Shameless self-promotion: short (4 min) video of Fulani reading from the 'Museum of Deviant Desires' collection: view it on the Fulanismut Tumblr blog.
The segment - which is the beginning of a longer story - goes like this:
Any big music festival, there’s the surreal, sleazy, sexy all-night area. The weird block. Like this one. Jake and Dee, both dressed for sweaty fun and looking for the strange, the weird, the wicked, and the shockingly obscene. Picking their way along the makeshift mud street, thankful they remembered their walking boots. Crowd’s out in force, out looking for fantasies, for inexplicable strangeness to tell each other later when they’re sober. Bodies rubbing up against each other, slipping, sliding, suggestive.
Jake and Dee hang onto each other, looking at the freak parade. There are “trannies,” as Jake calls them, and Dee admonishes him and points out the current term is “T-girls.”
Jake asks how she knows that and she tells him: the guy who runs the plumbing supplies company she works at keeps his ballgowns in his office. Also mixed into the crowd there are muddy plushies, rubber-clad dominatrixes, fairies, anime cosplay characters, and a bunch of people who look like they just came out of a LARPwarp.
It’s not sex. Not quite. But almost. Jake’s glad he’s not drunk, Dee’s glad she didn’t do that acid tab. Feels like acid anyway, just walking in the crowd.
And here’s a place, The Museum of Deviant Desires. Interactive Exhibits To Satisfy and Delight All Tastes in Perversity, it says underneath. Lots of people hanging around, because a couple of cute women wearing not much apart from body paint are hanging from a kind of trapeze structure over the door, just beyond the reach of drunk and stoned hands. Well, maybe they’re women. Hard to tell. If they are, they’re wearing strap-ons. If they’re not, they’re transsexual and massively erect. What they are, beyond any doubt, though, is very gymnastic and very sexual.
Flashing lights around the entrance, music pulsing through it from the back of the venue. The music’s tribal and primitive and electronic, with a lot of sub-bass matched with vocals that could come straight from a magic ritual. Maybe they do. Maybe that’s what’s actually happening, inside.
Jake notices Dee’s skinny T-shirt is damp with sweat, her nipples engorged. He notices his cock is engorged. He holds her arm, her biceps, a little more tightly.
“This one? This looks good.”
She laughs and nods, the mingled noises of the crowd and the music making real conversation impossible. They push through the gaggle of people, his grip on her arm turning to handholding, and make it to the entrance. He turns to her and she smiles; he kisses her, turns to walk down the short corridor, is confronted with two curtains. One says “Museum” and the other “Enter At Your Own Risk.” Jake plunges through the Museum curtain.
And he gets an instant hit of darkness and depravity. Because he’s standing in a passageway with big glass windows, like the windows of giant fish tanks. No fish, though. The first window has a woman behind it, naked, kneeling on hands and knees. In fact there are straps on her wrists and forearms, calves and ankles, holding her in that position. She has a ball gag in her mouth and she’s looking at him with big, pleading eyes. Behind her is a rod connected to a set of mechanical gears and eccentric cams, run from a giant electric motor. The end of the rod is connected to a dildo buried in her cunt.
In front of the whole display is a big red button the size of a dinner plate, sign above it says push the button.
He pushes the button.