Baby, I Wanna Put Things In You And Stuff


I am now in a flux of passion well nigh unequaled over the span of my short life—if such it may be called, for there were parts of it wherein I knew neither your face, nor your person, nor even my overwhelming and present desire to insert objects into each of these.

What manner of objects? I survey the room and discover myriad items of erotic potential. A television remote. A mouse. A steak knife. A light bulb.

But stay, my love! Why shrink back? What threat has yonder shampoo bottle now that it so lacked earlier? Indeed, I say there is no “threat,” but instead “potential”. Love, allow me to explain the genesis of my passions, for scarce a thing could suit me better but that I might also shove my ideas into you.


Quick, now! Examine this cucumber. Green. Lumpy. Sedentary. A thing plucked from the vine in the full of life and left but to die to our digestive juices.

Truly, it is a sad existence that this cucumber leads. It makes a plain meal; will anyone truly relish it? A few morbid crunches—then a quick swallow, and some hours later it is flushed into oblivion.

So is that all? It existed merely for this?

No! That vegetable has greater gifts to grant this world than mere essential roughage!

Imagine: the cucumber transformed! For, once it has been all up inside your Midas hole, it is become a mechanism of pleasure and of joy. And then it is outside you, and then inside you, and then outside you, and then inside you again! Each plunge as transformative as that of Achilles into the Styx, and we its Thetis!


Coated thus in the succulent juices of desire, this hitherto humdrum vegetable has transcended its own existence. No longer a mere physical object, it has obtained an aura uniquely human; uniquely alive; uniquely passionate!

Imagine, thereafter, the infinite pleasure of consuming it! No mere viniagrette could bestow such flavor upon the meal. Would we not savor together the juicy crunch of it between our molars, and run our tingling tongues over its seeds? What more pleasurable meal might exist?

Do not, love, limit your imagination to this one mere example. We live in a world of objects, of things, bereft of any true meaning to us. How often in the day does one manipulate some pedestrian utensil toward which one could scarce rouse the most trifling thought of affection or attachment?


I want to change the channel with a remote that absolutely pulses with eroticism! I want to sign my name with a pen that writes in a scrawl of lust. I want to drink through a straw that’s been through you. I want only to stretch my belly with foods that have in turn stretched you. When my phone rings, I do not want to lift it from its cradle, but rather retrieve it from yours.

Did not Friedrich Nietsche—Cupid’s own court philosopher—write in his famous “Über Wahrheit und Lüge im außermoralischen Sinn” that we conceive of reality only through a series of veiled metaphors and anthropomorphic associations? Did not that old romantic William Blake lament that we experienced the glory of existence merely through our imperfect senses, and only five, at that?

If, then, what we see and hear and smell and taste and feel is but a vague representation of reality, why not color it by sticking more of reality on up there? Our senses interpret only the vague impressions of reality, and the associations we draw between them are no less real than those other electrical impulses. If I must live in this world, then I would have it be a magical kingdom populated by objects enchanted with the divine thrill of having been in there. There is no place for the droll while I could experience the transcendent. We speak, m’lady, of a world wherein the sweetest word is “shove”.


So tell me, my sweet, is not the measure of an orifice best taken by yardstick? And is not our love better weighed by scale? Where else might the plainest carrot find sweeter spice? Or celery stick find more complimentary condiment? In what gentler oven may the eggplant bake?

So, my love, why not give a quick push outward and roll the dice?

Know that the thrill of some whispered words may fade… but a stapler is forever.