Chubz: the Demonization of my Working Arse

Photo by Daniel Nicoletta

Published by Montez Press, Chubz takes the satirical power of fan fiction seriously. In author Huw Lemmey’s hands, the objects of political life in the UK—nativist politicians, fresh-faced left journos, rapist policemen, and council flats—are fissile material to be activated by eroticism. The protagonist, Chubz, moves through London ass-first in the summer of 2011 on the eve of an uprising driven by a mysterious new link between prostates and dead cops. The result is a hilarious and highly-charged pornographic take on the prospects of revolution today and what Owen Jones is like on Grindr. The excerpt below has the book’s delirious mixture of raunch, humor, and insight on full display.

chubzcover
CHUBZ: THE DEMONIZATION OF MY WORKING ARSE
Spitzenprodukte
188 pages
15 euro
Montez Press
Owen was unbuttoning his shirt in the lift, top two plastic pearly buttons pushed through a field of blue checks.
— I thought it might be fun, you know…
He said, running his hand to my arse
— I always find hotel rooms sexy. I stay in them a lot, you know, all over the country. I travel for work, giving talks and stuff
— Yeah it is hot
I bit my lip in his direction. 
He found the hotel keycard and let me into his room, dropping his shirt from his shoulders. He folded it neatly, laying it across the back of his chair.
— I was on TV earlier, did you see me?
— Oh, no, what channel?
— BBC 1, the Daily Politics
— I’d never seen it. I don’t watch tv much
— It’s terrifying what’s happening to our country, Andy. I was up against Farage, at last. He’s really capitalising on UKIP gains. I think Labour is underestimating them. I’ve been strategizing with the Labour Representation Committee about the possibility for mobilizing a sort of progressive patriotism at the next elections, in an attempt to undermine this anti-establishment, nationalistic vibe but what if it’s too late?

He went on. I felt a dumb bond with him for a moment, as he struggled with his jeans around his ankles, telling me about accessibility, telling me about audience, talking to me as I lay back on these thick white sheets and opened my legs and shuddered. I felt sick, white sick. He lay his blue jeans neatly over his shirt; as I focused on it, the blue check that ran from collar to navel began to send me into a spin. Each square studded the fabric like a city block, with baby blue streets careering straight from nipple to ball sack. I could have lived in it, each check brushing daily against his body, telling it’s own story of his flesh as he moved up and down the country meeting community activists and trade unionists. I felt the vodka running up the sides of my stomach. Blood flushed back and forth from body part to body part, making me first flush then go white. I had his body and my bills in my head, I had the boss in my head, I had this impotent anger and this hot, red skin on me, a thirst, a bad thirst for something more, for cooling water and for control again, power.

I lay on the bed and looked up to the ceiling. Turning over I grabbed a pile of magazines. The faces were unfamiliar, white, and Owen’s voice failed to make words to me; instead just faces, ugly faces, and the blood disappearing from my face. A hand fell down to my arse, sliding from one cheek to the other and that jitter of fear caused my anus to clench tight shut, like I could guillotine off his finger, or constrict around him.

I felt the train I arrived on continue its rumbling inside me; my shivers were somehow scary now, not to me, but potentially scary, to him, if he felt what I felt, like he would push a finger up my ass, and think he could feel inside me, just like that. And those shivers would grab at his finger, and he’d shiver too, and my arsehole would slam shut, not slicing his finger, not drawing blood, but gripping it, tight and tight and tight till it was blue and I’d shove my ass in the air, a big round butt pushing up at him, a hungry bottom, slutty for his fingers, but he’d panic, a momentary panic everyone gets when a finger and a hole create a vacuum. But this time the panic wouldn’t subside; he’d try and use another finger to break the vacuum, free his finger from rectum which just a minute ago he couldn’t wait to feel inside, feel that warmth of inside-flesh, and he’d run the finger round the hot puckered ring and spit on me, spit between my rolling, bouncing ass cheeks and let his mucus dribble toward his finger trapped in my hole, my non-hole, and his chest flushes red and dappled and his face drains white but this is gonna be fine, just fine he thinks and he goes for it and tries to gape my anus with a third bony little finger and he feels it open a touch and he slides it in and I feel a rush of the cold air of the room filling my arsehole, making my guts gasp and I turn to look at him as he smiles with relief and I roll my eyes feeling him fingerfuck me and it feels good and he sneers at me, sneers like a fucking cop. Every man is a potential policeman.

