No one could understand why she had done it. She had seemed so happy. She hadn’t always been like that, she had always been rather a melancholy girl, but six months ago she had met a man online and from that point onwards her whole personality had changed. She’d seemed lighter somehow and would smile nearly all the time, she started taking an interest in her appearance and had even dropped 12 pounds.
She talked about nothing else, and we all kinda found it a little boring but we were just so glad to see her happy, that we listened. We got every gory little detail, the poems he wrote her, his confessions of undying love for her, word for word accounts of every IM he had ever sent and far more than we wanted to know about what they got up to on Skype.
We had been a little wary for her, after all this was some guy, thousands of miles away, that she had never actually met, but they sounded so well matched, they shared the same hobbies, liked the same movies and music and TV. Generally, we were all just delighted for her.
So why today? Why would she do something like that on the very day that he was going to fly in and they were going to finally meet?
As the paramedics took down her body, I noticed that her laptop was still on. I navigated my way to her Facebook page and found their thread, just to see what had happened to make her do something like that. My blood froze. There it was, six months of chat. Except it wasn’t, it was just her. There was nothing from him. Tens of thousands of remarks and LOLs and <3s but all from her, just one side of the conversation. I scrolled up and up until my fingers ached, just hoping for some sign of him, tears streaming down my face. It was all there, the poems she’d written him, her responses to comments he’d never made, answers to questions he’d never asked, an acceptance of a proposal he’d never offered. My spine chilled at the recollection of that day, when she’d bounced into work, bubbling with love, telling us all that he had proposed.
I kept scrolling up until I found it. The only comment he had ever made to her, right at the top, six months ago. “Who the fuck are you? You weird bitch!!!”
I’m not going to be around as much for the next few months. I have found a new book deal, and as a ‘so called writer’ I have to go with it. Its a dull technical tome on how to program smart-phones, much like my last book. It will contain no erections or wet pussies or orgasms (although I will try to sneak one or two past my editors) and will be as dry as hell to write, but it will mean that I can still continue to put food on my table using the words in my head. There is a certain irony to this deal – ask anyone who knows me and they will tell you that I can barely operate my own smart-phone, and I am the world’s worst ever DrawSomething player.
“Writing is about the only profession where nobody is surprised that you make absolutely no money”
I would much rather be here, banging away at the keyboard with one hand, and my cock with the other, and I will still try to post at least daily. I have had a wonderful few months here and have enjoyed your company more than I can say.
I am currently in the process of knocking out the book outline and negotiating a contract that won’t leave me poorer than when I started, so I should be around for a bit.
Thank you everybody who has commented and liked and followed or just even read my ramblings. I love you all and have jacked off to every one of your comments and gravatar pics – although I’m not certain that that is a good definition of love.
~ k )
1. Full of energy and enthusiasm.
2. Quivering; pulsating: “She was vibrant with lust”.
3. Pulsing or throbbing with energy or activity
4. Vigorous, lively, and vital
I’ll be damned if this isn’t the sexiest video I’ve ever seen. Now, I don’t mean sexy, as in it gives me a hard-on (although it always seems to coax a semi out of me), I mean sexy as in how it has my jaw dropping and my tongue lolling out.
I know it might not be politically correct, that its just a lot of bare female flesh being cavorted in front of the camera, that maybe it objectifies women, but I disagree with that, and I’ve never been one to give a flying fuck what the politically correct brigade think anyway. I just think this gorgeous video celebrates womanhood.
Let’s face it, we all know, that in our species, women are the sexy ones. Men know it and women know it. You know it and I know it. In a lot of other species it is different, Peacocks are sexier than Peahens for example, and with lots of other animals, its the male that does most of the sexual flaunting. Just not so with us, and I celebrate and adore that fact. Look at the women in this video, they are enjoying being sexy, half of them can’t stop smiling, and they all look like they understand the power that their beauty holds. Listen to the lyrics too, this is a love song and as good a celebration of femininity as I’ve ever heard.
I look on the rhythmic swaying of all that thigh and belly and cleavage, not so much with lust but, in the way I might gaze upon a beautiful sunset or waterfall: with awe, as I behold one of nature’s most beautiful works.
