loosie: words: Illmatic

Illmatic

Kings of crude: Tom Wolfe vs. Nasty Nas.

by Staff | 2004.12.16

The Literary Review of London recently awarded the '2004 Bad Sex in Fiction' distinction to Tom Wolfe for his novel "I am Charlotte Simmons", the tale of an innocent young lady who goes away to college only to discover her (surprise) inner-freak. Since Wolfe's conjured imagery of said-freakiness more closely resembles a pre-op surgery assessment for kindergardeners than a hot romp in the pants, the case for his nomination is obvious:

"Slither slither slither slither went the tongue, but the hand -- that was what she tried to concentrate on -- the hand, since it has the entire terrain of her torso to explore and not just the otorhinolaryngological caverns -- oh God, it was not just at the border where the flesh of the breast joins the pectoral sheath of the chest -- no, the hand was cupping her entire right -- Now!"

Oh God indeed.

What could rightfully galvanize the winning 74-year old scribe as this year's peddler of bad fuckery is Wolfe's admission to having carefully researched modern college life for this book, spending weeks at various campuses to present a vivid "depiction of the american university today". While we at Loosie doubt today's coeds mash it up like a physiology dissertation, respect is due to anyone who - for art's sake - will go out and get on some hoes.

That said, we believe the esteemed Literary Review of London has overlooked a very worthy candidate: the ever-classy rapper known as Nas.

Although Nasir Jones dropped the Nasty from his moniker back in the glorious era when Wu Gambinos snatched cream Canadian with Scandinavians, words like “Grotesque”, “Gruesome” and “As Wretch-Inducing as Lancing Infected Boils” still apply to his musings on sexuality. Even if his once-formidable lyricism and rhyme schemes have been slowly but steadily deteriorating since his first two albums, the Queensbridge golden child has never lost his uncanny gift for vivid description. This is a valuable trait when it comes to stark ‘hood narratives. But in terms of talking like sex, it renders him repugnant.

First and foremost, there’s nothing tongue-in-cheek about the thug poet’s deep love of analingus. If he kept it relatively understated – “Bitches sticking they tongues where the sun don’t shine” (“Really Wanna Show You”) – we would consider him merely raunchy (and things he says would never haunt us). But Escobar gets wild for the night. On “Millenium Thug”, he took mouth-to-ass chatter to the next plateau. “Your girl wanna lick honey out my crack”, he raps, “I fart in your bitch mouth -- she called me psychic ‘cause I knew she would like it.” Bravo, Nasir! But his rhapsodizing on passing wind-as-sex play was just a gentle prelude to his 2004 pillowtalk: “Chelsea used to tell me choke her while I stroke her/ stuck a Heineken bottle up in the ass, a real joker/ used to run my bubble bath, tons of laughs, sexy shit/ mad skills, she used to try to eat my excrement” (“Remember the Times”). Without getting into the pause-worthy strangeness of a line spiderwebbing things stuck up backsides, German porn staples and the NYC neighborhood where men shave each other’s pubic hair over eggs Benedict at brunch, let’s linger for a moment on the female prankster he fondly reminisces over. Quite a sense of humor, that young woman had – almost Steve-Oish. And the brilliance of linking “sex shit” and “eat my excrement”? Why the God Rakim himself should climb down from his Hennessey billboard and give Nas a dap (if gingerly and rubber-gloved). “I had bad chicks that blow cum bubbles like bubblegum, plus they lick ass”, he emphasizes on “Nazareth Savage”. We get it, homes.

Nas is a man that clearly understands the pleasure and pain of coitus. Mostly the pain. Not content to just give women memories of deep conversations over dinner and fingerpopping action while coiled on the loveseat watching Gandhi, our man wants to leave them with scars so they will never forget him. “She’ll scream as I pushed her in the freezing cold pool,” the Casanova pants on “You Know My Style”, “when she piss, she gonna bleed in the whole stool.” That’s romance, people. When not headed for Indiana stabbing bitches like the Phantom, he also uncorks sweet lines like “I been on boats, nut down throats, pee on bitches who famous/ Pretty dick, puttin’ stiches in they anus” (“Let My Niggas Live”). Back to the ass again, the ass again. What doe-eyed lassie could resist an offer of post-orgasm anal surgery? Yep, he's guaranteed to get up in her rib tonight.

Beyond his penchant for shoving beer bottles up hindquarters and injuring his playmates, the street disciple just has a marvelous knack for bringing the listener into his depraved little world. Short of lunatic white boy Necro, what other rapper would compare himself to a necrophiliac? “I creep in the night like a kinky undertaker,” Nas boasts seductively on “Makings of a Perfect Bitch”. We understand that Nas and his perfect bitch Kelis love to stare into each other eyes telling one another how intellectually deep and publicly misunderstood they are, but we wonder what she thought about his cameo on her album where he pondered, Bard-like, “The pussy or the mouth, that is the question, like Shakespeare/ but my erection is the case here.” Perhaps it shows he’s not all about anal-oral action – he’s also got a playful side, one rife with clever wordplay and fantastic punnery. “I squeeze nipples like pimples to get the pus” (“Nazareth Savage”), he giggles in jest. Since we’ve heard chicks dig guys who can make them laugh, we’re certain Nas will be aight like blood money in a pimp’s cum.