reSade / T-Shit (4)

I’m going to fuck you, naked but for this artfully ruined t-shirt made in Bangladesh, holed and torn by an exhausted, bony, dead-eyed worker in a Chinese megafactory who is following the pattern of destruction to the millimeter; each hole specified by a smug cunt in a leather chair and designerly geek-glasses in a minimalist studio in Canary Wharf.

As I fuck you, I’m going to tell you its price tag, and how deliciously absurd it is that I paid the equivalent of that worker’s yearly salary for it, that the vast majority of peons out there are making jokes about how they could make one themselves at half the price and are just too poor to get the joke.

As I fuck you, I’ll tell you it hardly matters that you’re there –  just any wet, stupid cunt. What I’m enthusiastically thrusting my pharma-assisted dick into is the deliberately callous conflation of marketing ideas that went into producing this sublime piece of consumer porn. I can feel the grinding boredom, the flagrant waste of human intellect woven into every thread. I can smell the absent tears of the nameless migrant worker whose job it was to bleach away the grubby fingermarks and sew in the designer’s label by hand.  The squelch of your lubricated meat is just a soundtrack to the purity of its abomination.

Only after I come and you giggle will I stop and appreciate the fine, fine work they’ve done on your unnecessarily refurbished tits and the breathtaking obscenity of the fact that you’d let me do this to you.

You should feel privileged, baby. I usually have someone to do my fucking for me.

Love,

The REAL Christian Grey