Any emperor worth his Oriental throw pillows will tell you he is nothing without his people—he doesn’t mean it, of course. It’s just that these sorts of statements prolong your inevitable assassination a bit. Nevertheless, I am honored to answer the denizens poring over this blog in any queries or quibbles they may have, queer quests they undertake, or quaffing quorums they invite me to attend.
Caligula fan David Freericks writes:
“I am writing a leaflet on abherent paraphilias in the tri-state area and was wondering if you would share with us your personal experiences with strap-on sex, or pegging.”
Oh, Davus, if only I could condense that knowledge further than I already have in my forthcoming book, “Ménage à Blah: Why Paraphilic Sex In New York, New Jersey and Connecticut Just Doesn’t Work” (HarperCollins, $24.95). But I think you can judge by the title itself the central flaw in your otherwise promising leaflet’s conceit.
Because let’s face it: strap-ons and pegging, brutal/fun/hair-raising as they may be, are nothing without the thrill of adventure, perversion and transgression. The tri-state area, though, has given us shock-jock radio, Albany and Joe Lieberman. In other words, your cookie-cutter kink ain’t gonna cut it here.
New Jersey in particular barely bothers to hide its cesspools of vice
My advice is to up the ante. Something groundbreaking, not the same old anally-receiving-a-fake-hard-plastic-penis-worn-by-someone-without-a-real-penis gambit. The Marquis de Sade was violating himself with a whittled wooden phallus over two centuries ago, for crying out loud (he probably was). And if you’re really wedded to this whole idea of artificial sex organs, I have a hint: think toasters.
—Caligula
Caligula Vs. Nero 
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