Here is another excerpt from my novel, which is currently titled NOTHING IS REAL BUT THE GIRL, which is pretty fitting, seeing how it needs some rewriting, has no agent, and no publisher, all of which would indicate nothing about it is real except for me, and that, in and of itself, is, of course, questionable. Anyfuckingway, if you want to hire me for some kind of freelance gig, you should let me know, because every damn story I've placed has fallen through, which sucks the proverbial balls, and everything else I've pitched hasn't stuck to the wall, not yet, anyway, just dribbled down to the floor, leaving behind a long line of suspicious, odiferous matter. So, on with the excerpt, on with the show, on with the next soul-bleeding hour.
Drake Walter Raleigh looks down at this penis, and from what seems like a hundred jizzillion miles away, his penis stares back up at him. The cameras wanting, the crew foot-tapping, the director barking, what Drake is having a hard time doing is remembering the lines that he spent this morning practicing, after he stayed up all night, tossing and turning, falling out of bed at 6 a.m., worrying about getting wood. He can see the angry red dot where he injected 20 micrograms of freshly-scored Caverject into his pincushioned corpus cavernosum with a 30-gauge needle, a black market ritual performed in the pseudo-privacy of the trailer toilet, the floor littered with the detritus the girl had left behind her: an empty douche bottle and a drained enema bottle. He barely had time to apply his self-tanner, do a few pull-ups, and they were calling for him. These days, he can’t sleep, waking to bolt upright from night terrors in which he has elephantiasis of the penis, is felled by fatal priapisms, gets stabbed to death by pissed off starlets bearing sharp knives they clench between their teeth like Xena the Warrior Princesses. On this day, this he-can’t-even-count-that-high number of on-camera performances over the last seven and a half years later, he sweats under the unforgiving midday sun, staring helplessly at his otherself, and resigns himself to the indisputable fact that he no longer rules himself. He has succumbed to the merciless demands of his undeniable penis and its insatiable addictions: women, alprostadil, stardom. He knows whatshername is wondering what the fuck he’s doing, Let’s get this over with already, but he can’t remember her real name, her stage name, or her character’s name, and anyway, it occurs to him with a sinking feeling, his erection isn’t the issue, it’s how to pop when your penis is a robot that’s the fucking problem.
