Jack’s Naughty Bits: Charles Bukowski, The Fuck Machine

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Jack's Naughty Bits

Well, for better or for worse, the world didn’t end. I was in New York, where I had been told to expect terrorist attacks, power and water failures and delays in getting cabs. But no, the transition from 12-31-1999 to 1-1-2000 seemed like a relatively calm affair, at least for a thousand-years-in-the-waiting event. And who was surprised, really? Nothing can quite ruin the anticipated as much as media hype, and Y2K had as much publicity as anything this side of, what was the name of that film, Godzilla?


But the turning of the calendar and its inevitable “not with a bang but a whimper” denouement did get me thinking. Ten centuries ago a Saxon canoness who called herself Hrotsvit — the Strong Voice — of Gandersheim was writing the first plays in the Christian tradition. In one, an evil pagan named Dulcitius locks three pious virgins in a pantry. When he comes to molest them, Dulcitius is miraculously deceived, and ends up kissing and groping a bunch of soot-stained pots and pans.


As a parable of bad ideas badly executed, Dulcitius’ “Go for booty, Wind up sooty” evening was probably akin to the experience of many on New Year’s Eve. Partying like it’s 1999 is a lot harder when it actually is 1999. So, as a gesture to human failings, and to various millennium-inspired themes — much anticipated plans, the promise of technology, the future of sex — this week’s selection is from Charles Bukowski, recounting his tryst with a virtual lover. In the story, Bukowski’s expectations, like a lot of people’s over the weekend, were, in a word, inflated.

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From “The Fuck Machine” by Charles Bukowski

I never went back to the bar. There was a trial but the government exonerated Von B. and his machine. I moved to another town. Far away. And one day sitting in a barbershop, I picked up this sex mag. Here was an ad: “Blow up your own little dolly! $29.95. Resistant rubber material, verydurable. Chains and whips included in package. A bikini, bras. Panties. Two wigs, lipstick and a small jar of love-potion included. Von Brashlitz Co.”


I sent him a money order. Some box number in Mass. He had moved too.


The package arrived in about three weeks. Very embarrassing. I didn’t have a bicycle pump, and then I got the hots when I took the thing out of the package. I had to go down to the corner gas station and use their air hose.


It looked better as it blew up. Big tits. Big ass.


“Whatcha got there, pal?” the gas station attendant asked me.


“Look, man, I’m just borrowing a little air. Don’t I buy a lot of gas here, huh?”


“Okay, that’s okay, you can have the air. I just damn well can’t help wondering whatcha got there . . . ”


“Just forget it!” I said.


“JESUS! Look at those TITS!”


“I AM looking, asshole!”


I left him there with his tongue hanging out, then threw her over my shoulder and made it back to my place. I carried her into the bedroom.


The big question was yet to come.


Von B. hadn’t completely slipped.


I climbed on top and began kissing that rubber mouth. Now and then I reached for one of the giant rubber tits and sucked on it. I had put a yellow wig on her and rubbed the love-potion all over my cock. It didn’t take much love-potion. Maybe he’d sent a year’s worth.


I kissed her passionately behind the ears, stuck my finger up her ass, kept pumping. Then I leaped off, chained her arms behind her back. There was this little lock and key and then I whipped her ass good with the leather thongs.


God, I gotta be nuts, I thought.


Then I flipped her over and put it back in. Humped and humped. Frankly, it was rather boring. I imagined male dogs screwing female cats; I imagined two people fucking through the air as they jumped from the Empire State Building. I imagined a pussy as large as an octopus, crawling toward me, wet and stinking and aching for an orgasm. I remembered all the panties, knees, legs, tits, pussies I had ever seen. The rubber was sweating; I was sweating.


“I love you, darling!” I whispered into one of her rubber ears.


I hate to admit it, but I forced myself to come.

© Charles Bukowski