JOI – Jackson Ross

My name is Samuel and I will be your captain on the erotic journey of which we are about to embark. But before we do, I’d like to make sure you’re in a cozy area, one that feels like home regardless of whether or not you are where you sleep. Lighting a candle always makes the room pulse with sex in my experience. Are you ready? There’s always a but before we do. Then let us begin. Please unbutton the top button on your pants. If you have a zipper, leave your zipper zipped. If you have more buttons, or are wearing pants that wrap your hips with elastic, please leave them on. If you are wearing a shirt, unbutton three buttons, but you must, please, for your own sweet sake, make sure they are not unbuttoned consecutively. If you are wearing a tee shirt, or a hoodie, or something with a zipper, or a leotard (named for Jules Léotard (1830-1870), popular French trapeze artist, who performed in such a garment), or a unitard, or a tritard, or a long sleeve shirt with an album cover on it, or no shirt at all, please change into something more smart, perhaps a shirt with buttons, and without consistency unbutton three of those buttons.

Are we following along so far?

By the way, I’d like you to not hesitate to ask me if a question arises in your mind – a mind that is certainly swimming with sexual excitement – anticipating the orgasm that lies in your future if you listen closely to my instructions. In my deep and extensive research for this role I learned that anticipation is the number one source of subconscious sexual arousal. If you were to say that I am stalling, killing time, avoiding, I would take that as a compliment, because anticipation is the number one source of subconscious sexual arousal, I learned. Good.

Blow out your candle, now. I think I have changed my mind. Earlier, I said candles make the room pulse with sex, but I have changed my mind – and now think throb would be a better adjective. It reminds the listener of the phallus. Verb. Please light your candle and remove the word pulse from your brain. I will know if you don’t. And do forgive my indecision, while you are blindly obeying my will. The truth of it is I was raised Indecisive. My mother was Indecisive since birth but my father had to convert in order for my mother’s father, who fled South Dakota to avoid Indecisive persecution, to allow them to marry. Mary was my mother’s name. My father married Mary. Marry Mary. Am I veering too far off track? Let us return to thinking about the physical pleasure that sexual activity provides.

Are you ready?

When I was five years old my mother named me Samuel. I was born William, and stayed William for three years, until my father decided on a better name, Weet, and then they both decided to change it to Samuel after they grew tired of Weet. I was not phased by my constant name changing. New things are possible in new names; they’re like…well, new costumes. New forms of bondage. What’s a name but an
elaborate form of bondage? Anyway, I had no choice in the matter, as I was far too young to be making my own decisions, but if I could have I would have changed my name to Uncle. Now please put your hand on your genital and think of your uncle. Sorry. I don’t have an uncle so I suppose I didn’t realize what it would feel like to be touching your genital and imagining your uncle. No matter how hard I can try to put myself in your shoes – to imagine what it would be like to be someone with an uncle – I will never truly experience what it is like. And so now I offer my deepest apologies. Can we put that behind us? It would make me feel a lot better if you said we could put that behind us. That person you glimpsed just now is really not the person I am. Most people say I’m fine. A single lapse in judgement – and you’re going to hate me forever? Write me off as some facsist unclephobe? So you’re perfect, then? That’s what I thought. Now you are the one stalling! Please let us get back to my instruction, will you?

Now that you’ve eliminated any notion that I am anything less than a decent being, I would like you to button your pants back up. I just employed a strategy known as teasing. Don’t be upset, it will make your orgasm one to two times more enjoyable, when the time comes. Do you have your cigarettes nearby? Did I mention you should have cigarettes nearby? According to some reputable sources, cigarettes are the perfect dessert to accompany a three-course orgasm. If you don’t have cigarettes, go get some. I can wait, we have time. If you don’t smoke, I suggest lighting something on fire, perhaps an old receipt or the ugly tee shirt you were wearing earlier. Please don’t light them on fire with the throbbing candle, which should be treated as sacred. Once the fire has started, inhale its fumes until you can’t take it anymore. Then grow up and buy a pack of cigarettes. My father caught me smoking cigarettes when I was three and Weet. He was angry, and made me smoke the whole pack as punishment. While I was inhaling my tenth cigarette, he changed his mind, instead opting to beat me with his belt. In hindsight, that moment was probably the catalyst of my fear of belts. And cigarettes. Freud.

I regret mentioning the three-course orgasm, which I was not supposed to reveal the details of. People like to be turned on without knowing the particulars, and get turned off when they learn the particulars. But since you are such demanding creatures, and won’t let it go until I reveal my secrets, I will impart the information before we continue. You will be the death of me!

