God of the Game (Dreamstate) (4 page)

    Realizing a pull of my psyche
into the dark territory of Death and Hades, I might as well come clean and tell you something I’ve learned about my transfigured self. I can’t die. I can’t seize to exist. Yes, I can merge my consciousness into another being, or even evaporate into the particles of nothingness, but yet, in one way or another, I still am. And in the countless aeons outside the concept of time, it is only a matter of moments before I rediscover my past.

   
Call this a blessing or a curse, sometimes there is nothing but pure optimism to realize my life in this never-ending charade; however, often I too feel unadulterated dread, wondering if there is a sweet oblivion for me to be buried in.     

    This mak
es me think of the Great Beyond; not death per se (because I can’t die…
duh
,
how many times must I say this???
) but the domain of the dead, instead. I wonder what death is in the antithesis of things; the complete opposite, and how one can cross over. It’s a curious spirit I’ll say at play that makes me wanna go away, but Sharon, or Sha-Rronne rather, that makes me stay.

8

    I quickly finished the value meal and headed to the summit. I think I’ll call Vesper to see if he wanna join me sky-surfing. The internal comm rang, but it went to voicemail. Ves was never prone to video, preferring the manipulation of voice. He had the sweetest tone, bastardly even.

    Frustrated, I cursed the devil. I remember how I used to do so when I was alive in mortal body. At that time he was only an idea
; a concept at most; folklore, at worst. Now that I’d acquainted and befriended fallen angels, it feels ironic to have been so ignorant then. Dumb, stupid human behaviour.

    We were stupid, there’s no doubt in it. My life was full of despair. I contemplated suicide often
, but never got around to doing it. Just played with the notion. By worldly standards I was successful. I was a writer; I had a book out dedicated to a dead friend. I was also a failure. I had three condemned love relationships, the last of which was with Gee Ni. That broke my sanity. I never married. I had had enough playing the game of love, and now I settled for lust the rest of my life.    

    With the mon
ey from the novel, I splashed on
hoors
instead. For me, it was an outright disgust to share bodily fluids in the absence of affection, and I could never imagine fucking a stranger, or even receiving a blowjob from an anonymous mouth. Thus I settled for handjobs and footjobs; and I’ll have to boast that my dick has jizzed the palms and soles of many exotic women from all around the world.

    This is pathetic, not only about soliciting prostitutes for pleasure
, but the manner of my orgasm. But I often get turned on when they worship willy, telling me how powerful he is, or how huge. I adore their acting skills when they wank me, pulling at my penis with a smile on their face, and shaping their lips to an O in mock fascination and appeal even as I blow my muck. I look like a monkey when I come, that’s what my girlfriends tell me; and sometimes they (girlfriends & whores) mimic my apelike appearance during climax.

    Sometimes I masturbate in front of women degrading me of my despicable manner. However, I only enjoy this when they are in a crowd,
whispering, and then laughing out loud at my perverted action. Occasionally they coax or instruct me, and I obey, like when I’m asked to flick my balls. Often they don’t even have to bare breasts or the triangle below, I simply ejaculate on the floor at the pretty and suggestive sight of them…so long as they also look scintillatingly hot!   

    Maybe my odd sexual pattern is due to my innate lon
ging for a lover. Sex is sacred; intercourse, fellatio, cunnilingus, foreplay, kissing, hugging, necking, biting, all symbols of affection. Cumming is just a physical activity, a need like eating, drinking, peeing and shitting. Damn…do I make sense?

    My nature is,
furthermore, a respect for females. I’m not forcing my manly plight upon them by jamming in the hole; rather, I admire them, I worship them with the stiffness sticking out of my pants. I publicly show them my adoration, my desire for their sexy, shapely curves. Ladies like to be lusted over, it gives them a sense of empowerment, and getting semen on their limbs is a small price to pay for this big ego trip. Moreover, it’s fucking safe! No STD. I’m doing all these chicks a favour and paying them as well.

Sucker.

9

    It’s different now of course in a land of endless possibilities, a land devoid of my ill tendencies. There are two pricks that jut out
like a sore on Planet Earth which clouds our judgment; first, it’s death and the mystery of afterlife, our frail human form. It screws us with fear. The other, our insecurity in life; we’re fat, we’re ugly, we’re not rich, all that crap. What will others think? The two demons pound into our fragile egos, creating a crater. An emptiness resides that can NEVER be filled. Mankind is born into paradox. His mind and body are at odds. It is strange, for he can fantasize of his eternal self, but his flesh is doomed to decay.

    In contrast, my enlightened being knows no contradi
ction. I am cool, as Jai-I puts it. We are gods after all, and suffer not from inferiority. We are beautiful. We are Omniscient, the rivers of information flow within our souls. There is no big empty, no loneliness; we are entwined in the matrix of every life.

    I am happy. I do things because I enjoy it, not because I need to cover a hole. I have sex now, not just a fingering fool. Women, men and all creatures of dark and light want me; I am desirable. They taste of chocolate,
champagne, caviar, strawberries; like sushi served on a naked girl. They smell like oranges, vanilla, the seaside, or simply a morning in the Swiss Alps. My disgust for mixing DNA fluids is now a cocktail pleasure of secretion. Love. Due to love; I love them all.  

    When they reject my pursuit, I can always recreate them in pocket spaces
(similar to Sparta), tiny worlds designed just to cater to a particular whim or fancy. For example, a proud platinum Playboy bunny parading champagne coloured areolas once snubbed my seduction; it was like a knife to my erection, but I went home and reengineered the situation and fucked her till kingdom come! She cried for more…and when I was done, she was in tears. Ravished and tortured, her remains jittered on the floor.

