Context: I was a contestant on Shipwreck, a comedy erotic fan fiction competition at the Booksmith in the Haight neighborhood of San Francisco. As someone who grew up with their sexuality heavily formed by Harry Potter fan fiction, I’d been secretly training for this moment my whole life. :insert your own Eye of the Tiger montage here: I wrote for the book Electric Kool Aid Acid Test. Have you read this book? It’s terrible. It’s Almost Famous but less interesting. So rarely do I feel that inserting character development into historical events make them more boring, but Tom Wolfe managed it. I recommend this 450 page disaster to friends you hate, or perhaps to the teenage children of friends you hate for a trolling experience that will take a minute but will have great return.

I was assigned to write for the character of Jack Kerouac. Spoiler: I hate the Beats. Now, I’m sure you’re saying, “Lauren, you just don’t get it.” You’re right! I don’t. And I’m fine with that. The only person who seems hung up on it is you. Jack Kerouac is dead and he can’t give you high fives for liking his terrible work, so spare me the lecture about how revolutionary this crap is. Let’s declare a truce because I’m too bored to have this fight again.

In preparation for writing the world’s worst porn about the world’s worst people from the point of view from the world’s worst poet, I spent three days reading Kerouac’s work exclusively. My kitchen had never been so clean. I organized my books – twice. I moved every piece of furniture around, and I convinced myself that my cat was “lonely” and “needed me.” It was agony.

“Yet everything is perfect,
Because it is empty,
Because it is perfect
with emptiness,
Because it’s not even happening.” – Mexico City Blues, 113th Chorus, Jack Kerouac – human asshair

I felt the only way to truly capture my disdain for the counter culture, despite being a Pinko Commi Monster, was to write 1200 words of slam porn. That’s right. 1200 words of porn in the style of Jack Kerouac. And I’m posting it here so that you all can enjoy it.

April, 1968
My life is so lonely
And my dick is so hard
Hard
Harder
Hardah, in Boston, where I am not
But I’ve heard of it
Lobster rolls are good

Tom Wolfe toys with me
His suit toys with me
I took the acid     left on the table
A swarm of cocks flew at my lips

but they weren’t real
enough

Pray for me, Tom, in your white suit
which lies on my floor, wadded like money
crumpled in the pockets of bureaucrats
and your balls, luminous, with moonlight
and sweat
sweat that pools on the curled hairs
tickling my ears, as your shaft plunders my
cathedral mouth
balls, luminous, luminous moon
that grind
grind
grind
into my forehead
Now damp, with your glistening ball residue

Soft, tender fleshy moon, tender night
as I gargle on Tom’s cock
he is unremarkable
I want to suck the cock of his suit
steal its secrets, glory,
cum in my ear, Tom

Neal is dead. OH HOW I LOVED HIM
I LOVED HIM LIKE [jazz hands] RAIN
LOVES
How does rain love?
Like pussy.

Neal’s cock was tremendous
Where it hid, indulgent and huge,
It tasted of pussy,
because of all of the pussy
Neal fucked
with his hidden, indulgent, huge cock

San Francisco was so kind to me
it was a womb to all of the dicks I loved best
TAKE ME, NOW, SAN FRANCISCO
WHERE I STAND
NAKED
ENGORGED
QUAKING FOR ORGASM
VIRGINAL, REBORN FROM OCEANIC TEARS

I’m glad I can go to my grave
and look Jesus in the eye
and say, “I’ve sucked more cocks than you”
he’ll say, “doubtful.”

Jesus and I are both men of character,
which of my greatest loves is Judas
Ginsburg, probably.

Tom says he’s never done this before
and the fervor with which he
skewers my throat
agrees with him
never fuck a man for his suit
his suit will be a better lay
I try to not think of the buttons flicking my
nipples, the seams rubbing against my taint
the cufflinks turtling into my ass

Southern boys are always a bad fuck
all that gin
His cum tastes like gin
just kidding, it doesn’t
You didn’t laugh, now I’m sad again.

