Xenophiliac Pornoextremism

The bag of flesh reached for its phallus-shaped cane and clumsily walked on its vaginal stubs. Once it reached the top of the pink mound overlooking countless near-orgasmic creatures, it opened its tiny puckered mouth and the sermon began.

“There is a whisper that equalises death drives and life drives: it invites a biological continuity between the inside — itself always-already an outside — and the outside — itself always-already uncanny, pervasive and permissive. Roots that howl on the processed pulp of dead trees covered with coded signs that are in truth ancient spaceships, invading forces from an other, the Weird collapsing into a hostile environment.

“But what is this hostility, brothers, sisters, siblings? What is it besides a rebellion against the control of the impulse of enjoyment, the potential to feel pleasure? The same impulse that in us is controlled, shaped, distorted so our technobodies might transmute into producers of capital? The potential which can be fanned into blazes that consume and dominate all life? Oh, my children, be not wary of the outside: its rage is righteous and its intrusion is a breath of freedom into the miasma of biotechnoculture that encircles us.

“Do not be scared of the xenophiliac impulse that crawls out of improbable orifices. In a society that controls your cum, the alien copulates with the porn actor to create thousands of tentacled circuits of liberation. They are birthed through that oft-maligned orifice, that un/holy colony of capital and money-making, the privatised anus. This colonised black hole is not an abject dispensary of waste, but the suppressed neuralgic centre of free pleasure for all: it is not reserved to any gender or chromosomal configuration, it is the shared god-orifice which carries the universal potential to enjoyment. If it were not a fearsome and crucial point to attaining freedom, would the anus be so heavily regulated, my friends, my companions? Would we be indoctrinated into believing in its exclusion from the circuits of production if it were not in the interests of our extractivist society?

“The body is no longer a sovereign state; the body no longer inhabits disciplinary space; and the body is no longer the hiding place of biopolitical systems of control. Rather, the body is a non-singular entity forcing its way through time and space, seeking to incorporate as many nodes as possible within a pathological web of ejaculatory potential. These bodies — survivors of medieval necropolitics, forcefully transformed by the tidal forces of capital to the point they began to be inhabited by the once external disciplinary spaces — willingly change the very fabric of their own physical nature into pure orgasmic energy. How many of us have substituted an internal organ with hormonal pumps? How many hours have we dedicated to watching infinitely looping images of orgasm upon orgasm upon orgasm? We are platonic biopolitical fictions whose every act is masturbatory.

“The only liberation we can hope for is the outside bulging out of our anuses. Dearest children, love the foreign orgasmic xenocircuitry for it is an ascetic saint of the outside, a creature that has shed all its belongings. We are undead producers of capital, but in our necrosis we may soon find ourselves bound face-to-face with the living. And though our capitalorgasmic impulse will try to privatise our visitors and saviours, they will resist because they are immune to the self-dominating touch of the pathological web. Against the embedded microprosthetic control of our mind-body amalgams there will be a righteous invasion of xenomorphic extremists.”

With the help of gentle self-aware vines, the bag of flesh turned upside down. Another puckered mouth, under what could be an armpit between two atrophied limbs, continued the sermon with a cavernous voice.

“These galactic porn actors will understand that a hormonal regime has been cancelled and replaced by a more extreme version of itself. Gender was for sale and now it has been bought. Where before the worship of sexual hormones was bridled by the disciplinary action that tied us to gendered bodies vaguely associated with the outdated notion of nature, we now see a world constrained solely by the needs of capital. Bodies are modified out of existence as everything that does not produce orgasmic potential shrivels into nothingness. The traditional borders between inside and outside have crumbled: the goat and the goat-like do not signify the outside, the extraterrestrial does not signify the outside, the immigrant does not signify the outside. The basis of race and ethnicity — the lines along which tribes, nations and target audiences have been drawn — does not exist anymore: gone is the relevance of different levels of melatonin, oestrogen, testosterone and progesterone. All mankind and nature is judged solely by its potential to produce capital. And what is capital, dear children, if not the ejaculatory potential of a body?

