Congratulations on Getting Fucked by a Sentient Tree!

There are a handful of people who like rubbing against trees.  They’re called dendrophiliacs, and while we don’t like to judge here at Sexy Results Future Agency, we can say, objectively, that these people are fucking gross.  You might agree, despite what’s about to happen today.

Today you’re going to be walking through some absolutely terrifying woods.  You’ll be whistling, walking along a rough beaten path when you notice a particularly interesting collection of flowers growing in the roots of a particularly horrifying tree.  You’ll walk up to investigate them and, look of wonder on your face, start picking them.

This will upset the tree.

Its branches will begin moving of their own volition suddenly, forcefully, creeping up, across, above clothing at first, then into, underneath, below.  Your jeans will be ripping from the force of the branches, more properly their movement underneath your clothing, before you even know what’s going on.  They’ll wrap themselves around you, hold you just above the ground.  A particularly large and thick branch will wrap around your leg, bursting through your clothing, hoisting you off the ground.  Terror will run through you.  Your bowels will turn to liquid.  You’ll worry for a moment that you’re about to shit yourself, but your butthole will clench so violently that it won’t be an issue.

That is, until the tree snakes a smaller, more delicate branch right up your poop chute and flexes it, if that’s the right term, if trees can flex.  The skin around your asshole will tear, and feces will leak out almost imperceptibly.

“Sorry about the flow-“ you’ll begin to say, but another branch will snake down your throat, cutting off your words and a goodly portion of your air supply.

The tree will then begin to work like a series of fluid pistons, rushing in and out of your body, making you feel wonderfully full and horribly besieged all at once.  Tears will well up in your eyes and your mind will go blank, or try to go blank as sensations, combining pleasure and pain and shame, burst in your brain like citrus bursts on tastebuds.

When the tree is finished with you the branches will lay you down on the ground gingerly, almost tenderly.  You’ll lay there, bleeding, tears and mucus seeping out of your face.  You’ll want to weep, but all strength will be gone from your limbs, your lungs, your mind.  Your heart will barely even beat.  The tree will cast a handful of dollar bills and pocket change at you callously, as if the gesture is part of an afterthought of your humanity.  It might be the change from your own pockets, for all you know.  Then the tree will vanish from the trail, leaving you naked, leaking, alone.

Congratulations on Getting Fucked by a Sentient Tree!

Congratulations Giant Robot in Love!

When you see it, you’ll venture across the entire city (a whole three steps) to get up next to it.  The building of your dreams will be there, a sterile pillar reaching towards the heavens.  You’ll reach your hand up and gently stroke it.

“Hey baby,” you’ll murmur at the building which, being a building, will not respond in any way and will instead simply sit there, silently. You’ll interpret this continued state of building-ness as consent and initiate mating protocols.

“Alriiiight,” you’ll say to no one in particular before mounting the building and beginning to grind your crotch against the building.  A groaning sound will erupt from the structure under your weight, and the people around the building, who will already be trying to flee wildly, will begin to be struck by various bits of debris as the building topples under your amorous movements.

Scraps of steel will strike the earth, crushing the panicked mass of humanity who will desperately look to the sky, as if their collective gaze will shield them from a steel rain.  Hundreds will die, which is par for the course for you (as a giant robot you murder people simply by walking around) but what will really depress you is that the building, which you thought was so beautiful and perfect, won’t return your romantic gestures at all.  It’ll be enough to make the fusion reactor you have in place of a heart ache a little with radioactive pulses.

Congratulations Giant Robot in Love!

Congratulations Big Baby Bopper!

The applause will continue after you leave the stage.  They’ll beckon you back with their thunderous pattern.  You’ll look at your band mates and shrug.

“Guess we’d better get out there,” you’ll say with a wink.  Jerry will roll his eyes and toss the pants he was getting ready to put back on in the direction of the green room couch.  He’ll pick up his guitar and give his diaper a quick tug, to make sure it’s still in place.

You, Jerry, Phil and Tommy will step back out on stage, still dressed as adult babies.

“Thank you,” you’ll mumble into the microphone, dropping back into your stage persona.  “Let’s play another one you’ve heard before that you haven’t heard tonight,” you’ll all but moan into the microphone.  The ladies, and there will be ladies, will go wild.

