Do NOT Read If Easily Offended

OK.  The theme is Political Correctness.  For this reason I have thrown PC language out of the window.  Do NOT read on if un-PC language offends you.  I warn you, I've just been introduced to Iain Banks and am not responsible for my creative reaction!
I would apologize for using so many horrid terms in this piece but I think that's a cop-out.  I think writing should provoke a reaction.  After recently reading 'The Wasp Factory' and feeling sick through nearly the whole thing, I've realised this needn't always be a pleasant one to be a valid one.
So, that said, here's wot I rote...  I think I'll call it 'Flaccid Dick'

"That’s it you cunt, you filthy… fucking… Cunt."  Judas hissed in his ear as the slapping intensified. "Come on ya bitch, COME ON!"  Sprinkles of moisture sprayed against the shower door, blue-white matter spunked across mouldy grout from the Head and Shoulders William was using as improvised lube.
"Cum… on… you… dirty… fucking… bitch… you… fucking…
Nigger"
William’s attempts at achieving climax speeded up with the N word.  Judas had taken to using it more and more recently, probably as he could feel the revulsion it caused.  The more taboo the word, the filthier William felt.  The filthier William felt, the more chance of cumming.  Reacting to his increased tugging, Judas screamed at him, over and over, louder and louder, as warm water gushed from the shower-head to splash over a red bald head and drizzle down a hairy torso and gurgle into the blocked-drain below.
"NIGGER...  NIGGER… NIGGER… NIGGER… NIGGER!"
He was desperate now, frantic.  For over a year he hadn’t managed even a semi-on.  He just wanted one orgasm but felt...just... dead inside; un-turn-on-able, no matter how many taboos Judas broke.  He thought about how he must look, yanking away at a flaccid flesh-tube, framed by a saggy wet scrote and conceded defeat again.
Sighing as he turned off the water, he looked down at his paunch, noting the greying pubes and flapped his dangling organs against the flab.
“Flaccid Dick.” Judas crowed in his ear, glorifying in his failure.  “Flaccid little fucking Dick.”
The problem had started six years ago when he took a job as Equality and Diversity Officer for the local council, delivering community projects based around inclusion and social cohesion; employing graffiti artists to spray murals of Muslims holding hands with Christians, that sort of thing.
For a while he’d enjoyed it.  But gradually it started to change him.  He began to notice debate wasn’t being encouraged, merely managed.  He began to realize he wasn’t allowed to express opinion for fear of the sack.  It wasn’t that his opinions were racist, or sexist, or against anyone for that matter, he was an E&D Officer for fuck’s sake; it was just that he didn’t feel able to be wrong in an opinion.  To put something out there with the intention of shocking, pissing someone off just for the hell of it, initiating debate, arguing a point.  Dialogue had been castrated and with it, his identity.
He took it home with him.  Began to fear objectifying his wife.  Their sex life fizzled out as his feminist awareness made him too scared to tell her that her arse looked hot or he really liked her tits.  He couldn’t objectify her so he couldn’t get it up.
She left him for a plasterer.  A week later, Judas showed up.
Judas said everything William couldn’t.  Judas spent night after night trolling the internet, telling celebrities to kill themselves and national heroes he thought they looked like ballbags.
Judas just loved the Olympics…
Judas swore at everyone and was racist and was sexist and was against everything William stood for.  Judas didn’t give a fuck.  Judas whispered obscenities to him in the shower.
Judas gave William a hard-on.   
Of course, William knew Judas was a figment of his imagination.  The cold, calculating part of him diagnosed himself with, “Split personality disorder brought on by a sense of helplessness and social emasculation, heightened by the breakdown of his relationship with his wife and loss of libido.”
The cold, calculating part of him knew this.  It also knew that Judas was planning to violently murder a plasterer and his girlfriend tonight.
Judas had to go. 
Toweling himself off, William thought through the situation, stopping to grab a bread-knife from the kitchen.  Cause and effect.  Cause and effect… 
His hand started tugging at his groin as he thought through his options.  His job was a gag: a politically correct marketing exercise on behalf of fucktards in the Town Hall.  His sense of powerlessness, both ideologically and sexually, had led him to create a detestable alter-ego to express everything he couldn’t in his ‘real’ life.  This alter-ego represented his repressed, aggressive side; his sexuality and masculinity. 
He had to go.  The logic was undeniable.  The job had created Judas.  Judas was a sociopath.  For the sake of society, both Judas and the job had to go. 
Calmly, with care, William set the knife down and wrote out a very polite resignation letter to his boss, inserted his bloody genitals into the envelope and slowly licked the glue.