The Girls Guide to Ghost Fucking
An obligatory warning before we begin, brought to you by the Society for the Suppression of Supernatural Vice …
From Sextus Empiricus we learn that sensation is change; to change is to be mortal; to feel is to die; therefore, the damned cannot feel; they burn without pain, uncold and unwarm; infinite infants, senile immortals; father-mother and child, they give birth to themselves. In the same way that Hafiz — in his mystic fuck poems (ghazal, sultry-sacred diminuendo) — breeds roses, wine, cryptoerotic mountebanks, neophyte doms, every molecule and moon (the moon too is a molecule), a slot-and-slut machine of mispronounced or misspelled amino embryons that somehow reproduce a genomic dipygus named Hafiz. There is no distinction but what our arrogance or madness compels.
Now given all that girls, what’s the point of trying to fuck a ghost?
Every ghost is damned. The Damned are eternal. For them, counting and time are unthinkable. Thinking is unthinkable. Thinking about time takes time (the time to zip from neuron to neuron, but the distance between ghost neurons is the distance from Archduke Franz Ferdinand to Emperor Palpatine (or from Leopardi’s ‘Mother of the Eucharist’ to Chance the Rapper’s ‘Sunday Candy’). Ergo, ghosts are stupid, however much of a cunnilingual crackerjack they may be in a munch.
And get used to topping.
Or sub-topping or bottoming for a demi-dumb-dom. Ghosts don’t act. They react — inconclusively.
Ghosts are generic. You’re specific, with a specific body chemistry, you-do-you stimulants, a mensurable chonkitude and proud of it. Ghosts (here the Neoplatonists converge on postmodern biology) are airy, anorexic oxygen, abstract, a rom-com drizzle-down in a CGI hurricane. Ghosts fuck democratically but have never yet fucked a specific constituency. They gift diffusively, sport hazy, scattershot hard-ons for Humanity. They are perpetually infecting and being infected (though, again, inconclusively) with STDs. And while a little gris-gris in the pee-pee is no reason to panic, the risk of viral transmission from eternity to temporality deserves systematic study.
Every ghost is damned.
Sure, being damned does give them that goth-core-dank-OG-vegan-vampire-cosplay-lo-pan-steampunk-ragazza-baccazza-homeless-hipster with a dark past appeal. There’s the fact that ghosts don’t change so you’re never tempted to change them. And yes, that chiselled chest (like anabolic ice), that gelid smile, those brooding tits and ghastly gams could outlast the Laocoön Group and most museum catalogues. You like dad-bods? That dad bod’s gonna stay a dad bod from Eve’s First Brunch (the apocryphal Adamic Grand Opening) to the biocidal degringolade of the polycellular borganism. And as long as they died at least “half-mast”(see Tip #1 below) they’re pretty much randy to go, at least until their penitential promissory notes are paid down. I have yet to encounter Ghost-Cialis on WebMD.
I’ll be in my bunk.
Just kidding?
Anyways, now that we’ve about flatlined our legal team, here are eleven supernal, or infernal, tips for novice ghost-fuckers that are guaranteed to help me feed my kids this month.
1) Make sure your trick died in flagrante delicto.
This rule is a double-down if they lean male, as incremental erections (perpetually erecting at the generational pace of a cathedral) are possible, but patience unto Mother Teresahood is key. Otherwise, sans rod, lube helps. The key word here is “helps.” Don’t expect to transform their Dune Planet into Splooshtown over anything less than ecological timescales.
2) Text over talk.
“The time to talk to fish is when they’re on the hook.”
In practice, though, your bon-rio-onryō is prone to bitch and moan sepulchrally on the best days. If you insist on face to “face” communication, brush up on body language. Don’t try to project a poker face onto a shuffling poker deck and don’t paint a definite emotion over that pentimento-collage of mouths and eyebrows, museum of past and maybe-molecules.
3) Test the waters.
Whale out some sexy sonar. Give them time to visualize their kinks, preferably postcoital and over a strategic text session on their Didi ride home (see #2). Don’t act anything out. Not yet. The VR can be hotter than the act, and this gives you a chance to frame your own kinks as free-trade or, alternatively, to keep some of your rancid buttered pecan, sotto voce, between you and our cunnilingual comrades over at the ‘Do It Better Column’ here at Impresario Kerkur. Pushing too hard for reciprocity can put a caperture on your aperture in short order.
4) A geas today is ED (erectile dysfunction) tomorrow.
Hark to Dr. Burckhardt when he states “A curse is a mix of hate and impotence.” Encourage them to seek paracultic intervention for their own peace of mind. Don’t shame. But if that cross on their back is the only wood they’re carrying, dump them. A basic martyr is only slightly less grating (*face-palm emoji*) than a cheddagogue whining about suboptimal wine pairings.
5) Just because he’s dragging around all those chains …
Doesn’t mean he’s GGG.
6) Respect the gag reflex of innocent bystanders.
He or she may be your tortured tater tot or ottering-ostrus;* you may be their chonky cotoroanță calembour. But your slobbering, ectoplasmic kisses are arousing bivalve bowel eruptions, not jealousy.
* Not to be confused with the Oestrus, or domesticated pussy parcher, a creature of asymmetric kinks and predilections, whose sexual statecraft can be difficult to distinguish from its puritanical ratonnades. Its tedious irrumations may induce dithering ovulations followed by a cool-down period (the gynecological ‘rovinava’) of penitential celibacy.
7) Don’t sacrifice friends and family.
Seriously. Don’t do it. You’ll thank yourself for the support network later. Besides, guts for guts and dermal to dermal, the viscera exchange rates suck and have been getting worse in recent centuries. At best, mulching your sister might buy you a patch the size of your best friend Clarissa’s trashy foot tattoo. Tipping an extra racist uncle or two could regenerate enough of a lung and vocal cords for your trick to gutter out a passable “thank you.” But without a functioning circulatory system, gangrene pretty much sets in immediately. And no one likes a kinslayer.
8) Brie breeze (or stank dick). It’s a thing.
Ghost douching is not. (Also, no sugaring; sorry follicle-phobes, it’s a physics thing). Whatever hygienic state, or expiration date they were in post-compost-mentis, that’s how they’re going to stay. But do take the long view. Ghosts don’t sweat or fart. As to bad breath, if not mint fresh, it’s never getting worse.
9) Never reenact the tragic circumstances surrounding their death.
If we have to explain this one, you’re fucked but not fucking, a sad état de choses (say it in a faux French accent; who else would compare a human orgasm to “the little death”?)
10) Practice safe sex.
A motherly PSA.
Ghosts reproduce like hippity-hoppity (no, not Tupac) holograms.
Birth control. Curse control. Just because there’s no penetration doesn’t mean that interpenetration is risk free. Yes, the classic full-body condom from ‘The Naked Gun’ is a joke. But a sturdy pullover and rain boots could save you an expensive course of astral antibiotics and be a hell-baby saver too.
11) Get used to extremes.
Too thin. Too thick. Paranormal porridge dick is as hard to find as among more terrestrial offerings.
To sum up. You’re fucked if you do. Definitely not fucked if you don’t. So you do you. You have only yourselves to damn.
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Arreshy Young‘s work has appeared in The Puritan, Western Humanities Review, STORGY, Midway Journal, and the monomers of the Ajami Private Diction. His favourite chapter is Chapter 8. His hot sauce of choice is forever dribbling onto his favorite page. He has maxed out his credit cards buying fresh copies from profiteering book publishers who insist on selling him the 323 other superfluous pages.