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death trance for sex artist

DEATH TRANCE FOR SEX ARTIST  (excerpt from DEATH ART)

By ARW (©2008)

The sky opened its gate of darkness giving way to tiny flickers of white as Phyllis stepped out to the street.  Behind her she left the shit-storm of sexual deviation common to her work.  But with this view of the sky, the mind could easily be cleansed of anything.  It was like cosmic information spinning Phyllis’ consciousness into an illuminating vertigo. Each cell in her body had been exerted and then distilled into a calm locus of sublimity.  Even the thrill from the rough throat plugging she had just received quietly receded into the back of her memory.  That dingy apartment, his wife-beater stained with sweat, beer and blood, his bald head and gut looking like two blisters ready to be popped.

Soon she would sweat out the diseases, psychological or physical, that were digesting and mixing with the bile of her stomach.  Her pores would seethe with the dark liquid of malignancy coming to an end. Infections would all be directed away from her organs and out through the filters of her skin, slowly, to evaporate as cool sweat.

Who knows what type of virus or disorder he had. The shit colored tenement had been littered with disgusting drug paraphernalia. Crack pipes and cocaine boilers, heroin spoons, foil burned to crisps, beer bottles filled with piss. Half of her mind felt a thrill at thinking about it when another gust of that cool breeze cleared her mind. The thoughts were halted, blocked by the surreal event deemed evidence of a cosmic energy watching her.  She had, after all, swallowed the sacrament.  She had tasted it, welcomed it, and sucked the salty mess out of her cheeks to ensure not a drop had been wasted from devouring salival enzymes.  Now she would be buzzing for the rest of the night.  The sperm was a drug at best, an illuminating natural stimulant turning on all psychic centers of the astral body and cleansing them. 

Phyllis D. was on a path to another level. She felt it in her bones.  These petty acts were the summation of a greater goal.  Realizing this, she set a course for the old Church. 

The slums hovered around her like a used condom with the most retarded of the gene pool left living.  It was the new Bethlehem, giving birth to prophets of criminal genius, descendent of disease carrying thugs and whores.

The scoundrel howlings joined in her ears and painted an image of filth carrying the holy whore onward with her mission: to find the Sex Artist¹ Guru and learn a new lesson.  In the slums of Toledo you could find about anything to do, anyone to do, and a strange collection of artists that decided remaining in obscurity was integral to their creative sanity. 

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¹ Being an aspiring Sex Artist*², Phyllis was obsessed with the search and exploration of fetish of all kind. The one that currently held her attention was the Death Trance. The Sex Artist Guru specialized in teaching the process of Death Trance.  It was a system of attainment similar to a pornography addiction, only the aspirant ascended through the ranks of perversions in hierarchical levels, each including a confrontation with death.  A result of spiritual clarity was brought on through physical and emotional exhaustion. 

² In the late part of the 2018, a performance artist calling himself ‘Thanateros’ became one the most controversial artists since the Mayan priests who advocated human sacrifice as a devotional to the gods. Thanateros^a (a combination of Thanatos and Eros, taken from a Chaos Magick order established in the 1970’s) was an art student in Japan, one of the best of his class actually. He spent his time working through fundamentals classes, then a breakthrough came: he took classes in performance and 3-D art. The classes allowed him to attain, in his wor(l)ds: “…extension into reality that was lacking in all other art…” According to early interviews, the guy was angered by the lack of direct contact with the viewer due to a realization of temporal permanence held by two-dimensional art.  A performance piece could never be replicated exactly, therefore offering not only the transmission of allegory, but also freedom. 

The ultimate observer is of course the self, so Thanateros went about to affect each sense^b. His first performance piece used Shamanic rites in tandem with techniques of binaural beats^c and a Dream Machine^d .  Self mutilation, public masturbation accompanied by sado-masochistic torture, digging up of corpses, destroying churches.  Thanateros chose to disintegrate the line that separates terrorism, heresy, assault, and spirituality from art.  The subsequent movement was titled Death Art^d.

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^a Thanateros real name was (emphasis on was, as he, in the fashion of so many other pretentious artists, no longer believes that his old-self exists) Haiko Takahashi.

^b The ritual took place in an upscale art gallery that had displayed Thany’s 2d works, which were exquisite oil paintings. The gallery  agreed, eagerly anticipating a performance from this up and comer. Thany fastened two hooks through the skin of his breast. Ropes attached to each hook were hung over two strong beams on the ceiling of the gallery. At exactly 9:02 pm (because this equals 11– ‘one and it’s reflection’ {Crowley, 777 and Other Qabalistic Writings}), two large men pulled the ropes, lifting him 14 feet (1 + 4 = 5, the cube of matter {Crowley, see recommendation for Altar in Magick: Book Four: Part One}) into the air. The audience all coalesced into one emphatic gasp. A Dream Machine placed at Thany’s eye level  began to flicker. Upon closer inspection, Takahashi had ladybug headphones in his ears.  The earpieces were playing a binaural beat to maintain a brain frequency close to sleep for as long as possible. Needless to say, the guy went on a journey of the inner that nothing of the outer could ever compete with. Most important, he had accomplished his goal: a moving art piece that could never be replicated perfectly. Even if you did the same thing, his inner visions (later reenacted and released on DVD, $59.99 US) were truly personal.  The audience was deeply moved, left with the lasting impression of Thanateros suspended, bleeding,  gone from this shade of reality.  An art movement followed soon after, embracing direct experience as the cardinal philosophy.