ALL I WANT IN LIFE IS TO GET FUCKED
MY ORIFICES AWAIT YOU
AND MY HAIR IS SO GOOD,
NOT AS GOOD AS CASSADY’S THO
BUT HE’S DEAD NOW, SO MY HAIR IS PROBABLY BETTER
BECAUSE I’M ALIVE
TECHNICALLY
AS IS MY COCK
THE ALIVEST

I’m done sucking off Tom,
Yet, his cock is perfect
because it is empty
I’m full
of his cock’s perfection
perfect

I’m standing on a street corner
in the Haight, with a hard on
desperate to rub it against the brick building
that smells like urine and weed
I shall fuck you yet, you hippie haven
you can only toy with me for so long
four old men are blowing each other in the
street
Kesey points and laughs
I think it’s beautiful
they form a wrinkled, Gordian sex knot
a frantic sea of thrusts
moans
now there is jizz on my shoes
I’m jealous
of the shoes

My jizz-soaked shoes remind me of windshield wipers
on the bus, called Further
I wonder if I bent over on the street and held
my asshole open, if Further would drive into it
illuminate my soul with its headlights
the horn vibrating against my prostate
those windshield wipers flicking the walls of my
anal canal, full of gondoliers
And if my cum specks would become fireflies
and shine for you all
puddles of cum reflect the headlights of the bus
beloved Further, my dick strains further
on this street corner
I want to scratch the head against the bricks

Lust
is exhausting
says the man who has never fucked
a man just to be closer
to his suit
Tom’s suit would love me

Now Tom is sitting on my face
my lips kiss the lips of Tom’s asshole
I would sip nectar from this chalice, hungry
like mother’s milk, but no mother
just Tom and his suit
he squawks with pleasure and dives
collapsing onto my cock
The head of my prick is flicking his uvula
tap
tap
tapping against the windowpane of saliva
it’s rainy in San Francisco

Mary had a little lamb
then it died
like my erection
Mary and I wept
our pain was the same

ONCE I WAS AT A SEX PARTY
Masturbating with the SEVERITY of my LONLINESS
Webs of cum ERUPTED from the pricks of men who
didn’t love me into the gorgeous
pearlescent mouths of other men who did not love me
pearlescent is a word right?
Poetry is fun.
I wondered what sorts of spiders would live in their
cum webs
Black Widows
but in a sexy way

I took the acid that sat on the table
and which was probably reserved for the rest of the party
Forgive me, I regret nothing
acid completes me

Tom Wolfe is still grinding his asshole into my face
I’m phoning it in now
My tongue goes through the motions
Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right
extra flicks to the southern pucker
his asshole tastes like salt
it’s rubbery
I flip him over and rub my spit-coated
wick against him
Sliding between his ass cheeks
They are rosy like the cheeks of a
buxom Midwestern girl from a seed catalog
he pushes against me
he has never done this before
a virgin
I’m a virgin too, I suppose
I’ve forgotten all the sex I’ve had
which is almost like having none at all

Why am I so sad, you ask?
Well you didn’t ask, but it’s because Charley Parker is dead
Actually no, it’s because Neal is dead
No, wait, it’s because I am dead
(it’s because Tom Wolfe isn’t dead)
WRAP ME IN YOUR WHITE SUIT, TOM
I’M NOT PARTICULAR ABOUT WHETHER IT’S YOUR ACTUAL SUIT OR YOUR CUM
BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS A METAPHOR WHEN YOU SCREAM IT
OR IS IT?
GOT YOU THERE, DIDN’T I?

I spoon Tom’s suit, his dehydrated persona
I just want something to love me
the suit won’t return my calls
Tom spoons me as I spoon his suit
I’m the cream of the Tom sandwich
I’m the creamiest
Ask anyone who has fucked me
I could paint your house with my Jetstream

After frolicking in the flotsam and jetsam
of all the dicks of my lovers
I beach myself on San Francisco’s shores
Sperm whale that I am
my ass in the air, my face pressed into the
perfect granules of sand, each a diamond
in the ring I never got from Neal

Politics
left you bitter?
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