The Discovery of Lust

In the fourteenth century, an obscure Jesuit priest named Jocz Marghitu, a cloistered monk in Romania, wrote a theological treatise in which he rejected the existence of demons. He noted that God, the omnipotent creator and ruler of the Universe, had created good and evil, all the plants and animals and people in the world, and Satan. Further, there is no mention of Devils in the Bible. According to Marghitu, then, the beings at that time known as Devils were merely animals like any other, and not at all supernatural or particularly evil. He predicted that somewhere in the world, there existed animals that personified each of the 7 Deadly Sins.

Several centuries later, the Sloth was discovered and named in Brazil. Marghitu's text was largely forgotten by that time, but a young explorer and theologian named Federico Carvahlo had been shown the text by a charming librarian, and set out to prove Marghitu's theory true. Carvahlo sought and was granted funding by King Filipe II of Portugal for a voyage around the world to discover the remaining 6 "Devils."

Over the course of the next 50 years, Carvahlo and his team discovered and categorized gluttony, greed, wrath, envy and pride. But lust eluded them, and Carvahlo (the driving force behind the expedition) died in the hunt.

I believe this recently discovered, never-published document, written by young railroad baron Jeff Honnets, represents the first and only sighting of lust on record.

"My story is not a pleasant one, but it needs to be told for the good of society, to prevent this from happening anywhere else. It begins on Mackinac Island, the summer of 1906. My newly wedded wife and I were taking our honeymoon there, among the horses and globs of fudge. We took the ferry across in the afternoon, having spent the previous night debauching in high society at one of the more exclusive music halls of Mackinac City. The next morning we soaked in a bathtub scented with bubbles and camphor.

My wispy Mid-Western wife's hair wrote Lutheran hymns on the wind as we crossed Lake Huron. The sun hit us in each of our right places, and we became lightheaded and happy. A carriage awaited us on the dock; after helping my wife enter its claustrophobic pink innards, I pulled shut the thick curtains and entered my wife's claustrophobic pink innards. My wife prayed to God for an orgasm (a thing she had never dared to do before, the poor mousy daint) and I became His instrument in answering her prayer. I calmly smoked a chives cigarette while my rocky member carried out the Lord's will.

Such was the force of the orgasm God had granted her that my wife was knocked unconscious. I had to have her carried up to our room when we arrived at the Grand Hotel. This was the moment of my first mistake: I neglected to recover the life-juices that had spilled from the cornucopia of my wife's vagina when we had finished, opting instead to read a magazine article on beekeeping (my secret vice). At the time, however, I could not have known the significance of my omission: I thought it better at the time to leave it, as perhaps some animal or hungry person would find sustenance and succor in its life-giving magic. This had been my charitable custom throughout many years of boyhood tree-fucking, after all.

I stopped by the kitchen to pick up some things, and found my wife sleeping in our room. Lowering the sheets, I rubbed soggy cheese into her pebble-hard nipples. This was a treatment a doctor had prescribed her to increase nipple size and suppleness. I think the doctor was left-handed.

The next day, we decided to take a ride around the island on a bicycle-built-for-two. My wife, emboldened by God's blessing the day before, decided to take the (what was for her a) rather adventurous step (though I am told some women are quite accustomed to the practice) of lowering my trousers and stroking my member while we rode. Every few pedalstrokes I gave, I would seed the dirt road below.

We were only about a third of the way around the island when the sun had gotten to me enough that I decided we ought to take a break. My wife spread a blanket out on the grass, and we lay down together for a blissful hour, drinking courant and inhaling sea breeze. I fell asleep, and my wife must have wandered off to piss or find a water fountain or something. When I awoke, she was gone, and it was nearly sunset. The exhaustion of my fortifying life-juices on the road had tired me more than I had realized.

I packed up our things and set off to search for my wife. "Wife!" I called, but to no avail. The blue of the sky was deepening, and I decided to make a fire to attract my wife's attention. I lit my blaze sat down to relax on a log, smoking a clove cigarette and watching the play of the flames and shadows. A sinister feeling came over me then, which I attributed to my empty semen bladder. I heard a noise, then. A sort of . . . fapping, but with the terseness and savagery of wild dogs' yelping. "Wife?" I thought.

I took up a torch and headed in the direction I heard the sound from. As I approached, the sounds quieted, and I heard a rustling of leaves and cracking of twigs. I nearly tripped as I stumbled into something thick and fleshy. It was my wife's bloodied, battered, semen-dripping corpse. I remember little else from this point; I woke up in the morning in a pool of my own vomit.

The next few days passed in a blur. I wandered around the forest without eating or drinking, fucking trees and sleeping in them. Eventually, I was awoken by several soldiers, who roughly arrested me and imprisoned me in their treefort. A few nights later, I had regained my senses, but was still baffled by the situation, and nearly mad with grief. Clearly these men were under the impression I had killed my wife and bathed her in my own semen, but I knew this to be false. And why were they living in a treefort, supplied only with grain alcohol and stale peanuts?

That night, the soldiers had brought some prostitutes to their unique dwelling. I was able to see everything that went on from my cell, and I found myself erect in spite of my grief. I heard far off bayings and howlings then, and began to feel cold. The soldiers and their companions took no heed. A few minutes later, the tree began to shake from the base. Again, the soldiers and their companions took no notice. They were concentrated on the fuck. None of them even realized what was going on until the creatures had climbed into the treefort and begun pummeling their bodies with fierce, quick thrusts. These animals, which I can only describe as penis demons, ground the four bodies into a soup of blood and ejaculate. I was exceedingly glad of my cell now, as it seemed the demons were not intelligent enough to use keys and locks. It occurred to me then that the creatures were frenzied by the sight of my swollen cock, and endeavored to hide and eventually reduce that nuisance. After several hours, the animals calmed and fell out of the treefort to the ground below.

The next morning, I was awoken not by the sun, which did not enter my cell until evening, but rather by the sexy crying of baby penis demons. They seemed to have generated spontaneously from the bodies of the prostitutes. The demons are growing frighteningly quickly, and I fear they may not prove as dull-witted as their progenitors. . ."

This document was discovered several years ago during a Boy Scout camping trip to Mackinac Island. Since then, it has inspired a full investigation into the proceedings, though many decry its contents as the ravings of a treehouse madman. Preliminary investigation results, however, have lead me to believe otherwise. I have hypothesized that this man, Jeff Honnets, had a rare gene that changed a very specific aspect of his immune system. This allowed the parasitic bacterial phase of the penis demon (or sperm devil, as it is sometimes known) to live in his sperm, while it is killed off immediately by even the weakest immune system in other people. This bacteria, however, is killed off by lubricant fluids in the human vagina. It can only grow when in contact with blood and sun. When these conditions are met, however, it grows with abnormal rapidity and metamorphoses into a small reptilian creature that resembles the human penis. In order to propagate the species, the animals attack and murder other creatures and ejaculate in their blood to spawn the next generation.

No one will ever know what really happened to Jeff Honnets, but I believe certain elements of the text indicate he did finally understand what had happened to some extent before the diary leaves off. One strong bit of contrary evidence brought up by skeptics is that the neither the treefort, nor Jeff Honnets' remains have ever been found. Presumably, if the diary is taken at its word, the gene died out with Honnets. The fate of the penis demons is unknown, and will perhaps always remain a subject for conspiracy theorists and cryptozoologists.