^c Invented by Brion Gysin.

^d After Thanateros broke through the bourgeois caverns of ‘high art’ with his radical opinions, other art movements surfaced in the wake of Death Art: Sex Art that used the idea of the ‘performance orgasm’ (see Annie Sprinkle or our girl Phyllis), Animal Activists Art (aka: AAA, which terrorized the industrial complexes through freeing test animals {inadvertently blowing up a large amount of them ‘on accident’}), and of course, Religious Mortification (it’s okay if you only shudder at this one) took a steady, but short lived following amongst the participants of the Pentecostal movement. The Christian Movement was torn about whether this was good or not, seeing that they viewed suffering and brainwashing as cornerstones to development.  It backfired when pedophiles and sadistic fetishists became frequenters of the weeklong masses.  The Pentecostal Movement soon collapsed and announced they had naturally evolved into Catholicism. 

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Phyllis found herself staring up at the megalithic arts center on Collingwood Avenue. The ancient rectory had once been host to the Catholic Diocese of Toledo, functioning as a vehicle of spiritual Jesus-Juice until the children molested by the Priesthood³ grew up a sued the shit out of the bastards.

Each step set more tingles up her spine, the fluids of her pussy beginning to drench her pink undies. The thoughts of altar boys, disgust, and vengeance flew through her mind.  Her legs took on the unnatural lightness accompanying these impressions, for inside of this convoluted structure her salvation awaited.

The heavy doors opened and wails ushered forth, a man sitting in the vestibule wore a priest outfit and displaying a razor blade in his right hand. He was physically shaking, beads of sweat dangling down his forehead. Suddenly the razor came down in one determined thrust making a shallow slit upon the skin of his left wrist. Streams of blood darted out symmetrically across his arm.

“Welcome, Welcome. For each one to come in, I am one step closer to the way out.”

The indirect suicide. 

She looked upon him through her tendrils of black hair, “You missed again? Maybe next time.”

She reached for his hand and licked over the cut, tongue touching a partially severed tendon and slightly tracing it, testing it’s elasticity. The drips of metallic crimson flowing over her taste buds.  The artist giggled.  “Good luck.” She smiled sweetly, her eyes displaying a hidden understanding. 

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³  Toledo also made national news in mid-2000’s by convicting a priest of murdering a nun in a ‘satanic ritual’.  Alongside that, it and Detroit, the surrounding area, and Lake Erie are some of the most polluted places in the USA. Some terrible movie from the 90’s recognized it in the line, “Lake Erie actually caught on fire once from all the crap floating around in it…”  But what the bastard’s neglected was the truth placed within the joke. As circumstances would have it, the fucker has caught on fire numerous times because of all the shit and toxic waste contained beneath the surface of the great lake. It is only appropriate that the artists exploring the spaces in between and hollows of human consciousness would choose such a location.  They declared it a new Nile river.  Only instead of flooding and returning life to the region, it caught fire to destroy the mutations within it.  A symbol for the modern artist.

The slums of Toledo and Detroit, as said, became the epicenter of this artistic movement, including all it’s hybrid genres.  The art centers, once occupied by individuals videotaping themselves crawling out of boxes or painting blue and orange squares with their oils, were now more like insane asylums instead of kindergarten art hour.

Artists who became popular were showcased not only in the community but also in publicized journals and magazines circulating the pompous art world.  Apartment complex owners were happy with this as it produced a steady influx of new tenants who were taking leases in the ransacked apartment buildings just because a famed artist had a studio on the premises or, in the case of the purist group of Death Artists, recently committed suicide in one room. Often time’s orgies were held instead of the traditional house-warming party in cases of the later. Blood and cum were often celebrated in a communion ceremony. If the coagulated fluids of the recently deceased were found still hardening in the carpet^e, they were ingested and considered a sacrament to instigate the fuck-frenzy.

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^e Often times the crime scenes in Death Artist suicides were deemed pieces of art limiting police access to forensic evidence for fear the ACLU or National Endowment of the Arts would step in to inform the law-dogs that they were destroying the ‘final work’ of an important artist.  Contrary to logic, the move rarely resulted from protecting artistic freedom. More common than not, it was a final attempt at publicity. The organizations were pissed their grant money had been spent on a suicide artist. These circumstances were exacerbated because most ACLU and NEA employees were disgruntled, mutoid, hermaphroditic whine-bags continuously on the rag.  It was an unfortunate mutation that occurs after compulsively masturbating to Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon to the soundtrack of Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music.  Reader be warned: it is a contagious disorder.

