Ten Minutes to Orgasm: The Day the Internet Went Down

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 loins.

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 warships.)

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.