RuKsaK

It’s 7am and the boy is sitting in front of the big plasma TV we brought over from Malaysia. I don’t mind giving it up – it doesn’t work as well as it should because of the some the cable connections being different in East Asia. Anyway, I prefer to check email and look through a few websites in my bookmarks list first. Facebook, followed by the BBC News and then maybe Rotten Tomatoes. And, I’ve started checking back in on RuKsaK again and am going to post the odd thing here and there. Not sure what to put on it, so I’ll just type, wire my fingers to my brain.

With no emails, no Facebook notifications and dull news, it’s only 7.10am and I’ve already exhausted the world wide web. Round the world in 10 minutes and bored already. I hit the volume key a couple of times, listening to that squirty sound of the volume going down – like a Looney Tunes character shooting sperm. I check the boy is still engrossed in the cartoon. Saying his name three times in front of him to no response tells me he is.

So, I decide to surf some porn. The thing is I’m not really in the mood. I’ll look anyway, because even when it’s not been used to generate a hard on it’s fascinating. At least I think so. So, I Google ‘Houston 500’. I remember she’s someone who fucked over 500 men in one day, on camera. It’s not the kind of thing which does it for me. My porn tastes are far less extreme – movie stars in Hollywooded sex scenes are more my thing - just search Heather Graham or Halle Berry for example. This Houston business can hardly be called a sex scene. It’s more like watching Christians being fed to the lions – that’s the level on which it interests me. The car crash level, except this is a car crash full of people smiling.

So, I search her name. Of course numerous hits come up. Turns out it ended up the Houston 620. The DVD cover has a bold, graphic 500 crossed out in a kind of lipstick drawled text and 620 written over it. In all the photos she has a fixed plastic smile. I think of the film Robocop, a remnant of a man built to kill people. With her plastic surgery, breasts which seem to have slightly caved skin around the silicon, a smile which makes the Joker look wan, I think of Houston as the same. Like Robocop, it’s not her real name and rather than being created to kill, she’s been created to have sex. I’m no sure which collocation is best. ‘Have sex’ seems wrong as basically all of us have had sex. ‘Fuck’ seems obvious, but we all fuck sometimes. It’s not making love – ‘she made love to 620 men’ just doesn’t work without shallow irony. So, I don’t know. It’s needs a new turn of phrase – she ‘processes penises’, she ‘consumes cock.’ I actually think of those and realise the how badly my alliterations have spilled from cheap journalism – the kind to enjoy this kind of story – the reason why stories like this exist.

I end up reading an article about it. About the teams of ‘fluffers’ – women employed to suck penises in a row so they’re ready to go inside the vagina belonging to Houston. How each of the 620 is counted by the fact they first place their penises in her vagina and then withdraw to ejaculate on her, not in her, or after her, but on her. Also how towels are periodically replaced by clean ones, which makes me think of a cheap café for some reason. Also, how the sperm is collected in buckets. Buckets, of course buckets. I read of how she gets sore at around 550 and needs a rest. It doesn’t say what she does to take way the soreness, but I do wonder for a moment. It quotes Houston saying something about ‘soldiering on’. ‘Soldiering on’ for Christ’s sake!

All in all it makes me kind of sad. A sadness that I know will go away. A sadness about a quarter of the size on finding out Paul Newman is dead. A small misery is there all the same though. I can’t help thinking what happened along the way. What her parents did or didn’t do to her. I imagine some of was drugs perhaps, but even then, I’ve tried stuff in my twenties, thirties a little. No drug my friends did saw them fucking 620 guys for a DVD. I wonder what ‘Houston’ was like when she was 7. And there’s why it stings. My daughter in 7. Of course I’m not worried, but she was 7 once and playing on a swing I guess, watching cartoons, making things from cardboard and coloured pencils. I ask again ‘what happened along the way?’

It’s almost 8am now and I hear my daughter coming downstairs. It’s Saturday so I’m frying some bacon and buttering bread cakes in a few minutes. By the time the sandwiches are ready and the coffee is on Houston will be out of my mind. That quarter sadness will evaporate.
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There we were though, different coordinates in space and time, but a thread from Houston to me. Making me grieve a little before making breakfast on an October morning. And when I want to shout at my son later for walking in mud I pause. I don’t do it because Houston fucked 620 guys one day on a different latitude to me. And walking through town I buy my daughter an expensive milk shake I would have turned down, again, because Houston had so many cocks in her one day somewhere in America. And, the wine that evening in front of the big plasma TV tastes that little smoother, the picture looks a little sharper and I feel just slightly more comfortable than usual. Because Houston processed 620 cocks for us. The proof is on the Internet. Somewhere in the world.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

Houston 620