The Diaries of a Sozzled Scribbler #15
Transcribed by DMETRI KAKMI
17 August 2020
Here I am back in the US of A, where self-expression is everything and no one gives a shit about anyone else. Ah, to breathe freedom’s air after being forced to wear a face mask by the fascist Australian government. Who cares about spreading a deadly contagion every time you sneeze or cough or speak? Personal liberty and comfort is all that matters. Fuck humanity!
So, in an effort to further revel in my god-given rights to be an asshole, as you Americans say, I’ve come to Manhattan to hook up. I haven’t had a close encounter of the erectile kind in oh, must be at least 2.5 hours and I must get laid rapidement, as we say in Paris.
‘Big hairy animal looking for fun and intelligent conversation,’ says the ad in the respectable personals website Sit On My Face and Sing The Star-Spangled Banner. Of course I answer.
Minutes later, I’m in a yellow cab, feeling like Angie Dickinson in Distressed to Kill as I speed through the glittering night to experience untold ecstasies. The address is a penthouse in The Vampire State Building. Must be a VIP.
Lift to floor 101, buzz door, la porte s’ouvre, and who do you think is on the other side?
King Kong!
He’s in a white terrycloth bathrobe carelessly tied at the waist so the essentials peek coyly out.
‘You,’ he screams.
‘You,’ I scream back.
He goes to slam the door in my face but I’ve got my foot in there faster than you can say Prince Andrew.
‘Relax,’ I say, sauntering in. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t seen it before. Remember the orgy on Skull Island? You went through 150 sacrificial offerings in one night.’
‘Oh my god, I’m so embarrassed.’ A flustered Kong ties up his robe. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’
‘That’s the problem with anonymous pick-ups. Might as well have a drink while I’m here.’
We settle on the couch with a classic martini for me and an Old Fashioned for the king of the jungle. Before us is the most stunning view in Manhattan. Kong is still upset about being found out.
‘Oh, the ignominy,’ he bewails.
‘I don’t know why you’re carrying on. It’s not as if I’m going to tell anybody. Mmm, nice martini, by the way.’
‘Don’t give me that. You’re the most indiscreet person I’ve met. Come morning everyone will know what I get up to after dark. My career’s down the gurgler. Oh, la publicite!’ And he fell over in a fainting swoon.
‘Stop carrying on, you old woman.’
‘Stop calling me an old woman,’ he says, sitting up. ‘It’s sexist and agist.’
‘Listen, I won’t tell a soul about your disgusting, perverse sex practices. I promise. And close your legs. I can see your wherewith-alls.’
Kong quickly snaps shut his thunder thighs.
‘Anyway, why are you trawling the net for sex? I thought you and Godzilla were an item.’
‘We broke up.’
‘Why?’
‘Well,’ Kong says, relaxing, ‘we met on the set of King Kong VS Godzilla in 1962. It was love at first bite. But we started having problems almost immediately.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What was going on, if you don’t mind my asking.’
‘It’s personal. Can I trust you?’
‘I am discretion itself,’ I say, and the poor lunk believes it.
‘Everything was fine at first,’ Kong goes on, taking a big sip of his Old Fashioned. ‘She was a great lover and we both liked the same things. Like sitting on skyscrapers and stomping humans. Then the troubles began.’
‘What happened?’
‘We tried anal sex and she shot flames out of her ass during orgasm. Nearly burned me to death.’
‘You poor thing. Then what?’
‘Hollywood came knocking.’
‘And you got jealous.’
‘There was a bit of that, of course. I’m only human, right? But there was something else…’
‘What was it?’
Kong takes another big sip before answering.
‘She comes to the dream factory, starts mixing with trendy California types, and decided she’s trans or non-binary or something, I don’t know… Long story short, she became male.’
‘That’s right. Godzilla is male in the American movies, female in the Japanese. I thought Hollywood imposed that on her because they have a hard time picturing a woman destroy a city. Only men can do that.’
‘No, it came from Godsy herself. You know what they say.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Godsy came from Tokyo, Japan. Hitch-hiked her way across the Pacific, let her eyebrows get bushy on the way, didn’t shave her legs and then she was a he. She says, “Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side”’.
‘Do-do-do, do-do, do-do-do,’ we both sing and burst out laughing.
Kong can be fun when he lets down his hair.
‘You poor thing,’ I say.
‘Yeah,’ Kong says. ‘I’m as broad minded as the next guy but I didn’t fancy two dicks in one bed, especially when one of the dicks shoots flames out of his ass and burn down the house. The cost of insurance was astronomical.’
‘Tell me,’ I say, trying to stop him from getting morbid. ‘You just finished shooting Godzilla vs Kong. That’s exciting.’
‘Yeah, but I get second billing. It’s Godzilla’s movie. I’ve had my century in the sun.’
‘At least you star opposite Alexander Skarsgard. He’s cute.’
‘Dumb as a bicycle saddle. But boy does he give good head.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s a bit of a slut, actually. Caught him rimming Godsy. Godsy got such a shock, he farted and burned Skarsgard to a crisp.’
‘Oh, my god. Sex with kaiju is risky.’
‘Speaking of which,’ Kong adds, ‘want to give me a hand job while you’re here?’
‘Hand job? I need fifty hands to handle that thing. Big as a sequoia tree. You don’t need a hand job. You need a cow milking machine.’
‘Let’s go find one.’
Kong picks me up, clambers out the window and off we go across rooftops to find a kinky sex club.
à bientôt, mes amies.
The Sozzled Scribbler was born in the shadow of the Erechtheion in Athens, Greece, to an Egyptian street walker (his father) and a Greek bear wrestler (his mother). He has lived in Istanbul, Rome, London, New Orleans and is currently stateless. He partakes of four bottles of Bombay gin and nine packets of Gauloises cigarettes a day.
Dmetri Kakmi is a writer and editor. His first book, Mother Land, was shortlisted for the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Awards in Australia, and his new book, The Door, will be released in September 2020.
