26 Apr 2005

As I meandered home through the grave yard, struggling to undo the knot I had left myself on my hockey shorts, so that I might express my fluid bloatedness, I stepped on a snail. Not full on although it was a crushing that would leave a survivor without his (actually I cannot be sure if it was of the male or female persuasion) home and probably doomed to be some keen bird’s early morning breakfast. As I urinated on a tree it occurred to me that the truly ‘undertrodden’ are not the plebiscites who can barely afford a can of Tennents Super Strength Lager because they are socially abused by the high and mighty, but the snails. I step on at least one a day. It is not really my/our fault as the little slimy bastards get everywhere. Just to round it up, as I put myself away and moved toward the wrought iron gate of the churchyard, I stepped on another. If it turns out that Buddhism is the one true and only valid belief system then I am in the shit. I will most likely come back as a snail only to be trodden on at the first available opportunity by some drunken, wobbly, size fourteen behemoth. Such is life. Actually, no it isn’t.

So anyway. This is for you. You know who you are. Thanks for those extracts from the Literary Sex Awards, or something. I thought most of them were fairly shite, but I hugely enjoyed the Marxist’s Orgasm. That tickled me. Unfortunately, all my quality pornography and erotica is locked away up in the attic of my parent's house as, at the moment, they fail to outdo my imagination in the making of wood and Mum used to keep arranging them chronologically while I was out, so I only managed to find the extract below. It is from the book, the title below, which I picked up in a local second hand book shop. It’s about ten years old and it is as mad as sand. It is all I have to offer in return.

“The Sorrows of Young Gunther" Torrington Press.
By Sidney Banks

"The letter continued.

“Go with it” the sister whispered in my ear as she tugged at its lobe, nibbled on it a little and then plunged in her ravenous tongue, deep and pushed and probed so hard she tickled my brain. I giggled inanely and tugged at my bonds half-heartedly. Wrists and ankles were firmly tied with electrical wire to the bed frame propped up against the old oak tree in the yard. I was tripping so strongly now. I felt my bladder loosen and I could taste metal in my mouth. I was very excited.

Maud stood up and brushed the dirt from her apron and with her head leaning to one side appreciated her crucifiction. Then she turned to her younger sister and put her hand behind her neck and pulled her head towards hers, her sister’s lips onto her own. They kissed deep and hard. The sister’s hands pushed aside the apron and her fingers melted into Maud’s alabaster breasts. They rubbed themselves against each other like cheese against a cheese grater and |I could see smoke escape from between their crotches as they breathed air from each other. Maud broke the embrace and between pants said, “Stay here and look after him Louie”. She took her sister’s hand and they turned their beautiful bottoms toward me, pert cheeks made rosy by the night’s chill, and skipped hand in hand to the back door and inside.

Whines and grunts coming from the ground made my head loll downward until my chin smacked on my chest. The big Doberman sat between my ankles looking up at me with great doey eyes. I whistled to him and said “Woof.” As if on cue he started licking maniacally at my testes, spit and flobber flying everywhere, coating my thighs. His tongue felt how a warm and soft raw beefsteak might feel slapping against my balls and I clearly remember smiling from ear to ear. On one occasion when I was a child I had enjoyed becoming intimate with the suction tube on mother’s Hoover until both my balls had become stuck in it and my ball-bag had ripped in places as I tugged at it like a child possessed. Now as the springs pressed into the flesh of my back and the dog’s heavy tongue slapped my balls up and down from between my legs to my abdomen and the acid coursed throughout, I was shaking with sensations that superceded those of that childhood terror. I could feel my dick awaken and harden and throb with the onslaught. I could hear my encouraging tone as I spoke to the dog as a coach might to his star quarterback in the national state finals, eking out every last ounce of effort. “Good boy, good boy, good boy Louie! Who’s a good boy then? You are! Yes, you are! Go on Louie, you can do it, you are a good, good, good boy!” Hard as rock and nearing utter satisfaction I heard the door open and Maud call,” Dinner Louie.” at the same time as the light from inside illuminated the Doberman’s arsenal of teeth, incisors, nails and knives. Too far-gone by this point, I groaned deep and long and erupted forth, my semen shooting in streams far off into the distance and over the horizon. The dog gave me one last lick and then bit down on my veined sausage.

