Ask Rooked

Dear C.S. Perry,
I recently found your personal page at (DELETED) and I noticed that you were the moderator of a group called “The Renegade Motorcycle Daredevil Sex Cult.” It was pretty interesting there for a while and then you just gave up on it. I was wondering why. It’s a great name and I wanted to know more. Will there be more?

Just Curious,

(DELETED)


Well my dear Just Curious,
Yes, it’s true. I did start that group and the title came from a Top Secret, Midnight Communiqué I received from my trusty Ouija Board.
I was told to start just such a cult (or, I could also have started a mini-bike or scooter club called the Tiny Goliaths.) I opted for the cult. But then, I guess it can be hard to take such admonitions from a Ouija Board very seriously. But I would rather that than take the later advice, which was that I could attain the True Gift of “Sight” if I drank the Blue Water inside my Magic 8 Ball. (I later attempted to transmute the Blue Water and I mixed it with rum to kill the metallic tang it had. The rest of that night is something I’d like to forget. And it will go down in my Personal History as the night of “The Blue Drunk.”)
And, after all, no matter what the current mores of society may ask us to believe, we all know that the real motivation behind any of the so-called “Social Networking” sites is really sex, right? Right. I think we can all agree on that.
So I envisioned the Renegade Motorcycle Daredevil Sex Cult as a sort of chic group of friends who would delve repeatedly into the bizarre world of sexual experimentation. The plans for the Official Sex Laboratory were drawn up with lots of deep cushions, pile carpeting, hanging faux-leather chairs, and silver wallpaper. But the funds never materialized. (Yes. I’m as shocked as you are.)
I had a dream of discovering, through far-reaching archeological ventures, some ancient codices that would outline the methodology of attaining the Truth through extremely involved and vigorous sexual practices. And, of course, we would ride motorcycles and perform amazing stunts. And the spirit of Evel Knievel would rise on nights of special rituals and bless us with his racist, misogynistic fanatical ravings.
Yes. I had hoped to discover the secret of Time Travel through intense Orgasmic Palpations and circular breathing techniques.
We would all wear gravity boots (Thigh-Highs for the ladies) and vortex goggles and learn to bend and twist in all manner of strange ways to make sure that no territory was left unexplored. Yes. It was all envisioned to be a New Beginning in the exploration of hyper-speed, science-fiction sexual fantasy that would see us all strapped in and going at it Full Speed while futuristic robots moved about the scene and dispensed fragrant and spicy Space Liquors through shiny, metallic sipping tubes.
I would take Command at the “Helm” and manipulate all of the emotional responses, pupil dilation, blood flow and arousal patterns from a machine called the “Orgasmatron.” Yes. I would keep a steady hand on the main potentiometer that would control the squelch for the high-gain antenna that would distribute the signal evenly among the Faithful Followers and cut the signal-to-noise ratio so it would level out and finally allow us to achieve Time Displacement without the aid of Tippler Cylinders and through only the wild gesticulations of our own turpitude. Sure.
Who could resist the temptation of a dream-creamy world where we could engage in Quantum-Velocity Sexcapades and wake up sticky and spent after a long night of Time Travel?
Right. I thought so too.
Needless to say that, despite some initial respondents, interest waned after a short while and the money ran out…so the Great Experiment was cut drastically short. It’s a shame really because, after all, we all love Strange Ginch, eh? Sure we do. And lately my libido has been running wide open about like a wild-ass ape and I can’t seem to contain it too much longer.
So maybe I should re-open the File on this one and see what’s what.
Then again…I’ve got a lot of laundry that needs doing and this sort of thing calls for an exuberance, reckless abandon and confidence that I don’t think I possess any longer.
So…for a nominal fee, I’d be perfectly willing to sell off all the documents, plans and formal By-Laws to the Right Buyer.
And, when it comes to sex-cult-buy-outs, I don’t think I even need to say, “Caveat Emptor.” Right?