You’ll launch into one of the Big Bopper hits with aplomb, rocking it in a way that would’ve made him proud, assuming he’s cool with adult men wearing diapers playing his hits.  Your rendition of Crazy Blues will floor everyone in the room, and the audience, which will consist primarily of adult babies and people in committed relationships with adult babies, will be getting down so hard that diapers will start dropping and genitals will start flopping around.

It’ll be one of the greatest nights of your life, arguably the best performance to date of an adult-baby-rockabilly band.  You’ll have opened up the genre for years to come with your amazing performance, and one intrepid iPhone user in the corner will have been watching, patiently holding his arm up and helping you make history later that night when he uploads his clip.

Congratulations Big Baby Bopper!

Congratulations Self-Hating Country Boy!

“Oh, fancy city people,” you’ll moan as they ask you for directions.  “Ain’t got many of your kind round here.  Reckon there ain’t much for you, what with it bein’ so far from the city and all.”

“Sorry,” the woman will say.  She’ll look around the gas station, scanning for someone else to ask for directions.  Her husband will be less perturbed.  He’ll just shrug.

“You’ve got the stars out here.  That’s pretty nice.”

You’ll roll your eyes.  “Oh, the stars, huh?”  A snort will kick from your nose.  “City folk!”

The husband will shrug again and, with his map unfurled across the hood of his car, implore your aid.

“So, if we wanted to get to Hartford?”

“Well, I reckon there ain’t as much to do in Hartford as there is in that big city,” you’ll moan.  “City folk.”

“Isn’t it kind of a big city compared to this place?” the wife will ask.

“CITY!” you’ll shout at the sky, daring rain to come and destroy the map, trapping that couple here as surely as the cosmos has pinned you here, slowly dying while the world passes you by.

“We’re gonna go,” the wife will say.  The husband will nod emphatically.

“GO ON THEN!” you’ll scream at them.  “BACK TO YOUR CITY!”

As they get in the car you’ll step back underneath the shade of the gas station overhang.  You’ll stare madly at their car and whisper under your breath, “Take me with you.”

The husband will roll down his window and ask:

“Sorry, did you just say something?”

“COUNTRY STRONG!” you’ll shout at him, spittle flying, catching on the side mirror next to him.  He’ll roll up his window hastily and his wife will speed off down the road.  You’ll just stand there under the gray sky, wishing that something, anything, might come along and interrupt the sad pattern of your life and let you leave this drab country you hate so much for a city, where you might finally be able to be yourself.  A city where you might begin life anew, perhaps as a dancer.

Congratulations Self-Hating Country Boy!

Congratulations Tram Tramp!

Your eyes will glisten with tears as you strum your guitar and look at the passengers.  One of them will vaguely resemble Amy, the girl you left behind so long ago.

“Oh,” you’ll murmur to yourself.  “Amy.”

The girl will move to the front of the tram, next to the driver, the farthest possible point from you.  You’ll want to get up and follow her, but the fortified wine you had before coming will be well set into your legs by now and so you’ll sit there quietly, striking notes aimlessly on your guitar, staring at the young woman with a singular sort of wistfulness reserved for those who have lost everything in their lives.

The gaze will be all you have: that, your guitar and your seat on the tram.  When the tram stops suddenly, it won’t break your gaze.  When the woman gets off, however, it will.  When the cops get on it’ll be as if they’re entering a dream, intruding upon a private moment you constructed for yourself on that tram, staring straight ahead, wishing you were somewhere, anywhere else.  When they reach the back of the tram the other passengers will have moved away, leaving a clear path for you to take out the rear door.  You’ll understand the intention of the officers, but their words won’t be able to pierce the veil of liquor and dream you’ve woven around yourself.

“Ughhh,” you’ll moan at them.  They’ll lift you by your armpits and throw you out of the tram on to your belly, leaving you in the street, puzzled.  Then they’ll calmly walk out and hand you your guitar.

They’ll say something to you, something that might be nice, but you won’t hear them.  Instead you’ll just lift yourself up, leaning on your guitar for balance, and begin tramping off into the early afternoon, wondering how you’ll keep this buzz going, how you might be able to make it run a little deeper so that you can keep the thought of Amy out of your head a little longer.

Congratulations Tram Tramp!