Sex pods

The body learns quicker when entrapped. When they can’t escape, when exhausted, after a last shred of fight, they let it go. Then comes pleasure.

That’s an exquisite paradox. Pain is both order and destruction. The body learns from chaos, reshapes itself into something more resilient.

I’m not a serial killer. See me more as a war surgeon or a dedicated nurse. They were asking for it, and I was eager to explore the meta-sex.

Running a good business is about taking the time to do it good. A bullet in the head is not a good way to kill. But a dildo is a good weapon.

The cleaning services were also running a lucrative side job called “fuck trucks,” mainly in the old port and the red-light quarter.

“I’m fucking out of control. I’ve wanked no one off for a couple of days and miss it desperately. It’s not only about the money. Wanking people off is my kink. I’d fucking do you right now for free.”

I offer what people don’t have: unhappiness to happy people, or the excitement of the unknown. Sex is a drug. You know the reaction, the reason you take it. Pain is the fuel, pleasure the oxidizer.

On Sin Street, Sex Pods were a fantasy, mainly an Easter egg presumed to be a hoax, that finally came to light (here we are.) This urban legend turned reality started being published on Fools’ Day.

So it had to start somehow, this notebook belongs to the past. I never got caught, and I guess now most people think it’s crazy fiction, which is good enough. Welcome!