helga von porno

Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Polygyny and Polyandry

Here's the kind of self serving pseudo science these swaggering struckoff psychiatrists put forward: Human beings are polygynous, meaning that men get to fuck around while women are naturally faithful. These pompous dim wits also mix up the discriptive claim with the normative one, concluding that women should be faithful to one man while he should cheat on her. The evidence is that men have a slightly more muscular upper body than women, which is ideally evolved for shouldering jealous husbands out of the way. The other argument is that men can impregnate thousands of women a year, whereas an unfaithful woman can only get pregnant once, so a woman may as well stick to one man, and in all fairness shouldn't complain if he is fucking half of slovenia in maraud, since she has got her teaspoon full of hairy chested aggressive genes, and that's all she needs.

The other conceit, (Miller 2000, Dawkins 2004) is that the human mind evolved through mate choice, and essentially this means that Genghis Kahn managed to impregnate every other Turkish woman because they loved his vocabulary size and his ability to make disperate logical connections. This would predict that men are much cleverer than women, and evidence to the contrary is explained by the hypothesis that women's brains grew parallel so that they would be able to work out which men were cleverer, and know when to laugh at their jokes and nod appreciatively at their astounding metaphysics, and thereby decide who should impregnate them so that they can give birth to the next generation of Woody Alans and Einsteins.

But here is where I present my argument for Polyandry: the theory that it is men who are faithful and women who have many mates, a male harem.
The idea is to look at the best strategy for an evolving woman.
1. Be faithful to some big swank who is also fucking hundreds of other women. Result: Have 12 bastard children all with the same absent Father and all inheriting the same genetic weakness of that one man. Prediction: Many of the children will die before reaching maturity, since 1. They don't have the protection of the Father. 2. they are likely to have near identical immune systems, so a single virus could wipe out the whole batch
2. Have 12 babies by 12 successive men, all chosen for their romantic hearts and their faithfulness and loyalty, (and hell, why not thrown in cock size, bank account and sense of humour). Result: 12 off spring who are much more likely to reach maturity as each have the protection of a good father, and each are likely to have different immune systems so a greater joint resistence.
Therefore there will be a strong evolutionary pressure for men to be kind, romantic and faithful, with big cocks and senses of humour, while women should fuck around as much as possible. In conclusion, human beings are polyandrous.
Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Also it means womens minds will have evolved to keep their Harem sweet, and keep each of the men faithful. Evidence, many husbands think they are the fathers of other men's children.
HVP

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

The Real Psychologists.

A few of us have taken to meeting upstairs in what must have been a ball room in this old Victorian mock Tudor house. There are leather armchairs and chess tables scattered around and a grand Piano in the corner. We feel ourselves to above the saturnalia down stairs which has degenerated into little more than a bestial romp. Last night, for example, a man of no scientific credentials fucked a goat in the orgone generator while his mate (literally, they drove a removals van together for a living) sat in the thought amplifier drinking lager. No one even bothered to record the results. We feel that these are symptomatic of the wider grip that Materialism has on the Zeitgheist. The general public are attracted by sex and drugs as vices, showing little interest in the amazing revolution of thought that is going on.

There are about eight of us, I am marked out doubly as being the only woman, and the only member without a degree in psychiatry from the institute. We call ourselves the "Real Psychologists" proudly boasting that we study thought, rather than brains and behaviour. And we dispense pure love and psychic energy, rather than drugs and lobotomy.

There is a bit of a dress code as well. We all where black suits that button up to the neck and smoke pipes. Rudolph plays the piano, Cuthbert is a demon at chess, but mostly we discuss evolutionary psychology and the amazing implications of Clarkes work. I think there is a little jealousy directed toward me as I am clearly Clarke's favourite, and because I give off 100 times the lebidinous energy of a randomly sampled human being. I am a kind of freak, and lebidinous genius. Clarke himself is the second highest, but he only gives off 25 fold.

The jealousy manifests in the direction of their thought. They keep coming up with dubious evolutionary arguments for why it is that men are superior to women, or that women are naturally subserviant to men.

There is an undercurrent of subversion against Clarke. It is whispered that he is becoming a "Sensationalist". It is true that he is trying to hire out big music venues in which to demonstrate his Orgone generator and thought collecting apparatus. The events are not even being billed as science, but as entertainment. He is experiencing some difficulty in obtaining licences, especially when the authorities learn that he wants to use schizophrenics in conjunction with live sexual intercourse.

I too am suspicious of the path Clarke seems to be treading. It is undeniable that his discovery is genius and of great import. But he seems to be inspired by Mammon, and the love of money is at the root of his endeavour. Even his love for me, which I can't deny is real, is but an instrument to his of self agrandisement.

