7.12 / Queer Three

Why I Want to Fuck Rupert Murdoch

in memoriam, J.G. Ballard

During these submission fantasies


Rupert Murdoch and the shelf-life of the grotesque.  Studies indicate the public’s identification and disgust with Murdoch, as referenced in privately arranged focus groups on behalf of News International. Most startling is how merely handing out survey sheets provoked parasympathetic responses in 89% of the men-resulting in long-lasting erections-and 72% of women-resulting in vaginal lubrication.  After two such sessions, anthropologists and private investigators traced the movements of study participants-who ranged across a variety of demographics-and found that nearly 90% sought immediate sexual release with other study participants.  Two sidestreets, one off Leicester Square, and another in Shepperton were the sole gathering places for these carnal moments.  These encounters were never repeated nor can we explain them.  Phone records show an as-yet-unexplained impulse for participants to call themselves following the encounters.  Spyware show participants convulsively surfing among tabloids and porn sites for nude photos of Rupert Murdoch, his wife, children and editors-especially scenes photographed in Idaho, perhaps for the sublimely phallic setting of the Rocky Mountains, U. S. of A.


RB became increasingly obsessed


Changes in facial muscles, along with eye movements, in audiences who were watching Murdoch press conferences and interviews for at least 30 seconds also indicate a marked erotic effect on viewers, despite RM’s advanced age.  More controlled studies of internet users, in which clips of RM were spliced into “live” heterogenous backgrounds, show subsequent traffic to websites devoted to anti-Semitism, Holocaust denial, climate change denial, incest, 9/11 conspiracy theories and the murder of Milly Dowler.  In several instances, the most popular Dowler sites crashed under the strain of incessant requests.


with the body of the media tycoon,


Incidences of orgasm in fantasies of sexual intercourse with Rupert Murdoch.  We provided other study participants with assembly kit photographs of sexual partners during intercourse.  In certain cases, Murdoch’s face was superimposed on the original partner.  Vaginal intercourse with “Murdoch” proved uniformly disappointing, producing orgasm in 3% of men and only 1% of women.  Inexplicably, both sexes complained of nausea at prolonged close exposure to Murdoch’s face during penetration despite marked interest in his nudity in non-partnered arrangements.  Axillary, buccal, navel, aural and orbital modes produced proximal arousal.  Expecting a repetition of Tallis’s classic studies of sexual fantasies in connection with Ronald Reagan, researchers hypothesized that anal penetration would be preferred but male erections proved to be impossible in all cases while women experienced a pre-penetration tightening of the sphincter that made entry by plug so painful as to be beyond the bounds of experimental ethics. Overwhelmingly, male homo-erotic response, even among strongly self-identified heterosexuals, was provoked by the “Murdoch” partner performing rough, even brutal, fellatio on the men.  Female participants found “Murdoch” ineffective at cunninglingus even when their surrogates had professional experience.  Some 86% of women complained of discomfort in their parietal regions during “Murdoch”‘s cunninglingus.  Overwhelmingly, female erotic response spiked when they performed forceful fellatio on “Murdoch.”  Murdoch and “Murdoch” are figures of enormous use-value in society’s need to debase others, thus functioning as a release mechanism for sustained attention, which, if unchecked, can lead to precipitous action against the wise and wealthy, who are fated to be misunderstood.


As you know.


wizened and sallow, known most recently to the public


There was this afternoon beneath a river-red gum tree in the foothills of the Macedon Ranges outside Melbourne, where he had been deposited with his nanny.  They were in a park.  He was five.  On a distant ridge, the predictably implausible silhouettes of kangaroos.  A vision superimposed: the crushed skull of the Lindbergh baby, the flung-open doors of distant mansions, the thick fingers of Bruno Hauptmann.  It is April 3, 1936, in Australia, and the boy is trying hard to understand the way the Earth moves around the sun, the way the Earth moves around its pole, the way different times lattice the globe he feels even now he would like to cradle.  He had laid his hands on the globe in Sir Keith’s office once, covering a continent.  He wants to grow bigger hands, he wants to shrink the globe.  The crushed skull moves down the ridge, the trees hiss in the wind.  Is Hauptmann dead now?  He had heard the inky pressmen laughing.  “Makes you shit yourself, that chair does.”  “And blows you a fucking hard-on, all that voltage, it does.”  He squints, tugs at his clothes, disturbed by the effect of this talk, what it presages, for he is mostly a very clever boy and has inklings.  He wishes he was there or could be, to see a grown man shit his pants the way a baby does-did the baby do the same when it died?  He would like to know.  He would like to ask.  He would like to tell that story to his mates, to show them that he has secrets to dole out, little candies of hard-ons, whatever those are, little volts in the playground.  He asks his nanny if he can feed the kangaroos, and she says, “Sir Keith is returning to his car.”


as the object of attack by a man with a shaving-cream pie,


It sadly only messed his jacket and did not reach his putrescent, wrinkled, scrofulous, chapped, rectal, empty, needy, criminally age-bespotted, phallis-and-gonad-nosed, droppy-titted, saggy eyed, corrupted, comb-overed, dye-haired pated, Wal-Mart-glasses-wearing, flap-eared, Oxford-educated, violent, disastrous, simulated, superimposed, anal-sadistic, perverted, spit-gathering-behind-his-lower-lip, nose-hair-trimmed, trophy-wife-watching, Rebekkah-Brooks-doting, scummy and miserable and shitful face,


a spectacle of his humiliation worthy of repetition

Christopher Cokinos is the author of Hope Is the Thing with Feathers: A Personal Chronicle of Vanished Birds and The Fallen Sky: An Intimate History of Shooting Stars, both from Tarcher/Penguin. He's had work recently in Hawk and Handsaw as well as the Los Angeles Times and High Desert Journal.
7.12 / Queer Three