Sorry. I try to not let my emotions get the best of me. Although, however, on second thought, I am not sorry. For someone as desperate as you to criticize me? Ha! I forgot who I was dealing with. I am forgetting a lot these days. The answer is someone pathetic enough to need instruction to achieve orgasm. Someone whose mind is no longer capable of producing organic sensual scenarios. Why are you not with a partner? Someone whose soft lips and reassuring voice are surely more conducive to arousal than myself and my words. Someone who will tell you they love you and kiss your genital and cuddle you as you drift to sleep. Is it because you are ugly? Or because you are horrible? They cheated on you, didn’t they? I would too, knowing you. Do you know what? I’m not even sure why I’m wasting my time here with you, plebeian – I only have so much, after all. So it is decided, then. I will leave, spend my time on something more important, like skiing or sailing. I will leave now and you will be in a room with a candle and a pack of cigarettes, agonizing over the orgasm you never had. And it is all your fault. Thank you for nothing.

Are you turned on yet?

The tactic I just deployed is commonly referred to as “negging.” The goal of negging is to make the victim feel so sore about themselves that they will do anything for validation. A negation of the original neg. It has a seventy five percent success rate on men and a ninety two percent success rate on women. And it worked masterfully on you. You are now in the palm of my mouth, clinging onto every last word. And, most importantly, you are horny. You crave my validation like a hungry wolf craves rabbit salad. Or something. How does my breath smell?

Ask and you shall receive.

I really didn’t mean to be so harsh earlier. There are plenty of reasons why an attractive, not at all horrible person such as yourself would turn to pornographic instruction to aid orgasm. Achieving orgasm is a completely natural desire – humans have been having them for decades – and you have absolutely no need to feel ashamed. Perhaps your partner is out of town for a while, let’s say two weeks, and let’s say on business. And I can tell you are not the kind of person who would lead their lover astray by committing heinous acts of infidelity. So here you are, looking as beautiful as the day you turned sixteen, bright eyed and ready to tackle the world and its obstacles. I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed it until now, your ferocious beauty. Your white or tan or brown or dark brown complexion could stop traffic. Your blue or green or brown or emerald eyes could also stop traffic (on a different highway and going in a different direction). And your hair! Oh, your marvelous hair. The way it flows in a breeze and gets wet in the rain could simply stop traffic, there is just no other way of putting it! If I wasn’t an asexual I would leap at the chance to make love to you. And if you played your cards right, you may have even achieved orgasm because of it, my love making.

Here we are, all hot and bothered. I’m bothered because you were so offended by my earlier tactics of negation, and you, well you are of course bothered by the fact that I have not let you orgasm, even though you so desperately desire to do so.

It is now time to take things up a notch, to turn the proverbial dial to eleven. Your next instruction is to remove your pants. Yes, all the way. If you have followed my instructions correctly, you should be in your underwear – either tighty whities or long johns. Now I’d like you to think about a childhood pet, your favorite one, the one who when it died you got to stay home from school that day. The one who when it died your mother called the principal and lied saying you were hit by a car, even though it went against her principles, and you weren’t hit by a car. The one who when it died taught you about mortality. Now I’d like you to imagine that sweet animal fully clothed, in a suit or a dress, whichever you prefer. Aroused yet? Good. No? I think I got things mixed up. I’ll have to check my notes.

Damn it! It was an adult film star, not a pet. Forgive me, my notes got mixed up and I’m incredibly drunk. Can we move on? Sorry.

My mother, Mary, says I have a drinking problem. All I can do is tell her, mother, you are the reason for this problem. She was not abusive, or negligent. She didn’t fondle me in the night or smoke crack or hoard. She and my father had a healthy, uninteresting relationship. But she is a decrepit thing. Her face is made up of eyes and ears and bones and blood that do not belong together. Her skin is like bricks. Her hair is stale and damp. She is a mistake, an animal’s attempt at creating a sapien. She is 9/11. She is the Holocaust. She is ethnic cleansing, genocide, terrorism. She is really not that bad. If she were truly a witch I would say that she is the death of a pet, that she is a terrible meal at an expensive restaurant, that she is a DUI hearing at a court with a shit judge on the wrong side of town. Nevertheless, if she were still alive I would wish she were dead. Mommy. I wrote a poem about her gigantic lactating breasts that I will not share with you because it is not time yet for you to orgasm.

You may now remove your underwear. Your bottom half should be entirely uncovered. But do not become erect or aroused in the slightest. If you have, it is too late for you. Please leave.

If you remain – you soldier of sexuality – I salute you. This has not been an easy journey, I am aware. But we are nearing the end of a rainbow, where a bucket of orgasm awaits. Or should I have done a marathon metaphor? Maybe something like “the prize at the finish line is orgasm.” Let’s keep the first one, I suppose. The point is we’re almost there. Stick in there. Or, stick it in there, rather. Did you notice my reference to the phallus?

I feel like I deserve more praise than I’m getting. Would it kill you to say something nice? I put lots of work into making an arousing, sensory experience, and not even a stupid “thank you” do I get in return? Not even a sound? Please, something. Where are you? Are you even listening? I am in so much pain and need help. Why aren’t you helping me?