Ten Minutes to Orgasm: The Day the Internet
HOLLYWOOD—One minute after photographer and director James
Spelger covered his lens, turned off the lights, and sent the
last of his three models home, he had already envisioned the descriptive
text that would accompany the lesbian shoot’s online presentation.
“I knew the shoot was a grand success, like it was my 'Odyssey'
or my 'Mona Lisa,' so I didn’t hold back when drafting the
descriptive text in my head.”
By the second minute, Spelger was at the helm of his computer,
inserting the PC card from his Canon digital camera and uploading
the 259 images he hoped would make him known in the adult photography
business as one of the most imaginative in the field.
“A lot of the arrangement I patterned after Broadway musicals
and cabaret by lining up the models and using symmetry. I was
trying to represent, through this dramatic equilibrium, their
respective entrances onto the world stage of lesbian love.”
By the third minute, Spelger had finished typing the descriptive
text. “The Hottest, Wettest, Cutest, and Horniest Three
Hot Lesbian Bitches Fucking and Sucking Until they all Comes Buckets
of Girl Jiz all Over Each Other!” wrote Spelger, purposely
leaving in typos not only to assist his ranking with the Latino
and black bots but also to “give the work sort of a 'Stomp'
crossed with '21 Jump Street' feel.”
In the fourth minute, Spelger pulled the upload lever on his
computer, then sauntered off to make himself a cup of Celestial
Seasonings Raspberry Zinger tea and watch an episode of “Queer
Eye for the Straight Guy” he taped the previous night.
By the fifth minute, Spelger’s work was ripping through
the Internet. It was 6 p.m. and millions of men around the globe
were just starting to get down with their computers.
Hand towels were being draped over chair seats, bottles of Astroglide
appeared from secret cubbies, and boxes of Kleenex were removed
from bookshelves and placed within hand’s reach. And for
many who still felt their office work should continue a little
longer, as soon as they saw Spelger’s alluring text their
pants and trousers, shorts and even kilts, were ripped from scorching
But in the sixth minute, tragedy struck. Spelger’s work
had jammed the Internet. Workers at the WWW Headquarters worked
feverishly and often with unorthodox methods to get it unstuck
and flowing again. Team members jammed broom handles into the
monstrous mechanism and tried to pry the Internet loose and commence
its spinning. Other associates spread liberal amounts of hot wax
and tar pitch on the Internet’s base, in hopes the lubrication
would unbind the information.
“It was horrifying,” stated 338 million men who have
asked not to be identified. “There we were, pants around
ankles, the flesh of our first erections resting in our hands,
but we were unable to access the erotic images.” Many erections
were transformed into “chubbies,” Internet lingo for
erections that become soft during protracted downloads but still
experience stimulation if caressed. Several million men also admitted
to sneaking glances at next week’s line-up of day-calendar
Dilbert cartoons while they waited for the images.
But during that fateful time, nobody outside of WWW Headquarters
realized the drama that was ensuing. And it was not looking good
for the Internet: broken broom handles, rakes, and 15 cases of
shattered tostada shells lay in pools of cooling wax and pitch.
Reginald Matthews, the President of the Internet, was hunched-over
in distress, observing all of his hard work coming to a halt while
he psychologically berated himself for not being able to provide
substantial leadership at this moment when the company needed
him most. But accompanying Matthews was his 7-year-old son Billy.
“Why won’t it work, Daddy? You promised me I would
see the Internet today,” Billy said. Sadly, Matthews didn’t
have a solution, but then Billy uttered these fateful words: “Maybe,
Daddy, your workers aren’t scared enough. Like mommy.”
In the seventh minute, the Internet was back online, and Spelger’s
work began downloading at a feverish pitch. (It was said that
in New York City, alone, the sounds of chubbies suddenly regaining
life sounded like the creaking masts of a million wooden-hulled
Again tragedy struck, but this time it was not the Internet’s
flow of information—it was the dichotomy between Spelger’s
images and his descriptive text.
“First off, they’re not lesbians,” claim 338
million men who asked not to be identified. “If they were
lesbians, we’d be flying dogs.” Other problems the
world’s men had with Spelger’s work was that it simply
was not the “hottest” or the “bestest,”
or were the girls the “wettest” or the “cutest,”
and certainly not the “horniest.” Furthermore, the
men claim, there was no fucking, no sucking, and not a single
drop of “girl jiz.”
“It was just plain dumb,” the 338 million men said.
“It looked like a lot of the arrangement was patterned after
Broadway musicals and cabaret by lining the models up and using
symmetry, as if the photographer was trying to represent, through
this dramatic equilibrium, their respective entrances onto the
world stage of lesbian love. It was just a load of fucking shit.”
The 338 million men, however, quickly searched elsewhere for
suitable erotic images, and all ended up satisfied by the ninth
minute. The moment spent with Spelger’s work and the frustration
over its descriptive dichotomy apparently had all been but erased
from their memories.
During the tenth minute a caller at his door interrupted Spelger’s
repose with his Raspberry Zinger tea. It was the UPS man with
one of the first cases of money Spelger would be receiving over
the next few days.