A month of depressive time had passed in the opulent but lonely Brunswick terrace. Nicholas had fallen into a spiral of depression and hopelessness. He had consumed more pornography in the last few weeks than he had in a year, but the hate masturbation had left him feeling hollow inside, angry that the angels of his better nature had abandoned him.
He had turned his phone off, knowing full well the rebels and the government were waiting to hear from him. It was all too much to bare, the responsibility of such societal change resting on his shoulders. The world used to be ruled by the barrel of a gun, now it was run by the tip of a squirting cock. He hadn’t seen Sharlto in longer than he could remember. The last time they spoke he had said things of a concerning nature. He worried Sharlto might also be double crossing him after he’d made an off remark at Pornoria Gardens weeks prior.
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‘Pornography is not only compatible with spirituality, it is a profound source of spirituality.’
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Nick remembered his exact words and it sent a shiver of concern down his spine. Not only was Sharlto watching pornography, he was tapping something deeper and existential from it than he was. In Nanthony’s mind, black men and their on screen behaviours were a means to an end, a quick way to feel good and move on, but Sharlto’s remark had stuck with Nick. How could someone tap so much more from it? He didn’t know wether to feel guilty he himself was engaging with pornography or to feel jealous Sharlto was getting more out of it. The emotions combined themselves into a conflicting maelstrom of mental assault, so Nicholas started up his browser, and as the pornography loaded, his brain ignited with the same fire that lit the stars, and he felt once again that he belonged.
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