HVP RP signing off

Monday, September 11, 2006

The Bromley set

The Bromley house has become a gathering place for Clarke's followers and free thinkers who are suffocated by the strangle hold the physicalists have got on mainstream psychiatry and psychology. The absurd claim that there is nothing more to this universe than atoms in the void has become as stiffling and inhibiting to science as catholicism once was.
The Bromley house on a Friday night will see scientists breathing the air of freedom, experimenting with the Orgone generator and the thought gatherer. The genius Clarke has developed a technique for measuring the frequency of thoughts through the silver cable. This in effect is a measurement of the lebidinous energy given off by whatever practice is being enacted in the orgone generator. A man and woman in love in coitus gives off ten times as much lebidinous energy as sodomizing homosexual men, but only ten percent more than kissing lesbians. It was found that a mother breast feeding an infant gives off very little, whereas friends playing imaginative games gives off as much as heterosexual coitus between lovers. I qualify with "lovers" because in one remarkable experiment, a man and a woman who professed no attraction to one another were given various sex aids and instructed to fuck each other.
The lebidnous energy level was lower than of a sole wanking man. Experiments of more dubious value had extravagantly beautiful whores having sex with the experiment designers in a rainbow of varying costumes and poses.
There were interesting variables on the chair too. Drug virgin Schizophrenics were in short supply and so there was plenty of room to see if voice hearing in the chair could be induced in normal patients. Cocaine was found to be effective, as was excstacy, LSD and puff. So on a Friday night, there would be a live sex show with various interesting couplings and charlie, acid and e being consumed. I gather not every one was there out of purely scientific interest. Sometimes it was hard to get through the door.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Reserch assistant post

Doctor Philip Clarke gained a respectable PhD in psychiatry and behavioural genetics from the Maudsley hospital but then after publishing a series of remarkable papers on schizophrenia fell into disrepute. His references to the Tibetan book of the Dead and the banned works on Orgone by the discredited Reich earned him the ridicule and contempt of the London Psychiatric community. He was eventually struck off the register after allegations of bad practice. He openly:
1. Encouraged, and even ordered Schizophrenic patients to stop taking medication.
2. Told Schizophrenic patients that the voices in their heads were real and that they were the voices of the spirits of the dead.
3. Performed sex acts with undergraduates as part of his “research”.

He soon found alternative financial backing from various private sources to continue his research. These included many of his former students and patients and the families of his patients who were in awe of the transformation in their erstwhile suffering relatives. Meanwhile he stole a list of diagnosed schizophrenics from the database.

He contacted me after hearing of my unique talents and offered me the position of Research Assistant. Because of the unusually intimate nature of the work, the remuneration was motivation enough in and of itself. I was to be paid £500 an hour in unmarked bills, with the only proviso being that I should do exactly as he commanded.

I was instructed to turn up at an address in Bromley wearing a pair of sky blue knickers, and pair of sky blue stiletto heels and a white lab coat. (Blue is the colour of Orgone). I was instructed to fetch a “drug virgin” (This is Dr Clarke’s term for a schizophrenic who has not received any anti psychotic medicine). I will call the subject Andrew X. Andrew X was ideally suited in that he had consistently refused medication, and already believed that his voices were the voices of disembodied spirits. Andrew came willingly, but Clarke had given me an electric prod in case Andrew became difficult.

I am aware that people read this blog principally for entertainment, so I will keep the science to a minimum. Clarke’s theory is that there is a mental dimension where thoughts exist without extension. These thoughts can be directly perceived through “inspiration”, however, this requires a special sensitivity. Disturbances in the dopaminergic system can cause a super sensitivity to disembodied thoughts. The dopaminergic system is also indicated in sexual arousal. Clarke’s bold theory is that the brain cannot create thoughts alone but creates libidinous energy in the dopaminergic system that allows thoughts to interact with the physical realm. In conception in lovemaking the lovers give off waves of libidinous energy and this attracts disembodied thoughts. When a human is conceived its soul is attracted by the love making of the parents. This is why in the Tibetan book of the Dead, to avoid reincarnation, the dead are counselled to avoid the attractiveness of lovers. Clarke was struck by the persistence of schizophrenia in our gene pool. He hypothesized that schizophrenics had a special talent, an extra sense, contrary to the mainstream view that schizophrenia was an illness and a deficit. “In the valley of the blind, the one eyed man is detained for his own safety and the safety of others,” Dr Clarke was fond of saying. His genius was to invent a device that could amplify the voices of the spirits through manipulating libidinous energy. He needed drug virgins because taking anti psychotic medicine was akin to pouring vinegar into your eyes.