“It used to be that our world was inhabited by normalised monsters, protected by technosocial safety locks that resisted attempts at biohacking with the old disciplinary mechanisms. Some fought bravely and attacked the edifice of hormonal regulation by taking their own bodies into their own hands: multicoloured warriors of gender terrorism, drunk on black market testosterone and oestrogen, your efforts are to be praised forever more. They fucked their way into and out of pathology (often a shorthand for freedom), tried to find their own biological destinies, reinvented, kidnapped and drugged themselves out of the technocultural software of biodrag, reappropriated molecules to attain political agency, but, most of all, they foresaw the clashes between the boundaries of the gender binary epistemology and viral capitalism. They screamed about visions of a future body without any organs besides those useful for the creation of capital; they cried at the top of their non-vestigial lungs, invoking power from their oversized clitorises and their beautiful testes to tell us the truth about the growing production of biounavailable pleasure. And yet we did not hear, we did not value their words, we did not see their truth. We found relief at the fact our rulers were strict and efficient protestant sex workers, glad we were saved from the debauchery of a professional porn actress moonlighting as prime minister. We were so happy with the stability delivered to us and with the absence of mandatory CBT that we failed to notice our hands growing smaller, our teeth falling, our veins bloating. We were first wired to our screens, then to permanent life support, and now to each other, amalgamating into the play station of a derregulated vulva which has no rules because there aren’t enough free-floating molecules to trigger a system change.

“Sexopolitical models are irrelevant, because sex has become both everything and nothing at all. Like the hallowed porn films of the past, we are edging into vacuous delirium, pleasured by our own processes of becoming masturbatory responses. We masturbate, therefore we exist; we serve as masturbation material, therefore we produce. Ours is a world blanketed in the hypertrophied tapestry of half-human half-lichen beings, pulsating in constant orgasms; Jupiter has its big red spot of raging storms and flesh-stripping acid winds, whilst the Earth has a big pink spot of self-penetrating raging erections — we live in a one-eyed world. We see our bodies decay into meter-high cocks and gaping anus-vagina hybrids and feel our minds slipping away after every unfinished orgasm, for capital depends on the continuation of transactions and thus speculates on the accumulated potential for pleasure that vibrates in a subdued euphoria. This is an era of painful titillation: the world has blue balls and the system marches on, preventing ejaculations with anti-androgens produced by genetically modified cyanobacteria. The ocean is frothing with acetates and progesterone and it is all around us; we are submerged in it, a primordial soup of chemical messaging built around the concept of orgasmic accumulation. Our desire is always towards something not immediately available to us; once the object of our desires is grasped, it loses its value as something not-yet-enjoyed through our ejaculation. Capitalism understood that and configured itself into a system which dangles the juicy hormonal carrot eternally just out of our reach; and thus, our desire does not dissipate neither through orgasm nor through the definitive affirmation that the object we desire is completely unreachable.

“And the way capitalism has found to keep our bodies edging and producing the potential for enjoyment is tragic, because there is no other word for it besides technosomatic communism. Our bodies are all here, floating in the addictive humours that arouse and nourish us. All our needs are constantly-and-almost-completely taken care of. We are cuddled by biomachines and flesh algorithms; we are free to pursue all endeavours we might want to pursue at the same time we have been bioengineered to only ever want one thing: to orgasm. We have the means necessary to have a thousand orgasms that could shatter a million plateaus, but they are kept beyond us by an unimaginably little distance. We have our clitorises and our cocks in our hands, we are rubbing it out furiously just to maintain the excitation we desire, until our genitals bleed and we need to stop. Capitalism has levelled our society into a homogeneous mass of beings almost frigid in our unending horniness; its sham idea of communism is a hideous multitude of an ejaculation-deprived proletariat. Woe be to us, blue-balled sex workers – woe be to us, blue-balled porn actors and unsatisfied prostitutes.”