And let’s face it, he’s pretty hot too.
your desk at work is a big, old fashioned oak affair, covered on three sides and facing the door. i am not supposed to visit you at work, so when we hear someone approaching down the corridor outside, you tell me to hide, under the desk.
as i crouch there, listening to your conversation with some man, i slip my hand up inside your short, green, cotton skirt and gently tickle the inside of your thigh. your voice goes up a notch briefly before you bring it under control. you gesture to me to stop with a hand under the desk, which i grab and kiss and you pull it away, but i know you are suppressing a smile up there.
when he has gone, you tell me to come out but i don’t, i slide my hands further up your legs to the top of your thighs and pull your panties to one side and plant a gentle kiss on your pussy, feeling how warm it is getting. you tell me to ‘stop it’, but i can tell from the hidden giggle in your voice that you don’t mean it. i kiss you again, longer and harder and feel you getting wet as i flick softly at your clit with my tongue. i push your legs wide open and run my tongue up the length of your silky treasure, loving your taste and the way your hips are now rocking lightly back and forth with the rhythm of your pleasure as i lick harder and faster at your throbbing, hard clit.
i feel your orgasm begin to rise in you, a distant carnal rumbling, making your legs tremble. you have to grip the edge of the desk hard to prevent yourself from moaning. then i hear another voice, a man’s, he is asking you lots of questions. you try to push my head away and close your legs but i don’t let you and lick harder and faster and feel you quake as your orgasm rises up through you. you try to answer his questions with ‘yes’ and ‘okay’, but he is asking complicated difficult things and i hear you squeak ‘er, can i get back to you on that?’ he asks if you’re all-right and i can feel you nod your head ‘es thanks.’ you gasp as your orgasm explodes through your body.
when he is gone and you are completed, you drag me from under the big oak desk and glare at me crossly and then plant a big kiss on my still wet lips and flash me your biggest smile.
Thank you everyone for leaving such sweet comments on my post ‘I want to be a woman‘ However I have been properly put in my place today by some things that I have been made to think, and I decided a more realistic version was in order.
Just for a day,
Or maybe a weekend,
I want to be a woman.
I want to know
What it feels like to give birth,
To spend hours, or days
In pain and feel my softest parts tear open.
I want to know how it feels for my nipples
To dry and crack
At the mouth of a hungry infant.
I want to know how it feels
To have a period,
And have my hormones
Fuck with me
Every bloody month.
I want to know
What it feels like to have breasts,
Have men stare at them
And talk to them,
Rather than my face.
I want to know
What it feels like to get fucked
By some guy who has no idea
What he is doing.
Have him come in my face,
Make me feel inferior,
And never call me again.
I want to know what
Thousands of years of abuse
And being treated as inferior
How it feels to have to be paid less
For working just as hard.
Just for a day,
Or maybe a week,
I want to be a woman.
I didn’t write this really. Thanks to those who did. Seriously, thank you. I have been humbled today.
I want to be owned by you
And broken by you,
Give myself to you
And be destroyed by you.
Eat me up and spit me out,
Throw away the key
Do whatever you want with me,
but never set me free
Make me yours,
And make me pay.
My pain, your pleasure
My loss, your treasure
“Awright! Awright!” I shout, “Its a doorbell, not a fuckin’ juke box!” Some cunt’s in trouble, disturbin’ me when I’m on the Wii, know what I mean? But its Mickey an’ ‘e’s seevvin’ abaht sumffin’.
“Some fuckin’ paedo’ ‘as only just moved in down the the fuckin’ street!” ‘e tells me.
“Who?” I ask, already lookin’ for me Stanley knife.
“That posh cunt at 23.” ‘e says, an’ I’m not surprised, a right snotty cunt ‘e is. Any’ow this can’t be allowed to stand, can’t ‘ave the kiddies round ‘ere put at any risk from some nonce, it ain’t right, so we tool up and pay the cunt a little visit, know what I mean?
Any’ow Mickey’s kickin’ this cunt’s ‘ead around is livin’ room like its a fuckin’ football and ‘e’s David fuckin’ Beckham, an’ ‘is wife’s all like screaming “No! No! He’s a paediatrician! He’s a paediatrician!”
