I'm auditioning for the part of narrator in Houellebecq's next novel.
The mortality sucks, but the fellatio's out of this world.

* * *

    …as he burbled on happily in this vein, I allowed my gaze to
wander out of his office window to the street below. Two girls were
passing, about fifteen years old, wearing gauzy tops through which the
outlines of their breasts were clearly visible; above the waist of
their cropped white trousers you could see that they were wearing
thongs of different colours - the one on the left's was yellow, the
one on the right's a peachy pink colour. On reflection, I decided that
I preferred the pink, although in truth there was little to choose
between them, the sluts. As we get older, we do not get any younger;
but the policemen get younger all the time. I thought about pussy for
a while, and my eyes began to mist up. It was definitely time to snap
out of it and pay attention to what the old bastard was saying.

    As it happened, he was still talking excitedly about Céline;
frankly, I couldn't see the point in it. Who gets excited about
anti-semitism any more? If you want to be really offensive nowadays,
you have to be racist towards the Arabs. I'd tried this for a while,
and even managed to spend almost a whole week in a state of furious
hatred for the miserable, backwards, shit-eating camel-molesters; but
it soon wore off, and my cock remained as flaccid and impervious as
ever to the stimulations of late-night soft porn on TV5. Later on I'd
discovered Viagra, and was largely cured of any impulse towards
racism: so long as the floozy giving me a hand-job was competent,
considerate and reasonably-priced, who cared if she was from Algeria
or Belarus?

    In the future
    we mooch around
    tossing off endless
    limpid quatrains

    Just then it occurred to me that the solution to humanity's ills
must have something to do with quantum energy; perhaps by exploring
hitherto neglected properties of the topology of Hilbert spaces we
might rediscover the possibility of unconditional love. The Krause's
corpuscles at the end of my glans penis began to throb emphatically:
the girl in the yellow thong had clearly made more of an impression on
me than I'd first supposed. Soon I'd have to excuse myself and go and
wank off under one of the plastic tables in the cafeteria, covering my
exertions with the copy of Scientific American I'd filched from the
desk in reception. All things considered, public masturbation has an
undeservedly bad repution; it's a harmless enough pleasure, certainly
no worse than reading Teilhard de Chardin. You can get to the omega
point a lot quicker with a deft five-finger shuffle, that's my
opinion.

    The professor was pacing up and down behind his desk now; he
seemed barely to have noticed my state of distraction, never mind my
state of arousal. He had moved from Céline to Bataille; soon there
would be mention of Sade, no doubt, and then the circle would be
complete. What was it about these desiccated old farts and the wicked
old Marquis? Did their wives, assuming they had them, ever comment on
the copy of the 120 Days of Sodom lying suggestively open on the
bed-side table? It was unthinkable; perhaps they had mistaken the
great sinner's works for an anthropological treatise on the mores of
some distant tribe of savages, and no doubt they were right, for what
could be more distant now than de Sade's childish delight in cruelty
and malign invention, his naive optimism about the limitless
possibilities of human perversity? The only true sadists nowadays are
children; even in the wildest S&M clubs, all you will find is bored
has-beens going through the motions, lacerating their tired and
unattractive flesh in the vain hope of arousing a little frisson of
outrage in the straights outside.

    Finally I could stand it no longer, and I interrupted the
professor just as he was getting onto the topic of how the latest
developments in Galois theory provided a solid mathematical basis for
the theorem of the accursed share. "Indeed," I cried, jumping from my
chair and wagging my finger in an exaggerated fashion, "but in my
opinion you're forgetting the contribution made by Tarmo Uustalu and
Varmo Vene in their seminal paper on the role of apomorphisms in the
articulation of comonadic bijective schemata, which clearly indicates
- to those who have eyes to see - the possibility of developing a new
species out of the synthesis of jaded forty-something fashion magazine
editors and sofa-humping thirteen-year-old boys." He looked at me with
something akin to admiration, mixed with no small measure of
bewilderment. "I'll have to think about that…", he was mumbling to
himself, patting his jacket pockets in search of his spectacles as I
sprinted for the cafeteria…


--
Shall we be pure or impure? Today
we shall be very pure. It must always
be possible to contain
impurities in a pure way.
--Tarmo Uustalu and Varmo Vene