The theme for this week’s Esoterotica was “You Inspire Me.” Two of my own biggest inspirations are punk rock and weird formal stuff, so this resulted in me creating blackout poetry using the lyrics from Propagandhi’s first three albums. All songs are in order, I just deleted a few completely black lines to make it easier to screenshot.
And if twisting political punk songs into erotica is up your alley, this isn’t the first time I’ve done it.
After a slight Esoterotica hiatus I’m back on my bullshit with another Multiple-Choice Misadventure! And I haven’t learned anything about historical accuracy since the last one.
You are Daphne. Not the one from Scooby Doo — I mean the Greek nymph. You’re currently on tinder. Not the app — I mean that you just had to turn into a goddamn tree to stop that horndog Apollo from dragging you into an evening of epic poetry and chill. He seemed nice enough when you were talking to him on Tinder (and I do mean the app that time,) but in person… he’s a major creeper. Not creepy enough that he would try to fuck a tree, your plan totally worked there, but he was definitely too skeezy for you to want to touch as a human.
Which leaves you at an impasse. A woman’s still got needs.
Once you’re sure the coast is clear, you turn back into a human and since you are being written by a man you immediately admire your breasts in the reflection of a nearby lake for about five minutes.
You still don’t have any plans for this evening, so you take out your phone and find that you have three new messages from eager suitors.
The first message appears to be yet another dick pic from Zeus, only he’s a swan in this one. Eeewwwwww.
The second message is from a man named Pentheus. There are pictures of him next to his chariot, lounging on the balcony of his palace, giving a speech at so–waitwait, palace? Scroll back. Yeah, that’s his own frickin’ palace.
Whoever sent the third message has profile pictures of themselves posing with the corpse of a giant boar they’ve killed, and… one of them wrestling a lion? Ohmigod is that really HERCULES macking on you?!
To respond to Pentheus and have him buy you whatever the Greek equivalent of Cosmopolitans were, turn to page 2.
To respond to Hercules because you want to give the Hydra a run for its money as far as head goes, turn to page 3.
This week’s Esoterotica theme was “The Future of Sex.” I took an unusually pragmatic approach compared to my usual style.
On the subject of sex in the future… I don’t know how to broach this subject tactfully. You might not want this to happen but it’s not necessarily something you have control over: everybody here needs to realize there is going to be a Last Time That You Have Sex. I know that I currently plan on living forever, but when I was 16 I planned on having sex with Christina Ricci in one of those hotel rooms with a giant mirror on the ceiling and you would have heard about that on stage by now if it happened. What I’m saying is I want to be prepared for the worst-case scenario: not that I will die, but that there will be some sexless amount of time in between my death and my final sexual incident. Whenever, with whomever, and on whomever else’s couch that may be.
Entry number five or six in my series of shorts about a third-shift psychologist. Special guest-reference to the work of Andy Reynolds, fellow New Orleans SF writer — check his stuff out here.
Nocturnal Admissions: Swine & Roses
Ever since I helped that smooth guy from Cafe Envie get over his affair with a sexually-frustrated ghost, my practice has begun taking on the occasional supernatural client. A number of them, unsurprisingly, have trouble integrating into modern society.
Andy is probably the one who gave Circe got my number. Dream girl? I can’t date clients. Pixie? It was more of a Chelsea cut. But manic? That’s exactly what her appointment that night was about!
“So,” she began, “after some bro-y sailor spread gossip about me being a battleaxe just because I wouldn’t line his crew up and blow ’em all in a row like a trained seal, I had to skip town for a couple thousand years. New Orleans seemed like a fun place with the vampires and all.”
“That’s just for tourism,” I said.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”