Originally part of an undivided volume—specifically Volume Two of my Sex Positivity (2023) book series—this promo post now belongs to a large-but-redundant sample series called “Brace for Impact“ (2024); i.e., that went on to become its own completed module in Volume Two: the Poetry Module, aka Volume Two, part one. The module was primarily inspired by Harmony Corrupted and divides into over thirteen posts, whose collective chapters/subchapters compile one half of the larger total volume; i.e., Volume Two has three modules—one bigger module for part one (re: the Poetry Module), and two slightly smaller modules (the Monster Modules) for part two—for which the volume halves are roughly equal in size (subject to change).

Update, 5/4/2024: I’m starting a similar book sample series for Volume Two, part two: “Searching for Secrets“ (2024)!

Update, 5/1/2024: Volume Two, part one (the Poetry Module) is out! I wrote a preface for the module along with its debut announcement. Give that a look; then, go to my book’s 1-page promo to download the latest version of the full module (which will contain additions/corrections these posts will not have)!

Click here to see “Brace for Impact’s” Table of Contents and Full Disclaimer.

Permissions: Any publicly available images are exhibited for purposes of education, transformation and critique, thus fall under Fair Use; private nude material and collabs with models are specifically ally shared with permission from the original model(s). For more details about artist permissions, refer to the book disclaimer (linked above).

Picking up up from where “Halfway There: Between Modules” left off…

“That Ass Is a Higher Truth”: Leaving the Castle; or, Bookending Harmony Corrupted

“We ain’t outta here in ten minutes, we won’t need no rocket to fly through space!”

—Parker, Alien

As we leave Harmony’s Castle Black, we’re faced with yet another castle ahead of us:

(exhibit 34b2a1b: Artist, bottom: Ivan Aivazovsky. Concentric size difference in action. Per cosmic nihilism, there is always something bigger, more badass; per me, nature always trumps Capitalism and like an angry planet or dark hostile ocean, always dwarfs patriarchal industry with monstrous-feminine heft. The traveling destructor is both, then—capital trying to harvest nature, and nature smashing capital’s gluttonous hauler against its giant backside: “Harvest this!” To that, nature’s a big girl, she’s always wild and wet, and unlike “Lo Pan” saying “I bring the thunder and the lightning and I make it rain!” in “Lo Pan Style,” really can do these things. It’s a dick-measuring contest. Except, faced with state shift, the state always comes up short—is always swallowed by the pussy it tries to penetrate: “The Traveler has come; choose the form of the destructor!” It’s a shipwreck waiting to happen, and one that can’t be salvaged, post-scuttle, nor defeated with a salvo of missiles or bullets [the xenomorph is nature-in-small: regenerative, indomitable, furious, god-like]. So put the pussy on the chainwax, comrades! Silence is genocide; use it or lose it!)

And yet, we’re armed with a vital lesson Harmony was instrumental in relaying: power aggregates; Gothic Communism does, too. To that, I want to bookend my appreciation for Harmony as a muse and friend, and supply a backside to their frontside (during the initial dedication)—to say once more (unto the breach) how much I value her friendship and respect her work.

(artist: Harmony Corrupted)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that Harmony has an ass that doesn’t quit. It also imparts sex and force, reaching ironically (with camp) for greatness; i.e., going the distance, with a pussy made of steel that can take all comers (and which will tire far less quickly from the bottom than a dick/top). Again, and not for the last time, the language of sex and war elide during camp to synthesize praxis through ludo-Gothic BDSM: a back-and-forth, something to get the blood (and cum) pumping and—in true voyeuristic/exhibitionist fashion—to be near such greatness to absorb it. Not as bread-and-circus, first and foremost, but a lesson that plays with power and trauma to yield addictive and medicinal sex-positive lessons. Love is a battlefield—an assault to stage, prosecute and weather by both sides, and in more ways than one! In such scraps as to rival Arturo Gatti and Mickey Ward (BLTV Highlights’ “When Arturo Gatti Met His Worst Nightmare,” 2024) such nightmarish combinations of blood and sand, heart and skill amount to liminal expression between equals—is where mutual respect is won and mutual consent/action all take place: to speak to the human condition as fetish/alien while altering the socio-material conditions, mid-opposition, that lead to all the usual historical materialism: us, beat the fuck up, gasping for breath, unable to see.

