Miguel Castro“All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.” -Edgar Allen Poe
2 – A Short Survey of my Career
The mission before us, we sat in my kitchen drinking coffee. Although it was important we find Frater Thule, to keep another power-crazed magus from exposing the occult, we were beset with a paralyzing inertia. Where were we going to begin our search? California is home to hundreds of production companies. At one point or another in my career I associated with the best of them; I could easily guide my magickal brethren to the sets, introduce them to the heavy-breathing directors and bimbo assistants, but there was no guarantee I would lead them directly to Frater Thule. Indeed, I made a certain kind of porn, with typical hussies and cheesy plots, but maybe Frater Thule liked midgets, or burly leather-clad men, which would have required a different kind of familiarity with the industry. One I didn’t possess, exactly.
So we did nothing. We sipped from our mugs in silence. Twenty minutes were spent this way when Frater Marduk turned to me with wide-eyed intensity—an epiphany.
“Do you keep an altar?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, recalling an abandoned corner of the laundry room. “Over there.”
I led the magi to the laundry room and pointed at the small table next to the rumbling dyer. Marduk and Elektra rushed past me. With pitying cries, like injured dogs, they rescued the magickal instruments—chalice, wand and dagger—from gnarled beds of cobwebs and dust. Elektra seized my velvet bathrobe, visibly piqued.
“Have you no respect for your craft?” she said.
“I’ve asked the maid to clean them,” I said. “But Mexicans are very superstitious.”
“You pampered fool!” she said, clutching my testicles. I coughed, breathless. “I should mate with you repeatedly until you die!”
I looked at Marduk pleadingly, to restrain his acolyte, but he was busy inspecting the dagger’s edge. It occurred to me, then, to raise my hand and slap Elektra. She tumbled backwards, crashing into the laundry machine.
As I recovered from Elektra’s attack and she mine, Marduk looked up from the dusty chalice.
“They’re grimy but still useful,” he said. “The elemental charge is intact. We should begin immediately.”
“Frater,” Elektra said, addressing Marduk, “What did you have in mind?”
Marduk instructed us to move the altar to the living room. Of course, Elektra protested the directive because, as she put it, “I’m not going to set a table for a man.” So the task was left to me and the wizened magickian. We moved the altar in place of the coffee table and anointed the instruments, using the necessary oils and salts. Once this was done, Marduk divulged his grand scheme. I prepared a martini.
“It occurred to me,” Marduk said, “that we have all the requisites for formula XII14P. We should hurry and evoke Thoth-Mercury.”
Elektra and I looked at each other, baffled. Evidently, she was just as ignorant of the technique in question.
“Formula… what?” I said, chewing on an olive.
“Ah, of course,” Marduk said, “the formula is only given to aging (male) magi. Neither of you have heard of this.”
“And how can you be sure of that?” Elektra said, defiantly.
“You don’t have a penis. And our brother here is too young.”
“What does ‘having a penis’ have to do with anything?”
“You need a penis to perform the rite.”
“I don’t know. Do vaginas suffer from erectile dysfunction?”
“Yes,” Elektra said, without irony.
I was trashed after the fifth martini. The evocation was successful even though I slurred through the banishing rituals of the pentagram and hexagram and all but collapsed during the enochian chants. After these preliminary procedures, I stumbled back to the bar and fixed myself another drink, taking a stool at the marble countertop. I observed curiously as Marduk’s flaccid, geriatric penis stirred with new life like a diminutive Frankenstein’s monster. He himself was in trance, and his head rolled from shoulder to shoulder as Elektra recited incantatory commands. Erect, the penis swayed this way, then that way, tracing an invisible arc. But I suppose I should explain.
Formula XII14p is, for want of a better term, penis divination. As with automatic writing, the host body subordinates a part of his anatomy (in this case, the penis) to supernatural influence. By his own account, Marduk had not been able to sustain an erection in 25 years, making him the perfect candidate. Now, by inducing erection in this way, the operating magus (Elektra) instructs the penis to remain semi-flaccid until it delivers an answer to the proposed question—just where had Frater Thule been last? Of course, the only adequate way to pose this question to a possessed penis is by visual cue, so we played several of my films produced by the biggest porn studios in California. We figured this would plot the course of our search or at very least give us a place to begin.
