Peter Sotos - Proxy: Peter Sotos Pornography, 1991-2000

PROXY

Peter Sotos Pornography 19912000

ISBN 1 84068 080 6

Published by Creation Books 2005

Copyright 2005 by Peter Sotos

From Selfish, Little (2003):

The more pedophiles fantasize, the more specific they make their tastes. The more specific and narrow those ideas become, the more chances and opportunities arise and taunt. The fantasies become excuses for impulses that are defined only by the pedophile as uncontrollable. When, in reality, theyre still fantasies. Ridiculous fantasies pulled from the reality theyre trying to operate under and sniff out. Westley Allen Dodd wrote reams of material trying to figure out why he became a murderous pedophile. He was obsessive and relentless out of jail and in. Ive seen a photo of a child he left hanging in a closet and read extremely precise descriptions of how he liked to suck on childrens penises and how much he liked these kids, even little girls, to just see his full adult cock. He was consistently frustrated. And he enjoyed, at times, doing nothing more than musing on how it felt to finally have a child look at his big Seattle cock. There isnt anything but the writing. It is exactly how it exists. The perspective and consequence is confused in everything but the actual writing and the selling of the words.

The Machine Shop has been gutted. The backroom has empty boxes where the booths used to be. The doors have been taken off and are stacked on top of each other in a corner. The video players have been taken out of the walls and the wiring ripped through. You want to suck cock now; you can still do it through a glory hole between the partitions but youre completely exposed. The tunnel rats have taken to fucking out in the open in the middle of the dust and splinter filled corridors. And these are short, fat, stunted men who are used to hiding.

From the introduction to Total Filth (2004):

Now closed. Next to the Admiral theater in Chicago. For the record. A small shop with crumpled magazines on only one wall, booths opposite that and empty hand made video boxes everywhere else including under the slightly raised counter where one of only, always, two old scumbags used to sit and moan.

An old mans pit. Again. That I want to talk about. Again.

From Comfort & Critique (2004):

I can put the pictures up. Ive done it before. Ive convinced assholes. Morons. Ive even had slides made from the photos that I own and supposedly covet and had the sheer sickness to pretend that others would see something better in the pictures that I selected. Purely because they would see them in a different context. Even though I was being completely honest about their personal worth. Just like now, bringing it up, preparing it and yapping all over it is supposed to remove every ounce of what once made the photos work so perfectly. But it really doesnt. I cant do it without beating myself up for the idiots who care about it barely. Theres no way that I can shut up about them. I want to let you know that I think Im wrong but I want to see how that sells. In the end, Im completely certain that Ive fucked it all up. The woman that gives me the photos had to watch as I drunkenly ratted them out. Right now, all I want is more. And I never get bored about what I have. I love the shots constantly. Im never unaware of their genius. I have this reduced need to sell it more than fuck the next one whose got flesh exactly fucking like it, almost.

This is what happened.

News works backward.

Less than two years past the little eight-year-olds murder, photos of little Sarah are rarely published alongside the interviews and articles that her mother allows.

From Predicate (2005):

Those kinds of places wont ever come back. No one is going to rebuild something like that. They were slums. Barely kept open and subsistence successful only if officially forgotten about. Years from now, it wont seem to make sense that they even existed. The bent and lifeless lifechoice that moped in there wont find anywhere else to beg.

These booths I used to slip into when I was a kid. Only trolls remember the filth they showed. The place I used to prefer is no longer there some nearly thirty fucking years later. But not a bit changed for at least twenty-five. They still showed cheap 8mm films projected from the rear onto a white block painted on the inside of the door. Well after the video industry had changed everything for the better. I was sixteen. I was seeing films that mimicked -badly- rape and depicted -faithfully- bestiality. Mouths and cocks would hang at the sides of the wood and glue booth through punched and clawed glory holes that stretched the full length of my long legs. At first. I didnt feed these cocksuckers. Most of whom were old men and some of whom were pushy loud revolting niggers.

Just down the street was a gay movie theater. I didnt care about the old men slobbering down my THC and PCP crotch there. I didnt prefer the younger faggots. And I wasnt so out of it that I didnt know I was picking or not picking. Its what big screen queer pornography was invented for. To construct the excuse that men could behave this way. Back in the sleazier wooden commercial heterosexual holes, I was gargling on some sort of rotten brain information. I was hating these thickly painted women who werent getting beaten badly enough. And these cheap paycheck male fucks who didnt seem to enjoy it enough. The women fucked stopped muddy farm animals and sucked on frenzied red dicked dogs and huge bending horses and dumb cows. Fish were folded and clumsily inserted. I could find anything until I settled on kiddie porn as the sole blunt stunting point of my busy pornographic existence.

This is how you become a troll.

Earlier we had discussed how miserable it is to have lost LW Sales. I told it I didnt think I would care. I was glad to see the cesspool closed and the owners depleted of what little cash the monstrosity could have provided them. The human waste stench combined with the broken booth doors and busted peep machines meant only absolute last chance cocksuckers like me and him would end up there.

Questions 132 from pages 5659 of SEXUAL ABUSE THE CHILDS VOICE, Madge Bray, Jessica Kingsley Publishers, London, 1991.

1. Oh, my goodness me, are you a very, very big policeman?

Who frightened you? Who hurt you?

Far too young to be protecting someone, yet thats the obvious answer: Whats inside that little stupid twitch and dodge? Who taught you to do that? Why would you protect the person who hurt you? So they could do it again? Does that overwhelming selfdestroyed what? Instinct? at such a brand new age make any real fucking sense? Were you born this fucked up? How does all that fear soak down into those brittle bones that fucking quick?

They take care of you, dont they? They protect you. And you already know that theres nothing else outside? Nothing better? What else can you do? Is that it? Theres so many more good hours than bad, arent there? Warm times, I guess, when you play and when you show off to the audience that chose you.

You do what they say. And they havent told you whats bad yet. Right? It doesnt hurt; really, does it? And all the time passes away so quickly. Into baby time. Into what you do whenever you want time.

No one really did hurt you, did they? Why would they want to? Youre too pretty, too perfect, too valuable. Arent you?

Dont worry, sweetheart, everythings fine. The policeman wont hurt you. Do you even know what that fucking means? No one would let him. Right? You dont get hurt, do you? Not here. Not when you know how really safe you really must be. Like you are. Always. Always have been, right?

Tell the old lady to shut up. Tell her to stop saying stupid things and stop making such rotten filthy talk come out of her horrible ugly smirking mouth. She shouldnt smile when shes being so mean to you, should she? She shouldnt like it. She shouldnt lean that way, manipulate that way, dress that classless way. She likes to make you frightened and cry. With her ugly mouth. All the paint on her war mouth and on her ageing hiding face. Look at her. As close as she looks at you. Size her up the same way she packages you back to you. Tell her to shut it. Tell her to leave the baby alone.