No one in their right mind likes a lazy partner (even playing dead is a skill, in the bedroom, but it needs to be mutually consensual or it’s Pavlovian conditioning[1a]); Harmony and Volume Two, part one have been a unique case, as I wrote it from top to bottom while engaging routinely and over a relatively short period with someone who shared very similar interests (sex, metal, and the Gothic). It became a quick friendship and a quick novella, capping off my book (in the middle) with (in my opinion) the finest thing I’ve ever written: my moment of mastery putting ludo-Gothic BDSM to the test with the girl of my dreams. A good friend and tremendous power in her own right, Harmony’s mountainous ass has the power to move mountains—a delicious revenant that beats you to submission, a cosmic-nihilistic regulator in small, a walking thunderstorm/veritable tempest embroiled in delicious scandal, a world-class scrapper and intellectual that blends the maiden with the destroyer to achieve two Gothic classics in bed as something to help me bring to all of you: oscillation and the monstrous-feminine as an androgynous leveler. She delivers the goods, leaving you begging for more.

(exhibit 34b2a2a: Model and artist: Harmony Corrupted and Persephone van der Waard. Men fear what they don’t understand, and capital alienates and sexualizes everything relative to the grim harvesting of nature-as-alien for profit. The gears of such genocide and megadeath can be gleaned through the imaginary past as begot from actual history blending on a progressively Gothic gradient—one with various starting points leading to future invasions during the liminal hauntology of war’s fatal nostalgia: moral panics felt at home during state decay.

For example, Roman Imperialism was a primarily land-based affair, literally grounded and relaid through military conquest: land power and land battles. Sea battles happened, but they were tied fear closer to land than warring armadas would be, in later centuries. Under Cartesian influence, the master/slave dynamic was given a settler-colonial and seafaring character that crossed oceans. In turn, poor male sailors grew superstitiously fearful towards the ocean; i.e., as the maternal gateway to new worlds they were forced to enter and conquer for the first of a new class of socio-economic control: the bourgeoisie raping the womb of nature, Francis-Bacon-style, through the insertion of a foreign object—a torpedo filled with seamen [the historical-material character cryptonymically writes itself, denoting a collocative presence of trauma].

In turn, this hegemonic vanguard extended into 20th century science fiction as riffing off the likes of Shelley’s Frankenstein [1818], Poe’s The Narrative of Sir Arthur Gordon Pym [1838] and Melville’s Moby Dick [1851]: Lovecraft’s cosmic nihilism as a profoundly racist and sexist dogma, the monstrous-feminine “thing that should not be” given a gender swap in Cthulhu per fear-driven, chattelized boating industries [the whaling industry and Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade] commodified as pulp then pastiche [which Tolkien and Heinlein/Cameron gentrified through force as a neoliberal echo of maps, of maps, of maps; i.e., the cartographic narrative of the crypt]. These were followed by Gothic satire oscillating in terms of its perceptiveness—with Alien being a neoliberal critique, its fortress cryptonym, “space trucking,” a worrisome echo haunted by Conrad’s fear of a black continent enslaved by white Europe suddenly breaking free: escaped slaves pirating the West through stolen slave/warships. Cameron, by comparison, rejected the liberatory potential of such Satanic poetics, deliberately regressing to a neocon revenge fantasy—one utterly fearful of alien armies [“Aliens“] to reconquer through military optimism; i.e., while triangulating Hippolyta against Medusa during us-versus-them in service to profit: aping Beowulf’s ancestor, Rambo, TERF-style.

Melville’s curious penchant for white dick jokes aside[1], nature has always been monstrous-feminine/androgynous under Cartesian domination; the Medusa has always been female [or at least monstrous-feminine]—as a furious, non-white, anti-patriarchal force felt on bodies that are “too big/immodest,” especially white female bodies like Harmony’s: as something to therapeutically convert [through Pavlovian torture] into obedient, drone-like brides, and for the bitch-in-question to resist in kind; i.e., combative, unruly hysteria, not a “wandering womb” for patriarchal forces to rape [the tentacle belonging to Pygmalion, not Galatea] during Cartesian power theft as an antagonist ordeal: “With every fiber I stab at thee!” As such, the Kraken, Ursula, sirens, Mother Brain, etc, constitute the performative, phallic lure and barb as alien and fetish [the tentacle dick/ovipositor] through sex and war married to the sea: as charted and conquered by businessmen—not just a homewrecker but an Ozymandian colossal wreck/shipwrecker breaking powerful “masts” on her portentous “reef” [coitus interruptus] to humble weird canonical nerds following Cartesian orders: “Get wrecked, nerds!”

