Studies in Pity: Assorted Erotica

Sometimes we find ourselves staring at the wall. Usually we're simply in a daze and not thinking about very much at all; the day, packed full of adventure and mischief as it is, has exhausted us, and we require an object whose contemplation will not add to our fatigue. The wall, in its blank earnestness, seems perfect for the task.
On some days, however, some cruel and lonely days, the wall begins to seem more substantial than ourselves. It seems to have more achievements to its credit, more friends, a more robust constitution, and certainly a better sex life. Some of these walls, you realize, have borne witness to the rising of more than three generations of man. They count you among the least of those upon whom their gaze has fallen. Their whiteness and austerity seem no longer neutral, but condemnatory: "You too, creature of flesh and blood, shall pass." Then you realize the wall has three allies, each of whom appears to be conspiring against you in a different way; in their totality, they imprison you. One threatens to collapse, the other to let in the poisonous curry fumes from next door, the last to steal the moisture from your body. Whispers crowd out sane thoughts. You question next the loyalties of the door: "It's not reliable. It's always changing sides. One day open, on the next, closed. This will not do." Even your bookcases, erstwhile comrades, seem no longer trustworthy. Escape is no longer possible. "Fire," you think. The All-Consumer. It is your only recourse...

There's a deep and profound madness there, one which is assuaged by finding men more pitiable than oneself. Some men need not look very far to find people of that sort: they merely stroll down the hall of their well-appointed office to find someone of lower rank than themselves. This done, they enter the office of their subordinate, whip out their dick, place it on the desk of their astonished colleague, and say "What do you think of that?" Then they tuck their manhood away and saunter off, having gathered energy sufficient for at least a weak. Subordinates must simply put up with this behaviour, though at least they have the opportunity to sexually harass their own subordinates, too, and they theirs, in a long-chain of humiliation and enervation.

But not all of us work in offices or have subordinates. We must engage in a virtual dick-waving, must find ourselves a virtual subordinate to humiliate... uh, virtually. For that purpose I nominate David Gonterman, a man in his late thirties who draws cartoons for an audience of exactly nobody, and poorly. If ever you feel the walls closing in, simply swing on over to The Gonterman Shrine and instantly feel better about yourself. JSP, the curator of all things strange, has seen fit to assemble a number of Gonterman Original Works in one place, and has put his acid wit to work in providing running commentary for Daveykins' comics. Though it's gone without an update since 2001, the Shrine remains amusing nonetheless.

Up next: a short story involving Herodotus and his first love, as it might be told by Herodotus himself. Will his eromenos be a girl? A boy? A god in the form of an animal? An animal in the form of a god? A hermaphroditic Ethiopian, aged one-hundred twenty? Who knows?!?