Den her tekts er måske stødende, pervers og for meget, men på trods af alt det, gav den mig følelsen af at  jeg kan overleve angstanfald og ocd, så let som ingen ting
jeg ved også godt den er lang, men læs den, det skylder ud dig selv


Whatever lighting the photographer used was harsh and made bad shadows on the 
cement-block wall behind them. Just a painted wall in somebody's basement. The 
monkey looked tired and patchy with mange. The guy was in lousy shape, pale with rolls 
around his middle, but there he was, relaxed and bent over with his hands braced against 
his knees and his pouchy gut hanging down, his face looking back over his shoulder at 
the camera, smiling away. 
"Beatific" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. 
What the little boy first loved about pornography wasn't the sex part. It wasn't the 
pictures of beautiful people doinking each other, their heads thrown back, making those 
fake orgasm faces. Not at first. He'd found all those pictures on the Internet even before 
he knew what sex was. They had the Internet in every library. They had it at all the 
The way you can move from city to city and always find a Catholic church, the same 
Mass said everywhere, no matter what foster place the kid was sent, he could always find 
the Internet. The truth was, if Christ had laughed on the cross, or spat on the Romans, if 
he'd done anything more than just suffer, the kid would've liked church a lot more. 
As it was, his favorite website was pretty much not sexy, at least not to him. You could 
just go there, and there would be about a dozen photographs of this one dumpy guy 
dressed as Tarzan with a goofy orangutan trained to poke what looked like roasted 
chestnuts up the guy's ass. 
The guy's leopard-print loincloth is tossed to one side, the elastic waistband sunk into his 
tubby waist. 
The monkey's crouched there, ready with the next chestnut. 
There's nothing sexy about it. Still, the counter showed more than half a million people 
had been to see it. 
"Pilgrimage" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. 
The monkey and the chestnuts wasn't anything the kid could understand, but he sort of 
admired the guy. The kid was stupid, but he knew this was something way beyond him. 
The truth was, most people wouldn't even want a monkey to see them naked. They'd be 
terrified about how their asshole might look, if it might look too red or baggy. There's no 
way most people would ever have the nerve to bend in front of a monkey, much less a 
monkey and a camera and lights, and even then they'd have to do about a zillion sit-ups 
first and go to a tanning booth and get their hair cut. After that, they'd spend hours bent 
over in front of a mirror, trying to determine their best profile. 
And then, even with just chestnuts, you'd have to stay somewhat relaxed. 
Just the thought of auditioning monkeys was terrifying, the possibility of being rejected 
by monkey after monkey. Sure, you can pay a person enough money and they'll stick 
stuff into you or they'll take pictures. But a monkey. A monkey's going to be honest. 
Your only hope would be to book this same orangutan, since it obviously didn't look too 
picky. Either that or it was exceptionally well trained. 
The point was, there'd be nothing to this if you were beautiful and sexy. 
The point was, in a world where everybody had to look so pretty all the time, this guy 
wasn't. The monkey wasn't. What they were doing wasn't. 
The point was, it's not the sex part of pornography that hooked the stupid little boy. It was 
the confidence. The courage. The complete lack of shame. The comfort and genuine 
honesty. The up-front-ness of being able to just stand there and tell the world: Yeah, this 
is how I choose to spend a free afternoon. Posing here with a monkey putting chestnuts 
up my ass. 
And I really don't care how I look. Or what you think. 
So deal with it. 
He was assaulting the world by assaulting himself. 
And even if the guy wasn't loving every moment, the ability to smile, to fake your way 
through this, that would be even more admirable. 
The same way every porno movie implies a score of people standing just off camera, 
knitting, eating sandwiches, looking at their wristwatches, while other people do naked 
sex only a few feet away... 
To the stupid little boy, that was enlightenment. To be that comfortable and confident in 
the world, that would be Nirvana. 
"Freedom" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. 
That's the kind of pride and self-assurance the little boy wanted to have. Someday. 
If it was him in those pictures with the monkey, he could look at them every day and 
thing: If I could do this, I could do anything. No matter what else you came up against, if 
you could smile and laugh while a monkey did you with chestnuts in a dank concrete 
basement and somebody took pictures, well, any other situation would be a piece of cake. 
Even hell. 
More and more, for the stupid little kid, that was the idea... 
That if enough people looked at you, you'd never need anybody's attention ever again. 
That if someday you were caught, exposed, and revealed enough, then you'd never be 
able to hide again. There'd be no difference between your public and private lives. 
That if you could acquire enough, accomplish enough, you'd never want to own or do 
another thing. 
That if you could eat or sleep enough, accomplish enough, you'd never need more. 
That if enough people loved you, you'd stop needing love. 
That you could ever be smart enough. 
That you could someday get enough sex. 
These all became the little boy's new goals. The illusions he'd have for the rest of his life. 
These were all the promises he saw in the fat man's smile. 
So after that, every time he was scared or sad or alone, every night he woke up panicked 
in a new foster home, his heart racing, his bed wet, every day he started school in a 
different neighborhood, every time the Mommy came back to claim him, in every damp 
motel room, in every rented car, the kid would think of those same twelve photos of the 
fat man bent over. The monkey and the chestnuts. And it calmed the stupid little shit right 
down. It showed him how brave and strong and happy a person could become. 
How torture is torture and humiliation is humiliation only when you choose to suffer. 
"Savior" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. 
And it's funny how when somebody saves you, the first think you want to do is save other 
people. All other people. Everybody. 
The kid never knew the man's name. But he never forgot that smile. 
"Hero" isn't the right word, but it's the first word that comes to mind. 

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