Istvan Bio 18
Let's workshop this author bio that cuts to the core of Istvan: a gonzo photographer--gonzo in the Thompson-Didion-Mailer sense of really getting into the subject (even at risk of tainting things)
—for Vital Grace
M. A. Istvan Jr. has no daughter but nonetheless aspires to become a card-carrying member of DADD, Dads Against Daughters Dating: an extracurricular organization at Holy Covenant Chapel, the local church that has kept him afloat for nearly two years of barehanded eating right over the sterno-flamed buffet pans. It was here, only a few months ago, that Istvan experienced his teary awakening from spiritual death—a crumbling conversion, which devolved into a b-boy-like ruckus of maneuvers resembling both the Worm and the Third Rail, powerful enough for the pastor to brave the man’s civet scent bubble (and its signature swamp-ass sillage) with a hard hug of homecoming into Christ’s cosmic bosom.
Istvan has become an HCC staple in the cloth. He haunts the monthly purity balls hosted by DADD, just as he did from the beginning: a halitotic testament, from the sort of man who would give holy water a taste test, to the fact that the most rigid of rules can be bent (if not altogether broken). But now, in his newfound grace, he attends these rec-room events of slow dancing white people in LL-Cool-J-lip-licking capacity as budding photographer, dumpster-dive camera ever at the ready. If only ultimately for his own private indulgence (indulgence, although all-too-public in the obsessive glint of his shameless eyes, somehow tolerated—yes, even by the TRT dads with gynecomastic violence simmering behind grit teeth—as if he were just some zoo monkey eating his own defecation in front of the second-grade class), Istvan carries out his newfound mission with a discipline that would mean multiple homes and yearly vacations if directed toward business. As he himself articulated one amphetamine dawn to his evangelized-worn encampment buddy (neither intellectual nor selfless enough to appreciate the lucidity), that mission is humble but divine: it is to immortalize memories of all the tweens pledging chastity (“a precious thing”) while in the arms of both their earthly owners and, of course, their celestial owner: “the owner of us all, my nigga!”
Understandably oblivious to the grooming impacts of his documentarian style (a gonzo approach of such self-indulgent immersion, so often placing him and his pleasure at the eye of the Freudian hurricane, that they—the girls—sometimes photograph him with his own camera), Istvan finds these young teases quite eager—hot and bothered under the cover of blush, riled no doubt more by the taboo fanatically imposed upon their adolescent urges than by the “Aqualung” rock he lets them listen to in his Goodwill headphones. He finds them quite eager, putting it bluntly, to entertain middle-way solutions between honoring their daddy pledge and honoring their daddy desire: storage-closet kissing, erotic-roleplaying, clothed frottage, nipple-teasing, heavy-petting, cunnilingus, anilingus, intercrural climax, hand-and-foot-and-mouth jobs, breast-banging (not usually applicable now that rBST milk has been off the radar), non-penetrative coital alignment, and so forth. Such Trump-level loopholes to the Lord’s law more often than not culminate in a good anal pounding—yes, despite (and in most cases only further fueled by) good-girl protestations at the onset as well as increased risk of tears (as in eye-liquid), tears (as in rips), infections, STDs, and early-onset hemorrhoids. Even the youngest of these pledges, Istvan has noticed (signature beard and hoodie greased with all the lamb and suckling pig provided by the HCC flock), are much quicker at least to go the tug-job route, which given their baby hands at least cannot hurt the growing epidemic of male insecurity.
