The Water is Fine

by Yves Jaques



I’m a thick quick vein of iron ore already singin’ my song as I’m bein’ strip mined outta the mother lode; big rock candy mountain, none other; yes I am the thick quick vein just a runnin’ up the side of God’s own whang.

And the hoe that tears at my mineral skin, it’s a monster; the eight liter Cummins diesel its one pendulous testicle hangin’ off the back like a spider’s egg sac, its restless arm endlessly firm.

Fro and back it heaves/wrestles/swings, drawing me up out of my pit, an elemental set of forceps a pullin’ this baby from the womb. "Leave me be on my basaltic four poster!" I yell.

From the cab the operator is howlin’ insults, "You’re comin’ like it or not honey!" Thud! The bucket crashes to earth, rips into my sides, "Gotcha now Mother Earth, ha ha!" yells the tobacco spittin’ lesbian, yes, She that brings me forth, my avatar, is rammin’ control rods/slammin pedals, she who allows no seed within her, but that of a bean sprout if it happens to be yet upon the slick tongue of a lover; that barren wombed big titted Amazon is bringin’ me forth into new life from the helm of that diesel testicled Caterpillar she mans.

And so it was that by her strong certain hands I went from vein, to bucket, to bed. All the while keenin’ my ferric song, "Get me wet and I smell like blood, get me wet and I taste like cum." Ever notice that?

And the dump truck with me in back pulls over to pick up a wanderin’ waif. "Hey baby, Ass gas or grass, nobody rides for free!" hollers the driver. I feel her get in, and by the way the truck begins to weave down the road I get the feelin’ the driver’s got one hand on the wheel and the other on that firm young jewel’s firm young jewel. But I guess he’s had a lot of practice ‘cause even groping as he is beneath the soiled skirts of that fifteen year old hitchhiker, he gets me helter skelter from God’s cock shelter to Smeltertown USA, the unrestrained and joyous cries of the young maid trailin’ us all the way.

But Pittsburgh is a hella big place, and that Thursday saw my vein snatched, refined, and delivered - penitent and blushing - to the world’s largest manufacturer of vibrillators and penisators: ACME Pleasure Products Incorporated. I was run to liquid yet again, formed into a cylindrical shape - in size somewhat shy of legendary - before loving hands then bathed me in a vat of chromium so that at last, I emerged a shining sex rocket.

The marketing department christened me "Mr. Big," and the product was not all in the packaging - for I performed as promised - delivering as the cardboard exterior claimed, "maximum climax action; the lover that stays hard all night," and in very small print, "use only under a doctor’s supervision, requires three "C" cells, not included."



So there I was, hangin’ on a peg at The Crypt, just waitin’ patiently on a buyer. Didn’t take long. A couple a days maybe, and there was this kind of overworked lookin’ guy puttin’ his face up to the little plastic window, starin’ at me, reading the ad copy, startin’ to perk up a bit. He brought me up to the front counter and set me down softly. This guy’s gonna be allright I decided, he’s gentle. The clerk gave him a serious look, "Hey friend, hold on a minute, you sure you can handle this, I mean, this is the new 1996 line of Mr. Big, we’re talkin’ hungry man here, and I ain’t talkin’ about no Swanson’s Swiss steak. This baby’s fuckin’ turbocharged." Well, my man smiled sweetly and just pushed his credit card over the line.

And he was a good man, and I was a friend indeed. You might say I was his little sugar, waitin’ up for him, ready to soothe a tight day at the office or a bad night at the clubs. I had no room for complaint - like I say I was singin’ my song of iron, my thick quick vein of ore hot within his tight ass, singin’ the old songs of pressure and movement.

And as my own heart beat strong, even when those alkaline cells powerin’ my vibrating movement began to wane, I felt no loss of potency, but felt instead a resurgence of my own native rhythm, my master working me expertly through the portal of his sphincter ani, and delivering me into his vestibule, intent now upon the motion, the easy thrill of the thrumming motor gone and I, I would lose myself in thoughts of that Cummins diesel hoe, that monster so well ministered by the bull dyke who gave to me life upon this earth.

Well, the Good Book says that, "all things must come to pass," course I thought of it more as me passin’ in and out of that tender hole, but like the Book says, times change and I lost out to the vagaries of a rubber butt plug designed for near constant use, and gentler I suppose to the flesh but lacking, I am sure, my own Promethean fire. The plug became the lover and I the jilted wife and so it was that a cold November morn’ found me amongst a heap of scrap metal a once again awaiting the smelter’s hellfire. Yes, my master had thrown me out.



The Fates who spin so busily weave not for you mortals alone, yes they have spun for me a strange tale, which saw me loaded aboard a tramp steamer captained by a wooden cocked Ahab. Yes, I was ferried across the foul Atlantic.

It seemed my Vedic place to be reincarnated, as a Milanese smelter took me back to my liquid form. So downtrodden and seasick was I that I did not even wish to take within me those sweating Italian iron boys, but just flowed complacently into my new mold. I was recast into a Leica 16 millimeter motion picture beauty, chromed again thank God for even such minor continuities in a life like mine.

