recoil a bit at whatever thing he had been watching just then, kinetic sacks of flesh colliding against each other; gooey, slimy, sweaty, smelly. Thank God you can’t smell things through the screen. When he closed his eyes he’d see an after-image haunting his retinas, the shape of a woman, her legs splayed out, people fucking in whatever position he’d been watching at the moment of release.
And an hour later those same slimy kinetic things would start to appeal again, only a search away. He wanted a girlfriend, yes, but the internet, which could give him so many things, just by searching, food, porn, work, news, friends even, had thus far failed to deliver that. But porn felt almost like a girlfriend, and it was easier – so much easier – and sometimes it would even talk sweetly to him, or ask him to do things like a real girl would. He liked videos where the girls gave him a “girlfriend experience” – they’d talk like they knew him, ask if he wanted to go to the farmer’s market or remind him about an upcoming trip to visit her family.
“I know you’re traveling for business right now but I miss you so much, so I made this video for you. I hope you like it. I’ve never done anything like this before” – then they would say some other guy’s name. It was never his name. That’s not true, one time he found a vid where the girl said “Stuart” and he beat his dick raw to that. But any other name and he’d instantly realize it was fake. Fake tits, fake tan, fake hair, fake eyes, fake moans, fake affect, fake orgasms, fake!
And after a while something happened that Stuart couldn’t quite explain. No, that’s a lie, he could explain it, but he didn’t want to. It was because – or he felt like it was because – the porn he liked most was when the camgirls would dress up as characters from his favorite anime and video games, and they would wear so many layers of makeup and wigs and like costumey clothing that the actual woman in the video became totally secondary to her presentation as a sexual object via the symbols of sexuality that adorned her, such that those same symbols eclipsed any visible fact of her womanhood and ultimately rendered him indifferent to whether he was watching a woman or a certain type of young effeminate male (he wouldn’t say man, exactly).
And somewhere in those countless hours of watching
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