“Well, we fuckin’ know that, you daft bitch.” I tell ‘er, “Why do you fink we’re ‘ere.?”
Just for a day,
Or maybe a weekend,
I want to be woman.
I want to know
What it feels like to have breasts.
I want to lift up my t-shirt
And flash them at a stranger
Just to enjoy the look on his face.
I wanna know what it feels like
To have a clit,
to play with it.
What does it feels like
For a woman to orgasm?
Is it the same?
Is It better?
I want to know
What it feels like to get fucked,
To spread my legs
And wrap them round you,
Pulling you into me,
Feeling you empty your soul
And your nuts
I wanna stand up to the bullies,
Meet some guy that treats me like an object
And kick him so hard in the nuts
That he’ll never walk the same again.
Just for a day,
Or maybe a week,
I want to be woman.
liked this? See what you think of the sequel.
A recent study brought to light some interesting facts about Barbie:
If a real woman were to have the same proportions as a Barbie doll, her small feet and large breasts would mean that she would be constantly falling over and would have to crawl around on all fours. She would also need to have someone hold her head up as her neck would be twice as long as the average woman. Her waistline would be so thin that she would only have room for half a liver and a few inches of intestine, causing her to suffer from constant diarrhoea and with a BMI of 10, she would be classed as anorexic and be unable to menstruate or bear children but, lacking any genitalia, that would probably be a good thing. What a wonderful role model that doll is.
In 1994 Barbie was banned in Saudi Arabia, which is strange, because the swimsuit version comes with an easily detachable head.
there is a hospital on the other side of the planet where, every month they hold a memorial service, a memorial for all our lost little ones, for those that never got to grow up, never got to be all they could be, never got the chance. someone took a photo of my lost little one and i want to thank them for that. thank you.
i am so much more than just flattered by this – i am completely freaked out – because i used to sit by canterbury cathedral a lot and do just that. your post makes me wanna propose
this is not just funny and clever and true, its complete nonsense – stop cluttering up my inbox anette!
Despite my better judgement, but due to popular demand, I have decided to finally publish pictures of my dick.
Thanks to my elderly neighbour Mrs MacUllough for taking the pictures, for being such a great fluffer and for being such an inspiration when it came to the cum shots..
what a wanking honour
This one is for you, Kyle @ Mew Tube – Featured Blog King at Blogs About: Masturbation.
We are not worthy….
I came across a comment someone wrote about my mom. It was very nice, and he said he ‘secretly wishes she’d write something filthy’. She will not. I get the sentiment though. It’s like wanting to wrinkle someone who’s very ironed. That’s not her way, however. I don’t think I’ve even heard something truly filthy from her.
I am less pristine. And since we’re all about the followers here at EHaS, I thought I’d attempt to fulfill that request. So Kyle, this one’s for you 😉
Disclaimer: I am going to write about masturbation. I intend to tell the truth. Mom, you probably don’t want to read past this point.
I’ve read about the differences in stimulation for men and women. Men are visual, women are…
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Today some shit happened that left me feeling all sad, but its cool ’cause I know how to handle that kind of fuckery: turn on the playstation, roll a spliff that’s bigger than I am, order the hottest peri-peri chicken money can buy and turn the music up to fucking 11. I’m telling you, that shit works, drown out any feelings, that will, soothe any aching soul.
Now, I know that this will piss my neighbours off (the music, not the chicken) and I know that they will call the police; after all, my sound system could demolish a god-damn city block, but fuck them. I have to listen to their dogs barking all day and them bickering all night so, likeisay, fuck them.
Anyway, I’m dancing round my little little living room to Professor Longhair, Busta Rhymes, Amy Winehouse and the like, in my underwear, with my teddy and my daft hat on, the mother of all joints dangling from my lips, when the Old Bill turn up. As I answer the door, shuffle decides to play NWA’s ‘Fuck Tha Police!’ I watch this WPC ‘s face contorting in visible pain with the lyrics and its all I can do not to start giggling. Anyway, at least they don’t come in and find the bag of weed on my coffee table or all the girls tied up in my basement, so I guess I get off light with being told to turn my shit down. All the same, fuck tha police!
