The first instance of the women in the black dress happened one day when I was walking down the street in the contract society. I of course was the man named John Stormingdale IIII. I was 32 at the time. The name of the street was Loomington Bale Street (most people called it LB Street for short), named after the men who had invented the pink gumball, which had earned them millions of crypto-dollars and allotted them the surmountable and astute claim to the longest street in the contract society where they could eventually own most of the architectural estate which spanned tens of miles in a single direction.

I had been walking for some time, on my way to meet another women who coincidentally I would also later catch in the same black dress, which would be the second time the woman in the black dress presented herself to me. The nature of the women in the black dress was a particular state of oddity which compelled my mind in both tormenting curiosity and insatiable lust. Her nature was strange because she was never the same woman. She was always presented as a different physical forcality (by perhaps the whimsy or direct intent of a sort of simulationlized glitch or design; or also perhaps a higher fate somehow constructed through the conjurings of the schizo-gods’ dreams) but always maintained the same black dress. Over time I would, of course, meticulously examine the dress, noting that it was undoubtedly the same dress down to every possible detail.

Another notable detail of the women in the black dress was that, although she always looked different, she was always beautiful. She came in many different complexions and personifications, but always maintained the one quality of being able to provoke an impossible level of sexual and mental phenomena when placing your retinas in her physical direction.

But on that day—the first day I had ever seen the women in the black dress—while walking down the longest street in the contract society, I was utterly and unequivocally taken with a joyous arousal like I had never experienced in my days in the flesh. Her body was a literal weapon against the chemicals and thoughts in my mind and body. She was like a nuclear explosion in the form of an angle of seduction.

I had just crossed the street a few yards back when I spotted her. If I had not crossed the street at that moment, I may have not seen her that day as she stepped out of the building and began to walk through the crowd. It was magical, seeing her walk the way she did. Magical like true wonder. Like watching a magic show from the front row. She was like the beautiful assistant of the magician who turned out to be the whole trick itself.

I followed behind her for the length of the street, which was very long. I felt as though I was traveling through a thick jungle as I contorted myself through the crowd of people to keep up with her. She effortlessly moved through the crowd, everyone seeming to move out of her way as if she was the main character of the simulation. It seemed at times that she just slipped through them all as if they were mist. It was a hazy experience, to say the least. I felt as though this was an important moment, as if this woman was the white rabbit and I was supposed to follow her down the proverbial rabbit hole of the simulation.

In situations like this, you never know if you’re being taken to a new world like the men from Plato’s cave, or if it’s just a trick by the Archons to take you down to hell (or somewhere far, far, darker). There is a third option, of course, which is that she was taking me to another dream . . . .

. . . . Awake but dreaming . . . .

. . . . but dreaming . . . .

. . . . dreaming . . . .

The women in the black dress was doing what she was made to do, as a body, to be much more than an object, a well oiled whatever-thing (she didn’t know what she was or cared enough to find out, only did things for unknown reasons but cared deeply for the reasons themselves, also without knowing why), a force, an ideology-object—muscles and blood and spider-webbed nerves, a brain and all—jungle print over the dress-blackness curving around her form, and when she walked her heels stammered in a raddelent clop clop clop, a tribalistic and primalistic ritualization of oozing sexualizationism (as a pure force), and here I was witnessing the moment like something from prime time Animal Planet but it was really happening in front of me, for me, perhaps—lecherous and out-of-body indusing as far as my ideology seeking sex-brain was concerned, and perfectly flesh-afferming as far as my blood-pumping parts were concerned, and there was something about the way she had created a relationship between the way her accoutrementic self-furnishings and the adapted ideological protestations of confidence that had suggested to me that she had a sort of gifted understanding of the male gaze and a heightened self-perception which she luxuriated as an intimate sociability (like a sex teddy bear) that only amplified her debutante female-gusto which came naturally even before the regalia she carried, and while such a women certainly inundated any man who pointed his (eye)balls in her direction I had apt intrigue as far as my critical analysis, but still could not shake the inevitably that she would carry over into my (wet)dreams.

The woman suddenly stopped for a hot dog, and so I was forced to also stop for one. I stood behind her as she placed her order with the fat man with a mustache. The sounds of the city had faded away. The people buzzing around us became a mere blur. My thoughts were fully enveloped by the grace of the women in the black dress, and every small moment she made. When she spoke, she said, “One with everything, please.”

Her voice, in that moment, became my new muse.

I ordered two dogs, plain, and followed her. Before we reached the end of the long street, she abruptly hopped onto a bus and I nearly missed her. I almost dropped my two dogs trying to leap into the bus before the doors slammed shut. The bus driver, another fat man with a mustache, looked at me like I was some dredge, but my focus was still on the women in the black dress.

Without making eye contact I sat next to her, appearing to be completely oblivious to her existence at all.

She of course noticed me, however; the man with two hotdogs clutched in her hands staring straight ahead in a very unnatural manner.

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“You must be hungry,” she said.

As a matter of fact, I had built up an appetite trying to keep up with her.

“Actually,” I said. “I always order two hot dogs, for the convenience.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like this,” I said, and took a bite from each of the hot dogs, consecutively.

She laughed and said, “Please, stop, that really turns me on.”

“Oh, really?” I said with a mouth full of hotdog ideology.

Suddenly there was a shift. I heard a voice whisper in my ear.

Awake but dreaming.

“Oh yeah,” she said, half-sarcastically.

Suddenly the bus was far out in space.

All the people were gone.

It was just me and her.

The woman told me that she is sometimes insecure about eating hotdogs in public because her mind had been consumed by the penetrating ideology of sex. She admitted to me that she was a sex addict, and everything in life reminded her of sex. She believed that the hotdog held a metaphorical resemblance to the ‘male member,’ and that the act of putting the hotdog into her mouth was pictographically similar to oral stimulation of a penis.

