i don't know how things work; they just don't.
Alone in his forest dwelling, an ogre had spent years building machines to force his visitors to make love to one another: machines with pulleys, chains, clocks, collars, leather leggings, metal breastplates, oscillatory, pendular, or rotating dildos. One day, some adolescents who had lost their way, seven or eight brothers, entered the ogre’s house.
No one knows if the traps closed in upon them, or if the boys’ curiosity was such that they closed them themselves. In any case, embedded into one another, two by two, and condemned to ejaculate until the end of time, they became the machinery of a factory without electricity and the slaves of a corpse. For that they did not know that the ogre, in his attic, was dead.
- Guy Hocquenghem, The Screwball Asses, Semitotext(e) 2010.