Per Queen, this can be sung about: “Fat-bottomed girls, you make the rockin’ world go ’round!” Per artists and ludo-Gothic BDSM, it can be toyed with—stressing non-Vitruvian andro/gynodiversity as something to dress up as conquest broken against an indominable entry point, a castle entrance too well fortified [giving chonky size queens a chance to play ahegao only with growers/showers, or from dildos wielded by smaller penis-havers during penetrative sex]. True to form, it’s a lot of fun, with me being “Goldilocks dick,” thus big enough to penetrate past Jadis’ hefty dumper and into their monster snatch [which was somewhat too big for my cock, but still felt nice]. As Glacier Clear shows us, this can lead to all kinds of pseudo-military failures: a modern-day Xenophon or Pyrrhus hoisted on his own petard while scaling the impenetrable fortress during a forlorn hope: “castration” from ironic size difference and gender roles [the twink vs the herbo, with the latter goading the topper to give it their all: “C’mon! Is that all you got, motherfucker! Fuck me like you mean it; tear this little pussy[2] up!”]. It can be a planned affair ahead of time, but also something that emerges during a comedy of errors. For example, when I initially met Jadis before she took me to Florida, I had gone for several walks in sequence to pass the time… except I hadn’t walked in forever because of Covid. So when we fucked at the hotel, I got really bad foot cramps as I topped her [a fact we often joked about, later]. All’s well that ends well!

[artist: Glacier Clear]

Tragic or not, all exist as part of the Gothic’s dualistic animal lust, size difference, monster-fucking and black penitent kneeling on stone [as Harmony does]—all to playfully embody the counterfeit as an equal-and-opposite response to settler-colonial forces; i.e., as the Amazon, phallic woman, Archaic Mother, etc, as part of a gargantuan, ongoing holistic psychosis—an infernal, Mandelbrot upending of directions, boundaries, moralities, whose merger of psychomachy, Amazonomachy, psychopraxis, and psychosexuality verge on sanity damage [of the best sort] during ludo-Gothic BDSM’s palliative Numinous: “I admire its purity—a survivor, unclouded by conscience, remorse or [Cartesian] delusions of morality.” In short, the xenomorph is Radcliffe’s Black Veil rippling with pirate-like potency—a queenly warrior refusing to be controlled while spreading across the Earth [displaced astronoetically to “the stars” in Scott’s cosmic, Gothic matelotage] like a counterterror virus challenging state dogma with the irrational argument: humans have rights, which aren’t up for rational debate.

“Madness” isn’t a stigma at all, then, but an awesome power to grow, show, harness and unleash [anisotropically] on one’s friends and enemies alike: weaponized hysteria, Carrie-style [minus Stephen King’s Pygmalion bent]. Alien toys with the framed narrative as a body and castle-like body inside a castle-like giant; i.e., the ship is the giant piloted by a smaller likeness of it housed inside a suit fused to the throne of the flight deck [a delicious concentrism aped by Mass Effect‘s ship, Sovereign, controlling Seren with telepathic mind control [the master/slave dichotomy—what the game calls “indoctrination”: “It’s not a ship; it’s an actual Reaper!”]: the fascist posthuman delivering an anti-capitalist commentary on Cartesian domination haunting the ghost of the counterfeit/process of abjection:

“It’s carrying death” threatening the Imperial Boomerang as invasion by a stronger force than the current order [a future empire doing to capital what empire always does to others].
“There is a world so far beyond your own that you cannot even imagine it.” Sovereign’s spitting of facts is the ghost of the counterfeit [note the red fash vibes in the dark room’s hologram] being a chatty bitch teasing the game’s matriarchal capitalism [the false Goddess] with tentacle gang rape [something taboo, but nevertheless commodified under the usual capitalist fetish-to-flesh markets; i.e., paywalled for white American families ignorantly (willfully or otherwise) spicing up their middle-class sex lives with echoes of conquest lived by the Global South from moment to moment].