And my arsehole snaps tight again, tighter this time, like a heavy tesco bag, cutting at the blood that pumped around his hand as he ran his fingers along inside me.

His face is still bloodless and he’s breathing deeper and deeper, and his dick is filling his trackies. He’s not talking now. The tip of his fat dick is pushing hard against his leg and tenting the grey cotton and with his free hand he grips it tight, pulls in, squeezes down it, rubbing along the length and pinching at his bell end, squeezing it out, and the grey goes darker at the tip, battleship not trackie, blooming out into a patch of wet precum soaked cotton, and I look back at him doing it and want to taste it. The next train is different. Louder, closer, a goods train, long and thundering and as I turn back to bury my face in the pillow I feel the rumble shake the cups from the desk, little cuplets of UHT bouncing with vibrations over the floor, shake the glass in the frame, swing the glass chandelier in the hallway, and my arsehole just grips tighter, and his panic is overtaken by that fat sweating cock pushed out between his legs.

I moan from the dick, up my front, and end with a grunt from my mouth. I pull my arms above me, over the pillow, gripping my own forearms, and push my head down, taking a deep breath as I feel him fingers struggling to escape my arse. He’s a wriggler, fighting now, and the blood pumping through his hand runs right up against my skin, and I can feel his heartbeat inside me. I want to tell him my arse is not mine; I promised it to him, it has a mind of its own, it’s wild, a wild and free-spirited rectum, but instead I just mutter this porny mmmmm, a lip-smacking, clear-heeled mmmmmmmm yeah boy and my arse, like a rabid dog, loosens its grip for a split second, just to get a better grip, and opens wide, wider still, dark inside and he’s mesmerised and stops struggling, stop fucking struggling mate. He’s transfixed for a second, eyes locked on my smooth form, my broad round shoulders pushed out, my rolling biceps running down, my gym-fit lateral muscles leading to my pinched back, arched like a slut, and this butt, this butt that has already caused such trouble, and his fingers, sitting there, above a toothless anus, a gummy arsehole, hoover-butt, wet and warm, and before he can pull out his two fingers it slams fast around his hand, his whole fucking hand, and he’s beyond panic now, just horny, horny as all fuck, telling me how he wants his dick in me, and I breathe deep on these poppers that have rolled down the bed, a toxic deep inhale, and I’m horny too, hornier than him because this is happening to me.

My butt growls inside and sucks at his arm like spaghetti, sloppy spaghetti, my butt is a noisy eater and it pulls his arm tight, straining his shoulder blade. His face is flat white now, past pasty, a ghost, and his dick so big, pumping, I am sure I can see it pumping in his blue jeans, and the precum isn’t just a patch now, but it’s soaking him, his trousers sagging, waterlogged with sticky notjizz, hanging off his buttshelf, and with his free hand he pulled them down so I can see his cock hanging there. He uses the heel of one black leather shoe to kick the other off, then claws his toes on before collapse against the edge of the bed. This fat swinging cock just pours with sticky saliva and his eyes were rolling back into his head. His brow is buckled up, his hair sticking to the bloodless flesh wet with sweat, and my ass just chomps and chomps away, his elbow now half way in, and these fat ass cheeks turning clockwise and counterclockwise. I grip onto the sheets and shake my fists; I’ve never felt anything like this, my ass is magic, it makes my balls fizz and rivulets run over them, matting in my butt hair, tangling my pubes into long dreads, knotted and twisted with salty ass sweat and grebs of spittle. What the fuck is happening? The trains sound closer and closer; I can see the desk, rattling, walking itself across the floor in nods and jumps, its fake legs skating towards the wardrobe, the doors there rattling, a drilling buzz of coathangers sliding about the rail.