As I write this from the bed in the hospital that I find myself locked in I swear by all that I hold sacred that Maud, her sister and Louie gave me the best orgasm of my life. By all rationale, it was probably my last. At least now I can put all my concentration into my studies. Yours, G. E. Werther”

Frank put down the letter and inhaled on the butt of his cigarette that had already burnt out in his fingers as he had read, and blinked.”

Crazy shit. Not particularly arousing in my eyes, but a new take on the whole drug induced incestuous bestiality scarification lesbian S and M thing. Good book too.

18 Apr 2005

There is a time and a place for doing a back flip whilst holding a pint of cider. Yesterday, at about four in the afternoon, outside the Dog and Vomit on Mutley Plain was perhaps as good a time as any. I mean, perhaps it should be asked whether or not there is a good time or place to do such a manoeuvre, ever or anywhere, but quite possibly, outside the pub, basking in the sunshine, surrounded by a baying crowd of inebriated Sunday revellers and being watched by the city-wide CCTV system is as good as it gets. Patrick certainly thought it was.

Patrick had been telling Joanne, Meg, Tilly and myself about how, in his younger days, he used to be a gymnast. I do not have a picture of Patrick to illustrate exactly how hard to believe this statement was. All I can say is that Patrick looks to have the sort of body that had started larger than most and then actively decided to take the title of being the most squat and large and barrel-like ever. I can reveal, although I probably shouldn’t, but I will in the spirit of sordid British tabloid journalism, that one time when Patrick was very drunk and morose he confided in me that he had never been able to see his own penis without the aid of a mirror. I had to assume then that what was now a mobile beer gut had once been a tubby teen and before that a big, bouncing babe. As the four of us expressed our general disbelief in Patrick ever having been able to do a back-flip with a chorus of,”Bollocks!” I did consider the great Samo Hung, someone who must always be described as portly at the very least and yet is someone who can bounce off walls throwing in the odd back-flip, front-flip and such kung-fu-kick-to-the-balls-have-that-ya-bastard moves that would put most much more lithe martial artists to shame.

“Right, I’ll frigging show ya then!” and so saying Patrick started to turn around in a circle making some space amongst the crowd. A big fat man with a t-shirt that says,”Fuck Off Yu TwAT!” on it waving his arms about tends to grab your attention. People started to turn to see what the commotion was all about. Just as they were wondering what was happening Patrick informed them. “Okay, I am about to perform *hic* what is commonly known as the Muscovite back-flip, as was performed by the late and great Molivinia Crackmeritupavitz in the Olympics of 1913!”

People stopped talking and turned to watch. Patrick stood with his feet together and his eyes shut and began to bend at the knee, up and down, preparing for the spring that would launch him backwards and over and to everlasting Dog and Vomit fame. When the crowd started to realise that this big, fat drunk man was serious about attempting a back-flip the circle he stood in grew considerably larger. Some people started to clap and cheer. Patrick opened his eyes and I could see they were now full of complete intent. I noticed he still had his fresh pint of Addlestone’s cider in his hand and quickly darted forwards towards him and asked if he wanted me to hold it. He replied,”Bollocks Bruce. Watch this, mate.” Without further ado Patrick did a back-flip with a pint of cider in one hand.

I say ‘back flip’ and ‘pint of cider’ for only a moment as that is how long they lasted. What started as a back flip ended up as a moaning heap and what started off in the glass ended up over Phil “Bleeding” Simmonds and his pit-bull Sooty.

Later on, after the girls and I had plonked the remains of Patrick in a taxi to take him home we sat outside the Dog and Vomit and reviewed the afternoon’s events. ‘Bleeding’ is so named because he does, as well as cause, much of it and although Patrick is a big guy Bleeder is a flipping nutcase and would square off with Tyson given one half chance and one half pint. It looked as if Patrick had received mild injuries, mostly sprains and grazes, from his aborted back-flip and the crowd as a whole were expecting these soon to be added to by breaks and gashes from the boots and fists of Bleeder Simmonds. Bleeder had stood there in the sun, dripping, with a look of mild surprise on his face as Patrick groaned on the pavement. All eyes were on Bleeder to watch the transformation from calmness to ferocious violence and were surprised to see Bleeder still standing still and with a smile on his face as Patrick’s first screams erupted into the sunny afternoon atmosphere. All eyes darted to the spasming heap that was Patrick and the dark blur of teeth and terror that was Sooty. You see, as it turns out, Sooty is fruit intolerant and being covered with the juice of brewed apples sent him mental.