For her, the ideology of the hotdog had carried far beyond the ideology of consumptionism and into the rapid trenches of associationism, an implied act of sex upon an object that had no practical similarities but would elicit the same ideology in the minds of the socialiods around her, the sphere of socialiodism having been programmed almost entirely around sex.

So because I was a master of the ideological processes I was able to solve the women's ideological insecurities surrounding hotdogism, simply instructing her to break the hotdog into two halves, and asking her if it was possible to break a man's penis into two penises before performing oral stimulation, and then eating the two halves like you would eat a simple pastry.

The women looked back at me with a look I had not seen before, that I could remember, encapsulating the entire world in smoke, the mystery of her mind like the billion dead men of meaningless wars which I had no earthly meaning of understanding from inside my own mind, and I wondered if I had given to her the greatest revelation of her life.

The women, in all her confusion and amazement with my seemingly divine understanding of hotdog ideology, had looked into my eyes the way a small creature might peer into the void, and she asked me, “if the hotdog does not represent the ideology of a male member, what does it represent?”

I had noted the bizarre, deeply intrenching curiosity in her voice as if her intellectually malnourished mind could already taste the impending ascension my wisdom could offer. She had asked a question that not even with all of time itself for pondering would she be able to answer her own question. I began by explaining that she must come to understand the ideology of the thing in which we place under the ideological lamp of observationalism by first understanding her relation to her own ideology, the self’s ideology or the ideology of the self as individualism as a single point in the pinball machine of life. Ping-ping, dink-dink, I told her.

“Isn't this hotdog in my hand the quintessential example of the capitalist ideology?” I asked her. “This hotdog in my hand is precisely represented by the forces of capitalism in its most aggressive form, the force which drives the dialectical movement of the hotdog as it relates to its particular place in society at this moment in time; to be sold and consumed, but more importantly sold. I suppose if you push this hotdog and immediately throw it into the garbage, the man who sold you this hotdog would not care. Can we not assume that the hotdog therefore has no further purpose than to be a means to capitalism?”

“In relation to the capitalist, the hotdog represents capitalism. In relation to me, it represents lunch,” she said. “But not a penis.”

“You might assume this, thinking that because the relationship between capitalism and the hotdog is precisely a relational ideology, that in relation to you the hotdog has a new relational ideology, but this is not the case. Because you are operating within the system of capitalism and are consuming the commodity produced by capitalism, you simply act as the second half of the process which is necessary to maintain capitalism. This is not to say that the ideology of hotdogism cannot be more complex. But because the driving force of the hotdog is to be sold means that capitalism must be the foundation of the object in its ideological form. Attempting to deny its ideological origins can only result in a misunderstanding of how ideology is built on relationships in the first place. So now, I will give you the correct solution. Instead of attempting to deny the hotdog ideology, you simply destroy it.”

I paused for effect and lifted my hands, the two hotdog halves oozing condiments in and around the cheap foil. “Much like we destroyed the relational ideology between you and the symbolic male penis by breaking it into two halves, we can now do the same in regards to the capitalist ideology that it represents. Metaphorically and physically—and this is the correct way to think of ideology.”

“We break the hotdog into two halves; by facilitating the dialectical movement within and beyond the two parts, we can thereby grasp the liberating potential of capitalism's self-destructive force. Of course, here my position is that of a Hegelian: the two halves of this hotdog here is not in a completely symmetric relationship—they have the same structure, the same ingredients, the same length, and so on—rather, in each half, the opposition of the other half is symptomatically implicated. Therefore when I join the two parts together again they become more than just one hotdog.” I demonstrated by bringing together the two hotdog halves in front of her. “And so now, I present to you, no longer a hotdog, and no longer two halves of a hotdog, but rather the ideology of juxtapositionalized hotdogism; some would say the final form of the hotdog ideology. The ideology of capitalism in any metaphorical fashion has been destroyed and replaced by the very process itself. Isn't this reclamational juxapositionalism, this something more, the Lacanian objet petit a, the unattainable object, made attainable through the process of reclamation? Is this not the most liberating force of all?”

“Yes,” she said. Her voice was quiet now.

I decided to add one last thing: “And what is more poetic than curbing sex thoughts with the act of bringing two halves together, the very ideology of sex at its core, the bonding of two bodies to create an entirely new entity, both the physical creation of a new lifeform on earth and the metaphysical creation of conceptualized ‘love’ through means of monglomational orchestras of chemical explosion, and so on.”

This solved the matter entirely, for now we were merely talking about two objects which had common elements of sex and could thus be eaten. The women were quite gratified that after three days of anxiety they had been able to communicate their problem of eating hotdogs without being aware of having eaten hotdogs with some master-concept that had no relation to reality save through the vagaries of ideoception.

In the course of our verbal intercourse I discovered that the woman seemed to have little trouble with the ideo-phallic implications of the food, but rather found herself unable to eat the hotdogs unless she felt a general desire to sexually arouse people around her. She was a sex addict herself, as she admitted, and so it was not insecurity that drove the thoughts, but rather desire itself. She would thus find herself looking at hotdog packages in supermarkets and become horny and hungry at once. It was a difficult thing for her to resist eating hotdogs because she had acquired the habit of associating certain foods with sexual excitement.

When the bus finally stopped, both of us were so worked up over our passionate conversation that we decided to go back to her place and make love.

And we made love with hot dogs in our stomachs, which, I assume, the women found the most erotic.

Exploring her body was like exploring an alien spaceship. And my orgasm was like taking the spaceship across space at the speed of light.

That was the first instance of the women in the black dress.