In either case, the warlord inside the hull is plugged into the warship as controlling them like a cordyceps puppet; i.e., as part of a larger industry both steering them, zombie-like, through fear and dogma emblematized by its galle[r]y-like transportation: the galleon as a one-way, gangplank delivery system for military action [so called corsairs, destroyers, and battleships, etc] and copaganda, and made fearsome and godlike through the process of abjection making Cartesian spearheads alien to those at home: the pirate ship as sailing under a black flag as a ghost ship piloted by a tall, mighty ghost fetish; e.g., Davy Jones, but also Scott’s Space Jockey as statuesque, biomechanical—a fearsome butt pirate/sky daddy dom coming for your “booty”:

But this can equally be mocked; e.g., Shelley’s Modern Prometheus aping Cartesian domination to humiliate it [so-called “cock-shaming”] and point out as the dark jester does, the folly of human greed calling itself “science”: “I will infest the spirit of Man so that he uses his magic to destroy himself!”

There are so many ways to convey such inequalities through ludo-Gothic BDSM and ergodic motion’s castle-narrative. The Aegis, as I invigilate Harmony’s Numinous backside with, doubles one’s lived, internalized bigotry in copies of the fearful giver and receiver [of state force] used to subvert harmful structures:

Great old one
Forbidden site
[She] searches
Hunter of the shadows is rising
Immortal
In madness you dwell [Metallica’s “The Thing that Should Not Be,” 1986].)

Such abject forces cannot be denied, the counterfeit always haunted by their ghost: Davy Jones’ locker, but also Medusa’ pussy a watery gravesite for enterprising Cartesian chudwads. Medusa always wins, but this needn’t be state shift. To prevent that, we must pacify her rage through ludo-Gothic BDSM on all registers; i.e., by invigilators and models, poets and muses; e.g., Harmony and I:

(exhibit 34b2a2b: Model and artist: Harmony Corrupted. We all pray at weird churches. Full or empty of cock, Harmony’s uncanny valley is mysterium tremendum—a flying castle/traveling circus/midnight Rabelaisian carnival whose “double-stuffed” affect is everywhere at once, from the head-to-toe topful of “direst cruelty.” Like Radcliffe’s terror except in quotes, her pussy “expands the [‘soul,’] and awakens the faculties to a high degree of life,” the proverbial flipside [“horror”] annihilating the viewer through the self-same castled-buttocks, hefty flesh and raunchy feast for the senses: fatal food belying wild hunger behind the veil of lost innocence, paradise lost [the poisoned apple], the feral lycanthrope’s mask-like visage and costumed body alluding to a secret self, an animal side ritualistically evoked not by a literal magic potion, but the power of sex-positive ritual and psychosexual healing.

“Hell is for children” extends to the monstrous-feminine as relegated to a desperate-and-inventive state of survival: Edward Said’s pleasures of exile, my ludo-Gothic BDSM. Such a veiled gaze, textured touch and exquisitely torturous aesthetic supply feelings that rival death itself [which is nefandous, nothing to us]. Milking the recipient to martyred extremes, she looks good, mid-“death,” but whose surface crackles with untold power and colossal weight, thrown around with the scope and scale of vacant planets. “Black as night, black as pitch, blacker than the foulest witch.” A very freaky girl, in other words, she confronts what she fears as something to reclaim: her own body and gender as something to play with through Gothic mechanisms of power exchange and forbidden knowledge.)

To that, please support Harmony’s work (on Fansly and Ko-Fi; follow her @harmonycorrupted@noods.fun on Mastodon). She’s seriously impeccable, a dark sovereign queen whose worship is otherworldly and delicious, push-pulling load after mother lode of power from you to them, back and forth. Enter her badass castle, open her naughty book covers and turn her tasty pages; but after you bask in her fat dumper’s hellish, church-like glory (“almost holy”), offer her tribute for profaning your ignorance to better things. Don’t keep a lady waiting!

(artist: Harmony Corrupted)

With that, Volume Two, part one shall release eminently (probably tomorrow)! I’ll announce it when it happens, so stay tuned!

Update: Volume Two, part one (the Poetry Module) is out (5/1/2024)! I wrote a preface for the module along with its debut announcement. Give that a look; then, go to my book’s 1-page promo to download the latest version of the full module (which will contain additions/corrections these posts will not have)!

Footnotes

[1] Robert Shulman’s “The Serious Functions of Melville’s Phallic Jokes” (1961).

[1a] E.g., whoever this guy is (source skeet: Brett Butler Is Ok, 2024). Never act like him:

[2] Echoing Shane Black’s terrible joke: “You know I’d like a little pussy.” / “Me, too. Mine’s as big as a house!” But also per liminal expression, the historical trauma is literally in the language: “hit that.”