And shipped to Los Angeles is it any wonder my new filmless eye lost sight of my very own soul? I, conceived in the furnaces of Vulcan so hot the Devil could not tempt me, had lost my very own soul to the disruptions of modern life. Oh to be singin’ once more atop my basaltic four poster.

A high voice says - Oh Oh Oh yes!

A deep voice says - Ahhhh.

And the high one again - Baby baby baby please put it here.




-Oh yes! There. Oh Oh Oh.

Uhunh. My new life. I may have lost some of my own funk and stink but there was plenty around me - ya see I was now the property of a low budget porn director, a film student dropout who thought he could change the world, make it come to its senses. He ended up by just makin’ it cum. But he’s an artist, a sensualist. He’s here ‘cause he really wants to be, and sometimes, it gets so beautiful.

I make soft whirring sounds as I reel the endless inches through me picturing picturing all the while - bright white of studio lights - flesh of every color of race of man - tongue and nipple - and oh my God he’s zooming me in for a close-up, wet crotch in my face maybe yours.

Wet wet wet flesh wet and slick under the Lumens and heat, your grasping hands, your mouth opened in mimicry, or is it maybe? Yes, maybe it really does feel good; and the grips are egging you on, their own genitals straining against their Jockeys, holding lights in one hand and their firm erections/swollen vulvas in the other; engaging in near random couplings of their own between shoots/sets/scenes/days, "Let’s shoot that precious minute," shouts the Director, who gets his best footage by placing hidden cameras in public bathrooms.

And always the cries, the holy profanities ring the air, circle the set like wild Indians riding down a John Wayne wagon train, "Oh God yes yes yes," you scream, the grips in a veritable orgiastic panic, "Oh fuck me! Fuck me now! Harder, harder, oh God I want you to hurt me!" Slap! goes the loving hand.

"Cut," yells Mr. Director Man and the grips tear off to quiet corners, alone, in twos, in threes; and I the stealthy camera, under the watchful gaze of the Director am still filming, filming and quietly following, searching for the precious minute that will make a nation come.

Through my prismatic lens have passed 4237 blow jobs, 2550 acts of cunnilingus, 492 rimmings, a staggering 7200 copulations in the missionary position alone, and lastly, 834 simultaneous orgasms through Greek sex. The quantities of sperm I have filmed ejaculated teaspoon for teaspoon could inseminate a nation of fertile spouses of infertile men. I have seen anuses that could swallow pumpkins whole and did, oysters bearded, shaven, dyed pink/blue/green, clits the length of pencils and dicks the length of bats, and oh the orifices that could receive these things - these monsters - ah the acts I have recorded with my unflinching eye blinking its twenty four times a second.

But like I said the Fates spin for me also - the Director that had once cherished my Italian good looks moved to a 35 millimeter Japanese Queen out of Osaka. I was left to languish on a file cabinet top, a while I guess it was - years maybe - when some punk kids busted in one night and fawned so much over my Italian curves that they had to take me with ‘em and would have pawned me I suppose, but for the sorry fact that those boys had drunk ‘em a wee much Easy Jesus and plowed into a turnpike doin’ a hundred miles an hour in a fifty mile zone.



So it is that my tale draws itself to a close. I now find myself somewhat diminished from my earlier chromium perfection, but am I still glorious? Hell yes I am! You can find me out on mile 93 of I-455. The place is called Smoky Creek, a rest stop dontcha know. Yes that car those punks were drivin got junked/crushed/compacted, and yeah you guessed it - it was off to the smelter for me once again - my final Vedic incarnation - reborn as a stall wall. Now you might find it curious for me to speak of a coming of age in reference to a stall wall, but it is so. I was a boy, now I have been made a man.

You see an enterprising young gentleman, and I say gentle because he was of a thoughtful sort: the bit was new, the shank tight, the teeth on the hole saw sweet and sharp. It was the dead of night, Three a.m., about the time when suicides throw themselves out of windows and I tell ya I was mighty glad for the company.

That sweet boy opened me up that night, and like I said, I am glorious, hell yes I am! From the time that gentleman came with his tool I have not been wanting for company. Though I am not certain, I believe that the Smoky Creek Glory Hole has become somewhat famous. I have hosted diplomats, consular officials, foreign dignitaries, perhaps even the King of Spain.

I even saw my old master come in one night, didn’t know he was pressin’ himself up against the remains of old Mr. Big. The lgendary John Holmes was waitin’ on the other side and when they got it on they were inseparable. Course Big John is used to just such problems and was prepared for the contingency. He whipped out a jar of leeches, hooked ‘em on to his burning mule bone and they drained the syrup out of his swizzle stick lickety quick.

Oh, the State tried to shut me down, riveted a cruel aluminum plate over my orifice; I spent the day in torment, but night brought me quick release, a crop haired young thing with a Stanley flathead popped that codpiece off a me in no time. Maybe it was you did it. Heard me callin’ and come in, ready to stick your ass up to the starry infinite. I am the locus, the doughnut hole to the universal, I am your immanence baby; keenin’ my ferric song of blood, and cum. I am a thick quick vein of iron ore. Come and be reborn. Come and try an incarnation. Don’t just stick a toe in; Come and tread some water, I said come on in, the water is fine...


Yves Jaques can be reached at