by Soren James



I live on a planet where everyone owns a dick, and blowjobs are the measure of everything. There are time-lapses between blowjobs, mostly filled with mundanity – all those practicalities that must be performed. Aside from such niggling burdens, the only valued use of time – and the only currency among our people – is the blowjob. Everything is valued in relation it.

Friendships are valued by how many BJs are exchanged. Marriages are counted likewise. Even the bricks and mortar of our homes are counted in BJs. I, for example, live in a 40,000 blowjob flat – which I am still paying for. Just this morning a 957 BJ friend paid off one of the BJs on my flat – making him a 958 job friend (238 of which have been on the flat as he’s fond of my banker).

My best friend is a 4960 job friend (2402 of them to me personally). We shall celebrate the 5000th BJ of his friendship to me with a 69. To him, I’m only a 847 job friend (487 of them given personally) – a disparity that I’ve meant to compensate for, but one can’t force oneself to be attracted to another.

In these blowjob exchanges, all cum is the responsibility of the ‘cumee’. Most people either swallow, or spit the emission into their specialised cum-satchel. Though there are some religious beliefs that stand in the way of this practicality – they condemn any ejaculation that occurs inside the body. Such devotees instead choose to foot the cleaning bill, often leading to the performing of further blowjobs to cover the expenses. The result being that they have to perform an endless stream of blowjobs – their beliefs (or perhaps a deeper urge) binding them to this inefficiency.

Our planet’s economy has an annual turnover of 180 trillion blowjobs. Though this is dwindling yearly (at least, the official statistics are), as our population diminishes.

We are a dying race. A child has not been born to us for 15 years.  

Midwives were the first to lose their jobs, many seeking to retrain in geriatric care (the only guaranteed growth area in our economy). Then the school system slowly collapsed – its buildings emptied and fitted with linoleum floors to accommodate group blowjobbings and BJ training centres.

The repercussions continue, as those employed in supplying goods to the teenage market are now losing their source of income. They are now left to either retrain, or produce more conservative, dour-looking clothes, music and other products to maintain their living wage.

Recent calculations show that the last of us will die out within 50 years. This has led to a decline in the value of the BJ exchange token. It seems people have begun to think about death, more than the acquiring of additional belongings.

These Last Days have seen the black-market in blowjobs growing, with more and more jobs being performed merely as a sociable pastime. This has led us to pay more attention to one another – and to feel less like abstracted things at the other end of some money token, and more like fellow beings.

The value of physical objects has, as a result, shrunk. This has left us with a heightened awareness of the emptiness of our previous life – and more conscious of the senselessness of impending death.

Sadly, though, our recent burgeoning sense of community will soon be cut short, leaving ejaculatory oblivion as our only distraction: that repeated telescoping of arousal – glancing ecstasy on the way out, only to shrink back on a hollow self.



Soren James is a writer and visual artist who recreates himself on a daily basis from the materials at his disposal, continuing to do so in an upbeat manner until one day he will sumptuously throw his drained materials aside and resume stillness without asking why. More of his work can be seen here: