Survivors of the Paradise Zone - Preface

When I woke up the next morning, she was sucking me off.

“Not now, Tit,” I muttered, raising my hand to shield my eyes from the light streaming in through the louvered windows.

“Umph, glmph, mmph, chlmph,” Tit replied, still sucking away on my sperm-gorged Superdick, which, drugged by sleep, was having a difficult time standing erect. You’ve heard of floppy discks? Well, Mr. Member, who makes most of my decisions and in general has determined the course of a largely misspent life, resembled nothing so much as a floppy obelisk.

Even so, under the stimulus of Tit’s oral ministrations, he was beginning to wobble to a more or less erect position. Tit sucked away with vigor, her compact little brown body striped with sunlight streaming through the windows.

I heaved a sigh. Oh, these Happistan women. God, they were wonderful. Adorable faces, voluptuous little bodies, delightfully giggly personalities—and best of all, they were cheap.

Cheap? I recoiled at the word. No, cheapness implied tawdriness, vulgarity—and these girls were anything but tawdry and vulgar. Say rather that they were inexpensive.

There were those who damned them as prostitutes, but that word was also too harsh. They were not prostitutes, much less whores—although that’s what votaries of political correctness would have called them. They were, rather, interpersonal entrepreneurs, eking out a living by plying their interpersonal skills, mainly at the pelvic level. Where else in Happistan could an 86-year-old geriatric like myself wake up in the morning to find himself being sucked off by a hot little 19-year-old farm girl after banging her three—or was it four?—times the night before—and have to pay only $30 for the privilege?

But physiological factors interrupted my musings.

“Beer fart come down, Tit,” I announced as Tit continued to munch away on my increasingly unfloppy obelisk.

Alas, she ignored my warning. The beer fart came thundering out of my rectum and propelled me into the air, ramming Mr. Amazing Appendage deep down Tit’s throat and nearly choking her. But that extra friction was enough to precipitate an orgasm that hurled me into the air once again. It was a morning of unaccustomed exercise, to be sure.

Later, I lit a cigar and reflected on life, an activity ordinarily alien to my temperament. I was, at my advanced age, a failed pornographer. I had written dozens of short stories, vignettes, articles, even a novel or tow—all pure filth. But the publishers of even the smuttiest publications wouldn’t touch them. Too disgusting for even their readers, they said. They urged me to write something believable.

The hell of it was that every word I wrote was true. But nobody in the great world outside could ever believe the kinky things that happened in the wonderfully wacky world of Happistan, and especially in its capital, Happidik. It was not for lack of literary skill that my writings evoked scoffing in the power capitals of the world.

But, I would show them. I had embarked on my greatest project, a comprehensive rewriting of my best pieces. I would tone down the dirty bits, and add depth and substance by throwing in symbolism at strategic points. In a scholarly vein, I would include a glossary of esoteric terminology commonly used in the Happistan bar scene, and an appendix encapsulating hard-won wisdom derived therefrom. There would be rich imagery, a voluptuous tapestry of colorful characters, an intricate interweaving of plots and subplots, even touches of metaphysico-theological profundity.

This would be a work of prodigious literary merit that would have the great publishing houses—Knopf, Random House, Oxford University Press—banging down my door. There would be a fierce bidding war as they vied to seduce me with multimillion-dollar advances. A blockbuster movie version would follow, and I would be besieged by large-breasted teenaged groupies, all lusting to impale themselves on my upthrust and more than normally rigid organ of generation. My fame would culminate with an appearance on Larry King Live—possibly even Oprah.

I would, of course, have to adopt a suitable pseudonym. Vermyn Carrion, Onan Masterby, Studley Farkwell, Crocker Shitte, Fleming Essoule—I considered all of these, and rejected them for something less opaque. Randy Auslander was the name I finally settled on, the Teutonic surname lending a Wagnerian flavor to the whole.

Then there was the problem of fictionalizing. The Happistan authorities would not be pleased to see, once again, their nation portrayed as a sex haven for degenerates. I would have to change the name of the country so as to make it unrecognizable. Same for its capital, Happidik.

I briefly considered Pussiland as a name for my country, with Pussiburg as its capital. But no. That was vulgar, and I wanted my book to have class. Besides, there was the matter of moral courage. I would stick with Happistan and Happidik, and brave the wrath of the authorities.

But just to confuse them, and mitigate their wrath, I would pretend--ha ha!—that the bar scene was a thing of the past. Yes! Am I not clever?* My book would appear to be a collection of steamy reminiscences of bygone times, penned by an aging but fondly reminiscent narrator.

My title, I thought, should be The Pussy Junkies; for that, indeed, was my topic. But questions of delicacy intervened. That title, friends advised me, was too strong; the feminists would crucify me. I also considered Nice Girls Don’t Wear Numbers: Memoirs of a Happidik Barfly. Too long, my friends declared. Readers would never get through the title, much less the book.

So I settled something short and subtle: Survivors of the Paradise Zone.

Yes, dear reader, it is this very book that you are blessed to be holding in your lucky hand. If publication comes, can fame and fortune be far behind? Come to me, best-sellerdom; come to my arms, sweet Nobel Prize. And move over, Ernest Hemingway: I, Randy Auslander, am about to dethrone you.