Someday our world will end.
This prospect is chilling, and yet also sort of hot. Time is running out: seize the day, you foxy bitch. This may be the last time we knock boots—or anyone knocks boots—ever again. That student loan debt? That exercise regimen you’ve failed to maintain? That nagging sensation that the person you should be is not the person you’ve become, and that you’ve failed in your basic obligations as a determined, sentient, able human being? Who cares. It’s all finito. Let ‘er rip.
Boner-ified yet? Consider: the prophet Daniel experienced his visions of the world’s rapturous end during an extended delirium of fasting. And skinny people, as we know, are hot. The lingo of John of Patmos’s Revelation returns almost annoyingly to images of “unveiling” and “revealing.” That’s some maximum jizzage right there.
Arousing stuff. Let us all be whores of Babylon, with all the “filthiness of her fornication,” possessed with the urge to pound one another like bonobo monkeys on jello shooters. The atmosphere fills with ash and aerosol and all sorts of cosmic shit. The heart races. Genital tissue engorges. Assuming, of course, we actually know what’s impending and when. Maybe it happens in a flash, leaving us unprepared, flaccid and regretful. Timing is everything; see: “whiskey dick.”
When apocalypse unfolds there will be no more longing, with nothing to long for. Our fantasies will not be of lovers to come, but only to lovers to come into/upon. In the great dissolution of the world there is nothing petit about this mort. In terminus we will judged not by the robustness of our portfolios, or the bulleted entries of our CVs, but by our general vibe, our virility, our sexiness. Sweaty and clenched, the world will heave, grunt, and blow the fuck up.
- Rob Benvie