I’ve never had fun at a drag show so fun is not what I do in drag.

If you cant handle something I say… I can’t help you.

The burden of getting everything complicated completely right is not going to fall on this stage. Drag will always be a bit wrong. I wrote an illegitimate devotional that’s for sale tonight. In it, I say drag is only surface, the unbreakable kind. Call it wrong and you’re most definitely right, but certainly lives shouldn’t feel shattered. Drag is anti-authoritarian, convincing isn’t the currency I exchange here.

I don’t owe you a solid conclusion.

You can think between the subjects I drop.

I am casual.

I trust my intuition more than my analysis.

I am rarely confused. When I see over someone’s shoulder a Grindr grid, I know in my bones that I am not gay anymore. Gay has gone on in this digital age to become something outside me. Gay freedom got us a new support group for App-Addicts. I am not opposed to online connection, however I need it to better embody the fractured togetherness of online life assemblage.

I am a voyeur, unengrossed.

NoFappers have a wormhole of digital Christianity on YouTube. Video confessionals as talking heads in muscle tanks uuurrrging their viewers to workout instead of wank…. they attempt to charm the pants back on you. Nofappers blame everything on a history of masturbating too much. They say they feel more work ready now, not wanking. I feel for them in my own pants… these delicious problems they have… unfocused, cockborgs who can only get hard in a hand with a computer not an orifice hosting expectations like mutual beneficiaries, homeownership and a future of fucking the way god capitalism commands of us. They’ve recently expanded forums to female perspectives, but like most godly movements it remains man’s moment.

There is not a way to really call-out the cis-sexism of this moment right now and move forward with what I wish to do… I am short on time. I simply label it as such.

So I will lean on Andrea Dworkin who says “limp dick” is the answer to a new sex life
“give up their precious erections”
“renounce their phallocentric personalities”

Addiction can be a great teacher and there is a garden of souls growing online now with a fetish for the incapacity to meet… only home alone… bedded… jerking… in screen gaze… confirming an inability to desire an otherwise—which I believe shows a profound self awareness. If these penile pumpers have fucked themselves flaccid—of their own volition—let us not deconstruct the scenario that got us here and just accept the situation now for what it is:

If you want to paralyze the patriarchy it’s time to start with his peeenis.

Keep these Capitalists in their pants.

heterosexuality’s origami-foldings of stupidity aside,
this type of cumming together facilitates the absence of action.

& I just like to watch them—being useless.

Any online chaturbate module will reveal countless men, of all class representations that exist behind a desk while at work, masturbating or more often devolved, doing nothing with their pants down. They login in to broadcast the ebb and anti-flow of daily desk life. The hands off (hands on penis only) management style we’ve intuitively known all the while is now available free of charge, endlessly streaming from Wifi waves around us, in the air we breathe. Watch your boss wank the day away until he’s so bored his dick doesn’t work anymore. Truth can be an uneventful static shock like that. They submit themselves as public record of how nothing can be done for 50 hours a week. A work jerk to helps forget how little life you feel belongs to you.

The bate bro cult is an invitation to group waste, melting the shells in which these men survive themselves, so they might forego personhood altogether. I get invited into that fragile happening where all the job talk stops. Souls seeking only one digital nudge: Isn’t it time to get your penis out? Who needs a lover or friends when you could just keep cuming to yourself? The job is just the background. Heterosexuality is the work-worthy identity—one who is entitled to work, of his choosing.

Do you have a wanker boss… who just gets furious if you call him away from instagram or tinder or grindr… you have to set him up with an ipad on the couch in some corner away from you visibly working to ensure that there’s no interruption in his scroll that so long as you manage his left-aloneness then you’re neutral or at least honored with quiet? Freedom is like this unsteady reprieve.

The office with window is for wanking not working…

There is relatively little one can do from the top of a ladder… wiggling about… straining an orgasm… the spillage over us and our denial… pretending the stress is otherwise.

I once wrote about puppies in Schöneberg under the title Doggy Haraway Play, but that wasn’t quite right because those bros just fetishize the purchase culture of gay gathering.

< Johanna Hedva’s ON HELL says something like: My name is fuckall and I’m a wallet>

However, Donna Haraway could have a real moment with this Solosexual end-of-sex culture. The self-identified Monkey Baters within this borg-broadcasting community of isolates praise themselves for reverting to that of monkeys masturbating as if in zoos behind fences just passing time the way they do with or without audience. Monkey Baters would reverse evolutionary progress if reproduction were part of their program, if life after Peeeenis were possible. These men recognize their fullest potential and attempt nothing else thereafter. Naughty narcissists born with 2 hands—one to take over when the other becomes numb—and that was all they ever needed. A penis who tires only when the brain is dead. Here, you’ve got the best ruins of identity—something everyone seems to wish dead and living-dead all at once in this our mostly internet-lived life. Monkey baters go non-verbal, contort and drool.

Have you ever learned something in the worst possible way?

Whatever is holding you back now?

Have you ever appreciated enough the solitude that made seeing your rituals of self unsightly?

This shame speech isn’t about talking you to death it’s about recovering the seduction of comprehensive private life—gravity. Keep quiet and fuck yourself long and hard.

The proliferation of screens is the new private life you carry around living private in full public view.

Perhaps also approaching the ruins of an oversex fetish of no sex ever again… it is absolutely my business to witness this stunted end of virility. See those men in charge of things clouded with wankers’ fatigue. Just a body with a penis draining ambition for another calling: cum home early from work and die already.

Again, what is a private office
But space for rearranging violence?

Masturbation is the new smoke break—this was a media wormhole for a few seconds.

Masturbate to end sexually transmitted disease.

Masturbate to end the social coercion of marriage whose twilight promise of sexing for good produces only service orientated social positions and top trickling cum down economies of existence… strategies of hold my breath and await the worst to become my memoir.

Masturbate rage away.
Masturbation is a fantastic end to this life.
Who is going change the way you feel, but you, masturbating.

Docile dicking on repeat allows a much better future to manifest in your absence.

Witness this mess of personhood inspired to castrate himself willfully without violence just laying there alone in a field of orgasms… prisoner to a new penile system

I whisper: Please become a quivering pile of human jello, just jiggling bits, powerless to the call of ecstasy.

Your absence is the greatest currency you can offer your children.

Kids these days don’t wish they had it good, they want say they survived the worst.

Right? All you rich kids fake broke and barely surviving as if hardly making it as an artist, hardly making work, until a few months later when you buy a flat and complain about how difficult it is to own property. All the while insisting these things are hard too. I know it’s hard for you…

but is it as hard as your penis? Isn’t your penis harder than anything we’ve ever seen before?!?!

Children of means to inherit:

You don’t need costly drug addiction to disappoint your parents

become a fruitless wanker

it is a far more unsightly disappearance

one stranger to mass consumption

stop washing yourself in green

reduce your impact as a steadfast shut-in—moist between the legs

wrapped up in fantasy life that requires neither your presence nor pursuit

you just keep cuming to nothing
cuming to nothing made of yourself…

*performed at Get Fucked under the organization of Olympia B.

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