    This was a private escape. The bitch obviously didn’t know of her fate unless I shared… And sometimes I do, inviting others to partake of my fantasy. A new world is grown
, on God’s family tree. However, often I merely mix and match my own caprice. This girl with that, lingerie and leather, sexy carwash show, hot pants, stilettos, soaked tops seen thru, no bra, giant nipples protruding, a boyfriend that looked like a girlfriend…
yeah
…   

    A place I opened to public was the
Horny Hound
. It’s a tribute to my idiosyncrasy of old. Habits die hard. I still enjoy shooting outside of an orifice. Inside, strippers and topless waitresses shake you dry. You can also go solo. Goddesses not of this seedy profession too frequent this joint. They participate as amateurs, or merely bask in the wet arousal of the predominantly male crowd. Occasionally one may pop a tit to the glee and amusement of both strangers and friends.

    The
Horny Hound
is also a premise where a man can masturbate another man without being tagged a homo. I enjoy watching my brothers climax even as their countenances contort to a chimpanzee’s, grunting in excitement. Often we cum together; bonding a brotherhood in which sisters cannot share due their lack of apparatus. 

    Males are superior. Women are inferior; they do not have cocks. We have cocks!
I
have a COCK! I am superior! I am a Man! A yanking man.

   
Urrrgggghhhhhhhhh…I’m coming….oooh…oooh…oooh… arggghhhhhh…

    I look like a monkey.

   “Pathetic,” I hear her laugh at me.      

    Tuesday is Midnight Mask. Only men will conceal their faces. (I still want to know who that sweetie is pleasuring me.) It’s surreal. You see Darth Vader, Death, Presidents of the United States, Frankenstein, Dracula, etcetera whipping their dicks. You see monsters, clowns, demons and creatures jerking and combusting to finally spout a little fountain out of their mushrooms, while their mouths make muffled moans.

    I think ladies find this titillating. Unlike us, their complicated biology responds sexually only to intellectual, meaningful and intimate surroundings. They’re alwa
ys aroused by mystery and drama; and you got to admit, you can’t get more mysterious and dramatic than seeing a room full of grown men in ridiculous disguises bursting their pipes together.

  
“Pathetic,” I hear her laugh again.

10

    A buzz shuddered my eardrums. Vesper was on the other side of the line.

   “Yeah, what’s up?” came his bright cheery voice like cupid shooting arrows irresponsibly.

   “Wanna go sky surfing?” I asked, sharp as a bell.

    There was a gaggling noise, which followed with crackles
, as if he were whipping demonic minnows before he finally answered, “Sure. Meet you at Tower 1?”

   “Ok. See you there.”

    Hell is a ball of blue energy the size of a Cadillac. A pimp machine. It is also the most popular
Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game (MMORPG) in the Milky Way. To think that Syurga was built on the foundation of a game is almost blasphemous, but sacrilegious as it sounds, this hedonistic truth rings clear like a clock tower chiming twelve.

    Electric curre
nts are abuzz with perpetual motion, the result of a gazillion gamers logging on simultaneously at any one time. Hell was developed outside this universe, but its popularity caught on with such a gust that real economies started emerging beyond its virtual walls. Players making money in the game began setting up offices in proximity. Soon the space and air around its hosting site, which initially was just a satellite orbiting a lonely path in the galactic highway became crowded. Buildings environed it, trapping cosmic particles; more structures erected above previously raised constructions. People migrated, aliens descended, new industries growing and feeding off each other like a giant flesh-eating plant engorging an entire planet.

    And Syurga was born; an artificial landscape destined to be the capital of the galaxy. It was ugly…a metal ba
ll sticking out of the universe; it was beautiful…a metal ball sticking out of the universe.

    It was glorious, deformed, angelic and demonic; unreal, a melting pot of influences left to pulsate and organically expand, likened to a narcissistic monster addicted to its
own vanity. Syurga was a cauldron of madness, madness of the gods. Syurga was Babylon in front of the enchanted and magical mirror; she was the Whore, and we all committed adultery with her.

11

Hell

    It was hot as hell. This was not a figure of speech. It
was
hot as Hell. My head perspired with beads of sweat; and soon I’m gonna soak like a shower. They form like an ethnic seed necklace, before droplets, dense as an equatorial rainstorm, roll down my chest and into my shoes. I am hydrated constantly by recycling fluids, which condenses H2O into my being, as salt and minerals seep back through painted symbiotic skin.

    Hunting Rogol the Beast, I stood at the edge of the canyon in Hell’s abyss. From
the corner of eye I could see four figures in similar pursuit. In Hell the MMORPG, I am a bounty hunter. I presume so too are the others. A handsome price has been hammered on the head of Rogol by a rich motherfucker, whose wife was brutally raped and murdered by the Beast. 

    Rogol was reclining under a shade of rocks after feasting on raw meat, the remains of a fifth hunter, unlucky and unskilled to match its wrath. A tingling sensation crawled up my head
, as images of the other four, abseiling the cliffs, came to view. I checked their profile, but without surprise, my AI guide returned no information on them. It was all on hidden mode…just like mine.

    Only judgment I could make of the scene was their physical appearance
s as they dodged fiery furnaces flaming out of fissures. Two guys and two girls. The ladies were a pair. Their faces ensconced in mechanical mask, covered in black from head to toe, and only their hair shone against the scorching sun of the simulated sky. One was brunette and the other bleached blue. Of the two men, one was a skinhead with East-European features. He wore a reflective wraparound, concealing his eyes, which instead, reproduced the dancing inferno as twin images on the lenses. The final guy was dark-haired, dark-skinned. His description was untold, as if mixed and matched in a montage of blood heritages, foreign and divine; fallen, and on high.