lobelia321 | FICLET: Libidinal economy

This is too naughty for a public post. I blame

miriam_heddy, *g*.

Libidinal economy
by Lobelia
Warning: Real Person Slash!!
Fandom: Fandom.
NC-17

One day, Henry Jenkins woke up and saw that his laptop screen was blinking at him. The webphone!

He jumped out of bed, naked as the day he was born (because that's the kind of guy he was: freewheeling, loose and cool; and it wasn't quite as the day he was born because he didn't have pubic hair the day he was born nor did he have love handles, nor did he have the nifty little but very discreet little gold ring through his navel -- and ow, did that hurt, but no pain, no gain --, nor did he have the rather magnificent -- if he said so himself -- salt-and-pepper beard when he was born), wearing only his spectacles and his tartan slippers, given him by a particularly adoring student.

He plumped his professorial buttocks on the Scandinavian ergonomic chair in front of his desk and clicked the mouse.

"Hello." A young bearded chap smiled out at him.

Henry scratched his bald pate. "And who might you be?"

"Chris!" The chap beamed, pixellatedly. "Chris Williams! I'm a fan! I mean, I'm a fan of yours, Professor Jenkins! You've done so much for... for fandom and all! And now that I've started my own fan website and am going to make pots of money, it would be so... so cool if you could, you know, endorse... There'll be sponsorship perks in it for you!"

"Hang on. I'll be right back."

Henry Jenkins got up and shuffled into the kitchen. This could not be digested without some strong caffeinated support. He made himself a jug of the best Java, poured it into a giant-sized mug that had a picture of Lacan on the inside lip, added three sugars and no milk.

When he returned to his desk, bearded chappie was still radiating commercial confidence.

"So," Henry said and took a careful sip, making sure that Lacan was turned towards the webcam. "What would these perks consist of, then?"

"Well, not... not money, necessarily. As such. Because, as you yourself say so brilliantly, this is a gift economy. Fandom is not about making money! Is it? Um, sir? So, I'm going to give you a gift! Many gifts! And in the spirit of the, um, the thing..."

And then the chappie stood up.

Below his bearded neck, the fellow was not wearing a stitch.

He rose on Henry's screen in all his nude glory, chest, nipples, torso, unpierced navel, and when the glory reached the curly, burly bit, hot coffee slopped out and over Lacan and onto Henry's keyboard.

"Shit." There was nothing to wipe it with as Henry was entirely stitchless himself. Also, he couldn't tear himself away from the unbidden morning gift on his laptop.

The chap's face was no longer in view, nor was his torso, just a close-up view of crotch and hand, hand on crotch, hand in fast motion, faster faster...

"Hang on." Henry coughed into his moustaches. "Hang on, hang on just one minute. I mean... Sure, gift economy. I may have discussed the libidinal cathexis of the gift once upon a time but, if I may just interpose one other point, it is not so much a gift economy as an economy of exchange -- and by economy, I mean of course in the Foucauldian sense, not in the Weberian. And exchange, I would very much argue, exchange is mutually conducive."

The hand had stopped moving. "What?" said the voice.

"I shall illustrate." And Henry stood up, positioned himself before the fisheye lens on top of his screen and got down to business.

"Oh," said the disembodied whoever-it-was.

"Yeah," said Henry, thinking all the while, ooh yes, I've still got it, I'm still the freewheelin', freedealin', freelovin' guy I was back in the era of flower power, or at least, the tail end of the era of flower power, and anyway, hadn't Freud himself identified the stage of polymorphous perversity, that most delicious of infantile phases?

"Poly," he gasped, "morphous," and then ducked and aimed elsewhere for his keyboard, already besplattered with breakfast beverage, would surely not withstand the onslaught of a gush of semen, "perversity."

He looked at the screen.

The screen was clean but the web image itself was splotched with a white substance.

"Haha," said Henry. "You need more target practice, son."

"See you, um..." stuttered the white screen, "see you around soon?"

"Sure. For some more gift exchange? But now I've got to go."

Because he'd just had another brilliant idea for an article. And for a phenomenally cool blog entry.

Meanwhile, in an office far, far away, a young bearded chap withdrew a DVD from the slot of his state-of-the-art, if currently rather messed up, ThunderMac.

"And now," he chuckled, "for the blackmail part of the Freudian economy."

THE END

Henry Jenkins = blogger on fandom
Chris Williams = CEO of fanlib.com

(omg, which LJ TOS does this violate?)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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brightest-blue.livejournal.com

OMG! You didn't just? Yes, you did! It took me a second to remember who these guys are, but the instant I did, I also had a problem with liquids dousing my keyboard. You are incorrigible!

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