I got a call on my mobile from Patrick this morning. He told me that he’d be working on his back-flip for a repeat and more successful performance and that if he saw Sooty he was going to rip the canine’s nuts off with his teeth.

16 Apr 2005

Bruce, that’s me, otherwise known as the Professor of Lurve, formerly known as the Doctor of Lurve but that was before my PhD paper titled ‘Aspects of Lurve – a Luving Look at Languid Lurve Licks’ was so well received by the GMCL, the General Medical Council of Lurve, and I took a seat at their behest at St. Cupid’s, has a small problem.

There’s this chick, right, and she is very, very, very lovely indeed. When I saw her face for the first time I almost dropped the condoms and when she turned and my eyes fell to her succulently pert backside I fumbled the lubricant. I picked it up and handed it to the bloke behind the till and he asked if I had a Boots loyalty card and I replied,” No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

You see, she is an incredibly well dressed and kempt petite, dark haired, dark skinned sex bomb of a dispensing pharmacist behind the counter at my local Boots. She is frequently in my thoughts and we have spoken on two separate occasions. Unfortunately, these were both in Boots when she descended the steps from the pharmacy to serve yours truly due to an absence of alternative cashiers. She mesmerises me so that I momentarily forgot that I am, indeed, a Professor of Lurve, and so merely mumbled such inconsequential lines as “Thank you,” and “No, I’m afraid I don’t have a loyalty card.” Actually, no, hang on, I’m giving myself a bit of a hard time there. The real reason that I didn’t make a decent first impression was that I was seeing someone else at the time and I was being completely faithful. That’s right. That’s the kinda guy I am.

Anyhoo. She didn’t really have to stop what she was doing to come and serve me as there was only a queue of two people. I, of course, have taken it to mean that she wanted to serve me because she wants to chase me down, rugby tackle me to the floor and pour honey all over my bits. You have to admit that it is a possibility.

Since the first day that I saw her about four months ago I always look through the shop windows as I pass on my way to work to see if the Dark Goddess is working. On Valentine’s Day I felt compelled to do something and so I had a friend of mine from the local sandwich shop go into boots with a bouquet and a fancy exotic pot-plant telling the target that some chap had asked her to drop them off to her. Apparently, she dropped what she was doing, grabbed the flowers and ran into the back to read the card. I was happy about that and I did not consider it to be an act of disloyalty to the then-girlfriend. Not really. I just wanted to keep everything simmering, you know. Whatever.

Since then all I have done is peer through the window to see her. Sometimes our eyes meet and she is probably thinking one of three things:

1. “That tall hairy guy is a stalker. Good thing I have my mace and a third Dan in Ninjitsu.”

2. “There goes that guy again. I wonder if he was the one who sent me those Valentines? Is he really shy? Is he ever going to make a move? *Sigh*”

3. “There he fucking goes again. If he doesn’t come in and grab bits of me tomorrow it’s tackle time!”

So, that’s the problem. How am I going to make the first goddam move? The chances of actually getting served by her are slim. I’d have to go in everyday and would end up with more dental floss and plasters than I could use in a millennia. I know, I know. I could just walk in and ask to have a word with her and then attempt to persuade her that a night out with me is a truly great idea. That’s if she needs any persuasion. Who knows? Fuck it.

15 Apr 2005

So, goddamn it, I have had to move out of the beachside residence. Summer is coming which means the Emmetts are coming down to Kernow to populate our beaches and foul our waters with their putrid urban body-slime. They bring their swollen red bellies and obscure Northern accents and a dress sense that makes even me vomit and let’s face it, I don’t have a dress sense at all, and they rent our old bungalow for exorbitant sums and enjoy that loveliest of locations whilst the sun is beaming and the house is warm and not frigidly cold and I’ve moved into a flat in Plymouth which is alright and it’s free but I’m going to miss evening games of golf at Ivyleaf when the sun is drooping behind the Atlantic and we drink beer and smoke spliff and smack fuck out of our golf balls and enjoy the time. Goddamn it. I sneer in the general direction of all this that displeases me so this thundery afternoon. Look at me sneer. Is that not a sneer to be proud of? Eh?

Sneeration Posted by Hello

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?