The first film was “Tit-Tanic,” a lubricious take on James Cameron’s film “Titanic.” The film, like its award-winning counterpart, details the exploits of a vagabond named Jacqueline aboard the biggest sailing vessel in history. The story follows the endearingly nicknamed “Jacky” as she seduces crewmembers and fellow passengers, securing passage to the luxury deck. There, in the midst of a gentleman’s gathering, she performs an impromptu striptease, which incites the passions of the captain himself, distracting him from the dire warnings of impending disaster from the ship’s meteorologist and navigator Ambrose Feldspar (played by me). The resulting disaster is nothing less than a collision with a giant breast-shaped iceberg. And that’s when shit hits the fan. Crewmembers and passengers begin to riot, but the captain brings the ship to its senses with an impassioned monologue, calling for an “act of perennial love in the face of death.” In other words, the film ends with a giant gang-bang as the Tit-Tanic sinks into the icy waters of the North Atlantic. The film won the “best visual effects” nomination at the AVN awards and made Pizzazz Studios the go-to production company for ambitious pornographers. However, Marduk’s penis swayed this way, then that way, indicating that Frater Thule hadn’t visited the company and, for heuristic purposes, didn’t like artsy smut. So far, so good.
The second film was “Bend Hur Over,” based on the Bible-inspired classic starring Charlton Heston. It was a crude production by comparison to the Hollywood realization, lacking any historical verisimilitude, but the story was a novel attempt to give pornography moral aptitude. The story follows the trials of a young Jewish man, Bend Hur, as he struggles against Jewish society and longs for sexual freedom. Bend Hur is motivated by the simple desire to “let my penis go.” This causes a rift in his immediate community between the Orthodox Jewish authorities and a small coterie of Kabbalists who expound a philosophy similar to that of Nathan Benjamin ben Elisha ha-Levi Ghazzati in his book “Treatise on the Dragons” (effectively calling for the dissolution of positive and negative value-judgments in the Torah). I myself played one of these wise men, and was active in the script writing. The film is full of extra-marital affairs and hardcore liaisons in a desert setting. But again, the film was limited by its small budget; we could only afford two camels, and they were present in every shot, munching sod like bovine props. Marduk’s penis responded more favorably to this film, but it continued to swing in a low arc. Frater Thule’s sexual proclivities were clearly couched in the aesthetics of hardcore pornography, and he didn’t mind a little storytelling. We were getting closer.
The third film was “The King & I & His Wives,” a crazy adaptation of the Rogers and Hammerstein musical for the lurid screen. It details the story of a European tutor who travels to Taiwan to escape the stuffy atmosphere of 18th-century Europe. In Taiwan, she is arrested for lewd and lascivious conduct with a port official, eventually brought before the King himself. He is instantly enamored by the Western beauty and introduces her to his large harem, where he gives free-rein to her lesbian desires. The plot then quickly devolves into a pastiche of lesbian love scenes, orgies including the King and Court Astrologer (played by me), and quirky musical numbers, including a perverse rendition of “Getting to Know You.” Throughout, the King is content to relish the goings-on in a voyeuristic capacity, occasionally delivering the money shot towards the end of a scene. Indeed, the closing minutes of the film is a bukake lovefest in which the Tutor struggles to please nine different men and is finally dowsed with copious amounts of semen. The cast won the “best degrading performance” nomination at the AVM awards. To this day, O-Face Studious continues to produce some of the most offbeat, hardcore pornography. And when the credits began to roll, on my 96 inch plasma T.V., Marduk’s penis distended to full girth, standing in defiance of gravity and a dying prostate. Now we knew where to commence our search for Frater Thule—O-Face Studios.
Marduk was slowly roused from his trance. He was disoriented at first; the divination had obviously consumed a lot of psychic, to say little of his physical, energy. But he was immediately apprised of its success. The old magickian was happy to learn this, but asked for time to rest; he had never attempted the rite before and felt very tired. I led him to my bed room where he collapsed on the bed, neglecting to change his getup, and began snoring instantly. I returned to the living room and found Elektra replaying the closing minutes of “The King & I & His Wives,” digging into her crotch. “You know,” she said, “I would like to try that.” So I called a few friends over and gave the tart some Hammerstein.