I look behind me and Owen’s shoulder deep in my anus and I feel my pupils getting wider and wider. For a second I think fuck, he’s lost consciousness
— babe? You good?
He throws his head from side to side, trying to bring himself around. His hand grabs around his knob, and by now it’s thumping, 8 inches of hot wet flesh, and his eyes roll around his head, and he groans, jacking away at his dick. He’s a semi-man, tugging away, ashen with flaming red balls, consumed, and all I can feel are these effervescent anal fireworks, a fizzing butt party, and the harder it pulls him the sluttier I feel, and god it feels amazing. I open my legs wider, thrust my chest to the bed, hoist my ass higher as it winches his collarbone up inside me, his neck twisted. He regains his senses, and pushes the fingers of his other hand into my ring. He’s in a spunk-fuelled stupor, a high that pumps more an more opiatic pleasure into his balls, and he’s grinning and his dick is pumping out spunk, not precum but thick white globules, a rhythmic pump pump pump, covering the bed, dribbling over my body, pooling in thick reservoirs on his chest and stomach, but even as this sense of purest bodily joy takes control he can see where this is going. He forces his hand into my ass, grabbing my ring and pulls to free himself, but we make eye contact and his panicked eyes look powerless now, pathetic, bordering on cute. His hand is stuck, his second hand, his free hand, and within moments his wrist has gone. Knees are pushed against the side of the bed but this throbbing ass turbine is too powerful, sucking him into my rectum, twisting and churning him.

It feels like the train is bearing down on us now, thousands of tonnes of goods and raw materials driven by a vast locomotive, the bedframe rumbling like rails. The noise is almost unbearable; the whole room seems to be shaking, thudding from side to side. My knees straddle the bed, the sheets torn from the mattress; my cock drips with the sweat running from this site of consummation, and inside I can feel my ass cavity churning up his flesh, pulling his fingers from sockets, crushing his wrists. His face is beyond serene, though. We look at each other in this breathless ecstasy – he seems so peaceful, knowing that this is it, this is the end of his brief time here, willing himself towards death in the warmth of my rectum, sweating semen from every pore. I try to talk to him, but he’s gone now, to a better place; blood is returning to his face, and his stoned eyes flicker with comprehension. I bite my lip, I love the sleaze. He smiles at me, and in that moment I know he trusts me, he trusts my ass. It could do anything to him, anything at all, he’s convinced. He smiles, and I smile, and he does it, he fucking does it, he forces his head between my legs. His hair bristles against my buttcheeks but there is no pain. Just pleasure, as my butt gulps him in, and I rock forwards and back, the greatest power bottom ever bred, a prizewinner, a destroyer of the penis.

The noise of the train is quieting, my butt is finishing the job, and within minutes he is pulled deep inside me, ingested, brewed, stewed by my ass till all that is left is his trousers trailing from my arsehole, his black socks coiled lifeless like used rubbers on the floor. I pant and breathe in victory, so proud of my heroic butthole. It plans its conquest. If I had my way it’d never stop. I’d let my anal juices, that seem to make my insides so desirable to all these ball havers, these swinging-totem poles, these bureaucrats and these penised shitehawks who insist on mouthbreathing round the city like little princes, I’d let my anal juices digest his skin and bones and all this fleshy matter like a flytrap, like a serpent. And now I’ve ingested Owen I don’t want it to stop, I’d move onto the next man with my siren’s buttocks, and one by one I’d suck them in and chew them up till one by one I’d hovered them all into my ever more muscular rectal cavity and before I’d realized I’ve destroyed the male sex, destroyed them all, in their entirety, one by one, every man who writes and speaks and passes laws and checks documents and has an opinion, and I’d let this hot acidic anal syrup digest me from the insides and eat me up too so that no man survives, no more men, even myself, one by one, just to make sure.

I come to with a start as Owen shuts the bathroom door. I feel groggy from the booze, tired, and the hotel room looks just as I left it. My clothes still constrict me.
— hey boy
I look round as he kneels on the bed, both legs straddling mine. My pants are pulled down, my white briefs sticking up. The blue checked shirt is pulled straight over his head, his chest more defined than I thought. An unflattering cut to that jumper. He runs his hands across my butt, and his finger lingers over me twitching little arsehole. You’re cutting in fine, I thought.