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I saw a thing of rare, bizarre beauty tonight. It was a psychedelic sex show. To explain it, I'll have to shed a bit of light on some recent perversions of mine. This last week I was exposed to the dark underbelly of the internet, to a place I never dared venture before: the world of sex cams. It's the natural evolution of the internet, of technology, loneliness and porn. It's a frightening place at times, the internet, and sex cams are no exception. There's a darkness there, one that transcends the voyeuristic exhilaration, cum-stained seats and crestfallen shame unique to the sex shows of yore.

It was a Thursday just like any other; I was home, night was stretching out before me into the early evening hour and, as usual, I'd eaten dinner and developed an urge to dip into the wank bank for a quick thrill. I opened my computer and through a series of desultory clicks, I found myself on a live cam site. As I meandered through the models, bumbling from one cam to the next, not expecting anything extraordinary, I stumbled across one that I would never forget.

It began with a girl wearing a large fuzzy onesy, seated in front of a piano, singing songs. Peculiar, I thought, a musical performance, here? But before I knew it her clothes were off and she was jamming away with her fingers - on an accordion. It was lovely, spontaneous, whimsical. Moments later, nude and giggling, she dashed offscreen like a white rabbit hopped up on amphetamines, only to return with an enormous didgeridoo. My god, I thought, how is she going to fit that inside her; it'll kill her! She laughed and blew into the long wooden instrument for a few minutes, making queer, wet, queef-like sounds, before she produced a sitar. She sat and plucked the strings. What kind of strange melodious nymph is this, I asked myself, while I, gently fapping, continued to fap, fap fap at my chamber door. I was slowly being placed under some kind of spell, I was sure of it.

Soon, by means of some arcane sorcery, she'd turned all the lights in the room red. The mood was changing, and fast. Now, she wore a cloak and danced around the room like a wild, wanton wizard, mad for destruction and revenge. She was a witch, a magician, I was sure of it. For her next trick, she exclaimed she needed to step up her sock game, and once more she ventured off screen, only to return transformed; wearing shoes made of furry tits she danced an awkward dance that hypnotized my eyes and softened the stone between my hands.

What happened next I can hardly describe. It was like a drug experience; wondrous and wonderful, awe-inspiring, unlike anything I'd ever seen. I was transfixed, like an onlooker at a circus sideshow, entranced by her illusion: she had removed her head. It was simply gone. Then, she began to contort her body and move in inhuman ways, always symmetrically, always sexual. She summoned spider-like minions for her to command and crawl. She halved herself, then doubled, slipped in and out of dimensions, became a fleshy, four-legged tarantula. What a monstrously beautiful shapeshifter was she.

It was art, truly. I was delighted to have seen a thing of such singularity.

My penis was so moved, it wept.