Look, I’ll make this quick. I’m fifty-seven years old. I’ve been in Narnia for three years. Who cares? I don’t.
I’m a knight now. Nothing major, but it’s nice. I play a small role in some larger Christian allegory. It’s the right amount of fantasy and religion to keep me engaged, but I dunno. Some days are slower than others.
When a day gets slow, I do this thing where I go back to my barracks and stare at my wife’s dildo. Nothing crazy. It’s just like, hey, what if that dildo went back in my asshole and I recapture a level of pleasure that I’ve never come close to matching in three years? What if, you know?
Today is one of those slow days. Really slow. Slow enough that I get to really stare at that stupid thing for a solid three hours. Three hours go by and I eventually say, “Fuck it,” and get my body in an emotionally safe enough place to allow my chakras to open. I pop open the back flap of my knight armor and squat down on this dumb dildo.
Dildo goes in my ass and I go bananas. My chakras are fully open and ready to receive pleasure—big time. I can’t keep my eyes open, because the pleasure is too intense. I climax with a full voice because my orgasms are not bound by puritanical constructs of modesty. This is a big deal.
My eyes eventually open. I’m in a train car. I’m sitting across from two kids. One is a nerd, and the other one is a nerd that is also poor. They are dressed in bathrobes.
The nerd who is not poor says something like, “Hey, why are you screaming? Do you have a scar that you hear voices from?” and I’m like, “What a stupid thing to ask.”
Then he’s like, “I only ask because I have a scar on my forehead that I hear voices from,” and I’m like, “We gotta stop talking about you for a second. Life is about other people. I just had a prostate orgasm that’s having me sweat right through my knight’s armor, and I’m suddenly stuck on a train full of orphans.”
The poor one speaks up. “We’re not orphans; we’re wizards.” So I say, “Okay, do some magic,” and he’s like, “No, we can only do magic at Hogwarts,” and it’s sad, because that’s the kind of lie you can come up with only if you are an orphan. I let it go.
We start shooting the shit. These two tell me things are bad here, and there are dementors on the train. They ask if I saw the dementors, and I told them I hadn’t. My eyes had been closed because I came big time from both my butt and balls. Then they ask me if I want a chocolate frog, and I say, “Yeah, chocolate sounds great.” Then this brown frog jumps at me, and I look at these kids like, “That’s not funny. Don’t get smart with me.”
Pretty soon after that, the two orphans get sad. I tell them that I’d be willing to hug them, but they have to give me a change of clothes before any hugging happens. I mean, come on.
They say, “No, sadness means a dementor is coming,” and it’s like, my god, what do we teach orphans?
I get butt naked so I can towel off, get some clothes, and hug these stupid kids.
Not gonna happen: turns out dementors are real. I’ve got one looking right at me. He’s got my face in its hands, and it looks like it’s going for a kiss. I don’t have my knight sword, so I grab my wife’s dildo out of my ass and shake it right in the dementor’s face. The dementor looks me up and down and floats away. Dementor gone.
Right after that, a grown man comes in. He’s also wearing a bathrobe. He looks like shit.
“Thank you for casting your Patronus and protecting Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. I don’t know what that is, but I don’t care.
“Why are you naked?” he asks.
“He wanted to take off his clothes so he could hug us,” the poor one says. I mouth “no, no” a couple times, and the grown man approaches me. I think he’s going to kick my ass, but instead he whispers something like, “I get naked when I change into a werewolf, so I don’t ruin my clothes.”
I’m sorry, but these orphan kids are not safe.
Whatever. We get to Hogwarts, and it’s great. They give me a stick and a bathrobe, and I get put in a house with a group of orphans. Hufflepuff. People try to make fun of me for being in Hufflepuff, but I’m fifty-seven. I’m a grown man. I don’t care.
Keith James’s hilarious new book, Greg Maxwell’s Inferno is out this week.