The penis without its Oliver had already become a star. A poll revealed that as an anonymous part of a normal person it wouldn’t be so interesting to people.
The Church for the Protection of Genital Organs likewise wanted the penis to be separated from Oliver, yet not so that it could perform in porn movies or couple with me again, which they viewed as unnatural. Instead, they wanted it to retire to a zen monastery. Oh, the moral obsessions of churches!
Thus there was conflict between the movie producers, with whom I had signed an agreement on behalf of the cloned Oliver, and the lawyers for the penis and the Church of PGO.
“We won’t allow you to go on sexually exploiting that poor penis,” Pigface told me at a deposition hearing.
“It’s a sexual organ. It was born to be sexually exploited,” I retorted.
“He’s an individual with full rights, including the right of freely choosing the modality of his sexuality.”
“It’s a penis. If it becomes hard that means it wants to fuck.”
“Not at all! Diseases exist, such as priapism. Erection can be the symptom of a pathology.”
I decided to change my strategy. “It’s a piece of meat without a brain. It’s not compos mentis.”
“Another reason to protect his dignity. We will never allow that poor penis to be forced into any more intercourse for which he didn’t give written consent.”
“How can a penis write anything?”
“If held properly, it can produce a DNA signature.”
“Without a prostate it can’t ejaculate, so where’s the ink?”
“We can prepare all necessary documents before the separation.”
Suits and countersuits were heard, and the lawyers were all very happy until at last no legal problems prohibited the penis being separated from Oliver. Final judgment was that since the penis was cloned before the body, it was the one who owned the other, and not the contrary. The penis owned the man, namely the cloned Oliver; Oliver did not own the penis. If it’s legitimate for a man to cut off his own penis, provided that he isn’t attempting suicide, logically the penis could decide to cut off its own man. The lawyer for the penis, as his legal representative, had full power to act in this regard – and to steal the penis of my Beloved, I was thinking in anger and frustration.
The judge duly retired and became a lord.
However, we live in a strange and unpredictable world.
Under its various Patriot Acts, the USA had permitted itself to intervene in any part of the world in defence of its homeland security and its supplies of oil and cheap obesity fast food, full of oil and sugar and additives. To signal to the world its rise as a rival superpower, China enacted the Salvation of Culture Law, by which the Chinese gave themselves the right to intervene anywhere to protect the interests of art. This was something that the American government found hard to understand, so they did not threaten the Chinese with thermonuclear war.
If the USA was the Global Cop, China would be the Global Curator. A popular US slogan was “Kick Ass America!” So Beijing declared “Save Art China!” And why not, China being the oldest civilization on Earth? When Venice began to sink rapidly, swift intervention by Chinese technology had rescued the Italian city, preserving it in a dome to the applause of most nations. From then on, China could take great liberties in the defence of art.
Art included performance art, and one of the many ways of preserving art was Gor-Gon, a polymerizing nanotechnology inspired by Gunther Von Hagen’s corpse plastination factory in the north-eastern Chinese port city of Dalian. In just a few seconds, a jab of Gor-Gon administered by injection or by a dart fired from a gun could transform any living being into plastinated artwork, petrifying for ever (though by no means as stiffly as stone) the target animal or person at that moment.
The penis had been quite a performer, and the legal case was by now notorious worldwide, as was the prospect of cloned penis and cloned person parting company. So Chinese art agents targeted Oliver. Already Chinese art agents had overenthusiastically targeted several famous opera singers and actors for a Hall of Fame. Since the salvation of Venice, the Chinese could do pretty much as they pleased, but plastinating artists suddenly while they were on stage caused demands for ticket refunds, arguments about civil rights, and also poorer performances by many divas and stars who didn’t wish to be plastinated, which was all very regrettable and counterproductive. So this was made illegal. But according to Chinese law, plastinating a clone was just as acceptable as plastinating a criminal for export to medical schools…
I’m so lucky. At the moment of petrification, the penis of my former Beloved was fully erect – he had to be slid out of Andorra by the Chinese agents who invaded her flat. So now I live in China, inside a big transparent cube. I couple with the penis attached to Oliver whenever I want. Plastination keeps the penis stiff, yet soft and comfortable to use. Of course, plastinated Oliver never says a thing, nor moves, although I arrange him artistically just as I please.
Outside the cube every day, crowds of visiting art lovers and connoisseurs admire us and shoot holographic movies, so that we never feel alone. Inside the cube, the air is always fresh and rich in happy-making hormones. The Chinese takeaway meals supplied to me free are so varied and delicious. Life is beautiful! Or maybe life is simply too complex to understand.
Nothing But This
Kristina Lloyd
I call him the Boy although he isn’t. He’s skinny enough, it’s true – as skinny as the kids who do backflips in the square – and there’s not a single hair on his flat brown chest. But his age is in his eyes, eyes as green as a cat’s, and when I look right at him, though we’re meant to be ignoring him, I see eyes that might be a thousand years old.
He’s been following us for half an hour, weaving among the crowds, his flip-flops slap-slapping in the dust of the souk. “Hey, mister! Hey, lady!” he keeps calling. “You wanna buy carpet? Teapot? Saffron? You wanna buy incense? Come, come! Come to meet my uncle.”
His urge to “come, come” sounds grubby and erotic and the refrain pulses in my head like some dark drumbeat, weird enough for me to wonder if it’s going to bring on one of my migraines.
“Lady, you wanna buy handbag? Real leather! The best! Hey, mister, nice wallet for you! Look this way! You are my guest. Come!” The Boy averts his eyes, head down and spinning, and the whole song and dance routine seems a pastiche of the real hustlers, an empty act he can turn off at will. No wonder he can’t look at us: we’d see right through him.
“I feel like David bloody Niven,” mutters Tom.
Tom’s posh as fuck, so self-assured and confident you don’t even notice it. He’s relaxed and ironic. A bit on the prim side, it has to be said, but I adore every hot salty inch of him. I like to draw him, standing, sitting, lying, sprawling, my futile bid to capture him in charcoal and pencils. In evening class, I learned to draw not just the object but the space around it. I learned to see absence. “What’s not there is as important as what is,” said our tutor, although personally I’d contest that with Tom. I’m quite a fan of what’s there. Naked, he’s pale and softly muscled with strong swimmer’s shoulders and thighs like hams. Sometimes I sketch his cock, big and randy or just lolling on his thigh, framed in dark curls, and when I show him the end result he’ll invariably wince. “Oh God,” he drawls, looking away and sounding slightly camp. “You’re so vulgar.” But he can’t help smiling and I know deep down he likes it.