When I arrived with Andrew, Dr Clarke, a handsome, clean shaven man of about forty, greeted me and helped me strap Andrew into the listening chair. His arms were strapped to the arm rests and his legs manacled to the base. A padded iron hoop latched around his neck, and a black net like helmet was attached to his head with suckers latching on to various areas of his skull. Andrew had a clean shaven head, and “Bromham” tattooed on his neck, for reasons only known to himself. In the middle of the helmet was a female socket into which a large male socket was screwed. From this came a solid silver cable as thick as an erect penis. The other end of the cable was attached to the top of the orgone generator, a box shaped like a wardrobe made of glass tinted blue. From the inside ceiling of the Orgone generator dangled a forest of human hair.

“Ms Von Porno, step inside the Orgone generator.” Said Dr Clarke. His voice had a timbre that send a thrill through me. I was acutely aware of my nakedness beneath the lab coat. I felt his authority like an embrace. It was wonderful to have the opportunity to assist this genius in his research. I stood in the Orgone generator with my back to Andrew, who was struggling against his bonds, wailing and shouting in myriad strangulated voices. The Handsome Dr Clarke looked intensely into my face and began to unbutton my coat. Our breaths quickened and became heavy and I felt a deliscious warm weakness creep up though my inner thighs my belly and my breasts. He pulled away my knickers. He lifted me by the hips and pushed me back against the glass. I held his skull between my hands and pulled his face between my breast. His beautiful brain held in my hands. He breathed in my odour in big snuffles. He lifted his lips to mine and we were making love. What a privilege to be taken by a passionate scientist and I could feel his passion. I gasped and cried out. I looked into his eyes, his pupils expanding and contracting like two black holes giving birth to the universe. I left my body and floated disembodied above the room. I could see Andrew wailing and shouting strange incoherent things. I could see me and the doctor making love so beautifully, my cheeks buttocks and breasts were flushed bright pink. I was not alone. The room was filled with thoughts, ideas, disembodied minds. Do not picture them, for they were imperceptible. I was aware of them like I am aware of my own thoughts. But they were located in a swarm around the Orgone generator. They were attracted to our wonderful passionate sex, our mingling beauty. I was too and drifted toward us. I was aware of them floating into the orgone generator and being sucked up into the electric cable and being channelled straight into Andrew’s brain.
I was the cable.
I was everywhere and no where.
I was here again as alleles and chromosomes imploded into my belly with the force of a dual orgasm and I was filled with pieces of information that had been preserved for a hundred thousand years, genetic code that had made this handsome genius was rushing to seek mine.

He kissed me tenderly and brushed a tear from my cheek with the back of his hand. “You are beautiful, so beautiful, Helga, so sexy and so beautiful,” He said, his lips quivering with passion.
I smouldered back at him through brim of tears and said nothing.

I buttoned up my lab coat and got back to work. We had recorded everything that Andrew had said on a dictophone and had encouraged him to shout out loud whatever the voices were saying to him.

“Felix! Felix Westowe. I am Felix Westowe. Hand back the books, please, return the booooooks!” He was shouting.

“What books?” I said.

“Library books.” Said Andrew. “I died suddenly and couldn’t return the books.”

“Where are the books?” Asked Dr Clarke.

“In the attic. There is a desk….Bottom left door…..three volumes…..Origin of the Species….A Tale of Two Cities……The Communist Manifesto….”

The Doctor took my hand and led me up the stairs. We could feel each others minds and the driving need of the ghost. We knew where to go.

“Keep libidinous,” Whispered Clarke, “It is easy for me, I have never felt this way for anyone before, I love you in a deeply physical way, we must keep giving off the libidinous energy so we can be guided by Felix Westowe”

My heart was beating and I was in love, I could feel the urgency of the ghost. He swept us off our feet. We rushed into the attic, where we knew he used to live, a bachelor, and read great works at this little desk in the corner, drinking bovril and smoking capstons late into the night. We knew this through inspiration. There in the draw, dusty with age, were the three books. The return date was 11th of September 1936!

Spurned on by the ghost, we ran, holding hands like lovers, to the old town library.

The librarian was most helpful. He found the old records and found that Felix Westowe had taken out three books every week for 26 years and have never had a fine for a late return. That was until the eleventh of September 1936, when he failed to return the three books we held in our hands.

The librarian then informed us that we owed £430 547.76p in unpaid fines. Dr Clarke took out his cheque book and paid in full. We felt the ghost’s spirit fade and melt away like a drop in the ocean.

Poor Felix Westowe had been a fastidious man who made sure everything was in order. His desk, we discovered, contained a ledger book that detailed his daily expenditure to the last farthing. Even a sudden unexpected death couldn’t prevent him from returning his library books, if it delayed him somewhat.

Doctor Clarke paid me £4 000 in cash and mumbled his thanks. I got the 19.04 train into London Bridge and got the Northern line from there, purchasing a copy of the evening standard from the Sainsburies on Camden road and a loaf of bread some sausages and a pint of milk. The bill came to £3.79.