a few sandwiches short of a picnic
a few bricks short of a wall
a few lines short of a poem
a few dancers short of a ball
a few feet short of a mile
a few notes short of a tune
a few days short of a month
a few craters short of a moon
a few stitches short of a dress
a few words short of a novel
a few pixels short of a bitmap
a few whores short of a brothel
Long distance love can be difficult but it has its upsides too, one being that it doesn’t matter if your farts stink.
i am so sentence right now,
that i can’t even string a stoned together.
i am so high today,
that sense makes any nothing at all.
i do worry sometimes,
that i might have brained my damage.
but who fucks a give
as long as i’m having a ball?
so, its about a six months back, and i’m talking dirty, on facebook, to this woman in south africa, or one of those countries, and its just text, but she is awesome at that shit, and we’re both about to blow our beans when there’s this pause. now, i’m thinking, ‘ok, so she’s popped already’, and i sit back and wait for all the gory details, keeping myself on the verge of the old vinegar strokes, when she types,
“fuck off and die you sick pervert bastard!” now, i’m a little surprised, because this is not her usual modus operandi, but i’m flexible and can work with pretty much any material. so, i’m about to type back,
“go on… tell me more?” when i realise – silly cow has left her laptop open and this is her hubby, whose rumbled what she’s up to. so, i types back “hello stan, nice to meet you mate. how are you? your missus is a right dirty bitch ain’t she? you lucky fucker, you!” almost instantly he’s back at me with this wonderful stream-of-consciousness, ‘rot in hell motherfucker’ stuff and its awesome. i wish i’d kept it. i’m like pissing myself here and i type back,
“wow that’s hot stan, you’re getting me proper fucking stiff. tell me, what are you wearing right now?” and he’s all like,
“i’m gonna hunt you down you piece of shit and cut off your cock and feed it to you.” now, i’m nearly wetting myself at this point and tears are streaming down my cheeks, i’m laughing that hard.
“damn stan,” i type, “you just made me come! you’re better at this shit than your missus!” at this point he unfriends me and blocks me and it all ends there, but it was as funny as fuck, i tell ya.
The pub was a shit-hole, the carpet was sticky with years of spilled beer and guts, the dark brown walls had not seen a lick of paint since the war, and the windows were thick with the residue of a million roll-ups. Most of the time time there would be just these three or four old men in there, trying to pour their own cheap lager from cans in bags under the table into their glasses without being spotted by the bar staff. Sometimes people would go there to buy cheap frozen meat from the local junkies, who would steal it from the Iceland store on the corner. It was a real shit-hole
The only time it was any different was on match days. Then, for two or three hours before and after a game, the place was heaving with raucous singing, jumping red shirts and flying beer. We would meet there early and make up chants to piss the away fans off. Deano was unofficially in charge. He was a top London chef and had a scar on his cheek the exact same shape and size as the lip of a broken pint glass.
The barmaid, Caz, had the most fantastic tits you ever saw, they were like two giant blimps bouncing against each other in the skies above the stadium. Her top was always covered in stains, she never seemed to brush her teeth, and she had a laugh that sounded like a dog being strangled. She lived halfway between the pub and the stadium; we were together for about a year. Her apartment was even more of a dump than the pub, and her six kids were a nightmare, in and out of juvie like a Spurs fan in his boyfriends ass. She used to make this thing she called ‘breakfast’, which involved sticking eggs, bacon, beans and a slice of bread on a plate and bunging it in the microwave for ten minutes. I never once saw her brush her teeth, but she had fantastic tits and lived halfway between the pub and the stadium.
When she caught me shagging her sister by the dumpster behind the pub, she burnt all the pictures of my little boy, who had died five years previously, smashed my guitar and had her brother put a price on my head. Two years later, the team moved to a new stadium, and the pub lost all its business and had to close down. Its an apartment building now. It was a good thing really, that pub was a shit-hole.
i stare at your photo, wondering
what it was you were smiling
so sweetly at, imagining
that it was me, knowing
that it wasn’t but wishing
that it could be.
i am not the boy my mother wanted me to be.
i was the boy your mother told you not to play with.
i grew myself up, and i made me, me
and on the way i fucked up royally.
i watched my friends get brought up properly.
i saw them educated every day.
i though was left all alone and free,
but i’m glad that i got to make me, me.