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Onward, down the dark broken hallways into a semi-circular entryway guarded by a glaring mutilated statue. Jesus looked upon all who entered with one eye burning forward, the other stabbed with large nails. Phyllis stared at him.  His body was decaying from torment and age.  One guy who could never get a break, she thought. But Thanateros heralded him as the first Death Artist.  And for this, Jesus was greeted with a mixture of spit, blood, and vaginal secretion, massaged into his feet and kissed by Phyllis’ pink lips.  She was brimming with energy, now fully ready for what awaited her.

The hallways bear a grim resemblance to that of a psych ward. Some stood open with contorted figures eyeing the new comer, others remained closed holding unknown atrocities of brilliance and glorified deviance. The noises coming out were enough to bring anyone of sound mind to the outer-most recesses of their experience trying to contemplate those horrid inner workings of the art machine.

Her large boots stopped outside of door 23. She looked at it and waited for the anticipation to build. She knocked six times and waited. You always waited for door 23. The fix was too sweet and the longer it lasted, the better. A black fingernail scratched down from her right breast to her crotch, assisting her excitement. Suddenly, a hand swung around the front of her face and cupped her mouth. Phyllis was stunned and attempted to inhale deeply but the index finger of the gloved hand constricted her nasal passages, the palm muting her mouth. She struggled but another gloved hand quickly clasped her quivering hands behind her body. Unrelenting pressure popped her thumb bones out of joint for a moment, causing significant pain to shoot up through her arms. The pop of the joints echoed through the hallway.  She would have tried to run, but the maniac lifted her back and off the ground. Together they stumbled down to the end of the hallway and into an open elevator.

Yellow light illuminated brown carpet and dissolving metal walls.  The ancient doors closed with sufficient screeching. Phyllis heard the clicking of buttons and took this as her opportunity to break free. The attackers hand recoiled from the button panel, grabbing her hair and slamming her head against the elevator wall.  The resulting blow boomed leaving the rustic sheet metal walls vibrating. Phyllis was thrust into a delirium incapacitating her for a few seconds.

Before she knew it she was staring straight at her attacker.

A mask covered the man’s face, but did nothing to conceal the psychotic eyes glaring from round eyeholes of the ski mask. He forced a hand up her short black skirt. She flailed her legs to no avail as he broke her fishnets with one hand then tore her underwear aside.

“Move you fucking cunt and I’ll blow you open as wide as a fuckin’ whore’s pussy. This is a .357… Blows heads clean off… Imagine what it could do to your pussy.” He thrust the cold steel further into her and said: “Now FUCK IT!”

          There was no choice. Any false move and she would be         fuck meat for some necro-avante-gardist group. The hole left by a gun of that caliber would be filled by cocks and cum. The thought took her over and away from the situation for a second, but only for a second. Reality hit and the gun within her pussy suddenly became the phallus of a god.  Her ass lifted from the floor, her hips rocking forward, backward, in a circular motion as she became possessed by a energy indefinable, but overwhelmingly powerful. The cold hard cock soon was covered with her juices, and she was wishing for it to cum. To shoot a bullet right inside of her twat at the moment of orgasm. Coming together the way lovers do. Like the thought of sex with Jesus. 

But this was her lover: death incarnate; the machine of art penetrating her. 

As her hips bucked and exhaled screams of passion escaped her gullet, she had a vision of her possible fate: the bullet would enter her cervix, puncture through her large intestine, jam up into the chest cavity, maybe ricochet a few times demolishing lung tissue and passing through her heart rendering her circulatory system null. A spike of cold shock would take over only seconds before the tingling sensation of blood and oxygen loss occurring.  She began to wonder: if the path of the bullet did not destroy my brain, how long would my consciousness linger? Enough to look over myself? Would I orgasm immediately as my bowels excreted shit on the floor and my piss drains over that weapon and its possessor’s hand?

Then a raging orgasm overtook her body, tightening vaginal muscles that clenched the barrel of the gun, the pressure making vertical cuts where the sight touched her G spot.

         A scream raged through the elevator that was shaking partially from age, but mostly from its occupants.  Her mind cleared.  Suddenly the gun, the attacker, the elevator, all became perfected into one synchronic sensation of illumined bliss.  A light shone down on her as time slowed.  The light, white and perfect, descended (or, she ascended) and merged with it. 

 

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The gun exited her pussy, wet and now tanned with red.  Phyllis slumped on the floor, respiration bringing her chest far out while refilling her lungs.  The buzzing was gone from her body, in its place a feeling of change, of placidity, of pointed understanding.   

“That was…I don’t have words.” Phyllis said, looking down, exasperated.

“Best not to talk now.”  The Guru said, pulling his mask off to reveal a sweaty bald head. His deep brown eyes intently gazed at her. “Look, you were bleeding.”

He displayed the gun barrel.  Her eyes gazed at the steel’s soft gleam of vaginal juice and blood.  The fingers of her left hand reached out and touched it, procuring a residue of ointment on the tips.  The guru followed in suit.

Holding their fingers together, they both spoke: “In Jesus Name, Amen.”