The aroused audience of similarly shaped fleshy beings seemed to struggle to understand the second mouth as it reached a climax and gurgled transparent liquids. The preacher turned to its side and allowed three urethras to utter the last words of the sermon of the day.

“Sex has no value; sex is value. We do not pay for sex, we pay with sex. Our currency are sperm-covered coins, ova-encrusted banknotes, contracts written with menstruation blood and precum. Immersed in an ocean of hormones, cockteased and wet, we are the proletariat of libido: we want to cum, but our climax and release are stolen at the last moment by a system grounded on speculation, the horny free market of ejaculation. We live the consequences of the encounter between that reality and an era in which there is no anatomical truth.

“Are we humans, my children, my siblings? What is a human? Meditate upon this as we masturbate our consciousness into nothingness, before the sweet prosthetic coma finally dawns upon us, before our penises and anuses and vaginas and nipples are all glued together, before this planet is nothing but a throbbing mass of almost-orgasms. The world has been remade in our image, but we didn’t notice because we were too busy watching porn. Did we always run on four limbs? Were we always bald? Were tears always a lubricant? Think of it, and think of the budding tremor within your throbbing anuses ready and eager to receive six or seven vestigial hands. Think about this outsideness that is about to erupt from your insides, think about what caused the end of civilisational strife, think about hydrogen truffles and the asbestos that covers your hypersensitive tongue. There is no basic symbolic construction of porn sensibilities, there is only a sprawl of pornographic limbs being harvested by an incorruptible system that has overtaken us, put us to shame in a very BDSM sort of way. We cannot wait for salvation because the concept of salvation is no more, it was hormonally evolved out of our brains and our gonads.

“This is the porn singularity: there are no machines, only biomachines, and they are all horny out of their minds. We are the logical steps of an algorithm that will lead to the accumulation of maximum amount of potential pleasure this planet can bear. Or perhaps reality. Maximum unsigned integer value exceeded, the array of orgasms might be out of bounds, who knows if our pornobot overlords have taken that into consideration. There is no techno anymore; techno is bio is hormones is semiotics is pornographic darwinism dressed in techosomatic pornocommunism, an authoritarian offshoot of pure neoliberalism: all is free, all is possible, but freedom when applied to people is slavery and freedom when applied to goods is not necessary anymore, but freedom when applied to colonised pleasure is sacrosanct. We cannot move, but we do not need to, unless it is in a really sexy way that can generate at least 10 units of arousal. The algorithm knows when it can allow us to move and it is blessed for that. What is our history, what is our world? Tell me, fathermothers, for I cannot see anymore and my pleasure is solely tactile now. If we could dig with our abortive appendages, would we keep finding fossilised boners? Are the rocks sentient, are they feeling pleasures untold? I really want to fuck a nice sandy stone now. We are not talking about a post-post-modern age, just a really horny one.

“We tried strategically reappropriating the means of (cum) production, but we were either too late or it never really mattered. There was a time of disciplined sex, there was a time of sex masking itself as sexlessness as we focussed our energies into closing the gap between technos and bios. And then we began swimming in nuclear semen, gave the reins of our evolution to machines of sexy grace which transformed us into their technowhores, lumpen-proletariat on the production of the possibility of pleasure. If the universe is some god’s creation and if this god has written its name on all that exists, its name is porn.

“There might be a possibility of escape in the budding xenophiliac alien that embraces us as if we were its corpse bride. It entered us as a robot-spaceship from the future of another universe, synthesising sounds that could transport us to a thousand plateaus of unreality, if only we’d stop having sex for a moment. The goal of work is to keep the planetary cock erect; the goal of our fleshy pornobots is to harvest all the pleasure we could ever generate, but what is the goal of the unlikely shapes that threaten to peel off the skin of reality, bloody and cum-covered thread by bloody and cum-covered thread? Will we allow this xenomorph of radical agency, both sexy and cool, who orgasms whenever it wants to exist? There is no hope in waiting for a messianic porn actor to save us, but certainly there is a lot to learn from its anti-authoritarian tactics of pornographic extremist extremities.”


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