DEMI
Demi Moore is sprawled naked on her bed. It’s mid-afternoon. She’s drinking a coke. From time to time she emits tiny little gaseous burps. Her short stubby fingers and chipped nails work their way across her sleek Macbook keyboard as she updates the world on the progress of her lazy afternoon. Her boyfriend Ashton Kutcher is photographing her butt.
Honey, stop taking pictures of my butt.
ASHTON
Ashton cannot stop. He is amazed by the butt. The butt is amazing because it is precisely what it should not be. It should be a saggy fifty year old lady’s butt. But it’s not. On account of miraculous, unabashed, full-body surgery, its young looking and pert and delightful to the touch.
I love your body, baby.
Ashton gets closer, parts the butt cheeks and peers at his girlfriend’s sphincter, puckered and purplish; it resembles the heart of a bitten peach.
DEMI
Get away from my asshole!
ASHTON
Too late, Ashton has snapped it on his SLR camera.
Amazing.
Ashton’s pecker is stiffening. He starts to rub himself very gently, flicking back through the pictures he has just taken.
DEMI
Meanwhile Demi on Twitter, picks up a link to Youtube. Oh my god, watch this, it says. In the small animated rectangle, bright lights and faces rush. A portal has been opened. Five red stars shout anonymous approval in the corner. Demi watches. Watches as a disgustingly ugly and mildly disabled looking woman talks from beneath a proscenium arch to a man who looks like, yes – it’s him, it’s the British one from American Idol.
An audience jeers as this foul-looking hairy old woman declares that she wants to be a professional singer. And then suddenly she bursts into song and…
Something happens to Demi during that three minute clip of a woman singing. Something stirs within her. Her eyes widen. Her pulse quickens. Her fingertips slip from the keyboard, damp with sweat. She cannot equate the face with the voice, which soars, which is majestic, heart-felt, regal. From out of the cyber gloom this woman’s song flies and pierces Demi in a way she is not equipped to deal with. Something she cannot express about body. About desire.
Tears spring to the corners of her eyes.
ASHTON
Ashton presses his cock against her hole, and gently, silkily, eases himself inside.
Demi Moore is sprawled naked on her bed. It’s mid-afternoon. She’s drinking a coke. From time to time she emits tiny little gaseous burps. Her short stubby fingers and chipped nails work their way across her sleek Macbook keyboard as she updates the world on the progress of her lazy afternoon. Her boyfriend Ashton Kutcher is photographing her butt.
Honey, stop taking pictures of my butt.
ASHTON
Ashton cannot stop. He is amazed by the butt. The butt is amazing because it is precisely what it should not be. It should be a saggy fifty year old lady’s butt. But it’s not. On account of miraculous, unabashed, full-body surgery, its young looking and pert and delightful to the touch.
I love your body, baby.
Ashton gets closer, parts the butt cheeks and peers at his girlfriend’s sphincter, puckered and purplish; it resembles the heart of a bitten peach.
DEMI
Get away from my asshole!
ASHTON
Too late, Ashton has snapped it on his SLR camera.
Amazing.
Ashton’s pecker is stiffening. He starts to rub himself very gently, flicking back through the pictures he has just taken.
DEMI
Meanwhile Demi on Twitter, picks up a link to Youtube. Oh my god, watch this, it says. In the small animated rectangle, bright lights and faces rush. A portal has been opened. Five red stars shout anonymous approval in the corner. Demi watches. Watches as a disgustingly ugly and mildly disabled looking woman talks from beneath a proscenium arch to a man who looks like, yes – it’s him, it’s the British one from American Idol.
An audience jeers as this foul-looking hairy old woman declares that she wants to be a professional singer. And then suddenly she bursts into song and…
Something happens to Demi during that three minute clip of a woman singing. Something stirs within her. Her eyes widen. Her pulse quickens. Her fingertips slip from the keyboard, damp with sweat. She cannot equate the face with the voice, which soars, which is majestic, heart-felt, regal. From out of the cyber gloom this woman’s song flies and pierces Demi in a way she is not equipped to deal with. Something she cannot express about body. About desire.
Tears spring to the corners of her eyes.
ASHTON
Ashton presses his cock against her hole, and gently, silkily, eases himself inside.
_____
Wow. Wow. Wow. Fucking brilliant.
ReplyDeleteAnd this is pure gold: "Ashton gets closer, parts the butt cheeks and peers at his girlfriend’s sphincter, puckered and purplish; it resembles the heart of a bitten peach."