I bumped into an old mate today, someone I haven’t seen in years. He told me that Old Gay John had died. Old Gay John was one of the guys that used to hang around on the corner, way back when I first moved here. He wasn’t gay, we just called him that because he hated it so much. He wasn’t old or called John either.
I discovered something really creepy about myself today, something that really freaked me out. I can talk to the dead. I’ve probably always been able to do it, it’s just I’ve never tried before. It’s not just a select few I can talk to either, I can talk to anyone I want, anyone who’s ever lived. I talked to Einstein earlier, and Jimi Hendrix, and Karl Marx. I even jerked off, talking to Princess Diana and Charlotte Bronte at the same time. It’s an incredible ability, being able to talk to the dead, truly amazing. I just wish they would talk back.
As I get older, I find that I can’t do a lot of the things I used to do. I used to be able to bend an iron bar over my erect phallus. It was a great party trick. I can’t do it any more though, my wrists are shot to fuck.
She is like a starving lioness, craving the kill, desperate for the taste of blood, the sensation of tearing flesh and the sweet stench of terror from her prey. She needs to feed. She longs to devour and feast. She needs to eat. Her hunger so strong that it hurts, consuming her every waking moment and drenching her dreams. It’s the only thing she can think about. She simply has to feel her teeth sinking into soft, terrified flesh. It’s in her very nature, to choke and kill and devour. She has no choice in the matter. It is who she is and it is what makes her so beautiful.
The best thing about her is that she’s coming round later tonight for what she describes as a barbecue. I’m just a little puzzled, as I don’t have a yard, but I’m sure she knows what she’s talking about, and I can’t wait to find out.
I got my first piece of hate mail, and I have to say I was as delighted as I was proud. Bravely commenting as an anonymous user on my recent poem about breasts, this brilliant fellow called me a Eurotrash, douche hipster who looks like a sloppy version of DeNiro’s character in Taxi Driver. I almost peed myself with delight. I am seriously considering using this quote on my about page. I tried to track him down, so I could thank him properly, but his IP address only led me to Baltimore. I have a few pals there, but I know it can’t be any of them, as they can all actually write. Really, I would recommend reading the whole comment, it is hilarious and there is a wonderful line about me writing horrible poetry about sex to make up for my lack of a life. Feel free to reply to his lovely comment, and, if you are reading Mr Anonymous, please come back and say more, I think you are fantastic and I would love to give you a guest spot.
Hackney is one of the poorest boroughs in the country, and the neighbourhood I live in is pretty rough and run-down, even for Hackney. We see more than our fair share of crime and inner-city depravity: just this morning I walked past a drunk woman taking a dump in a phone box. Nevertheless we were all horrified when we learned that the local library was being used, after dark, as a brothel and crack house. The police raided it around three AM, arrested 30 people and seized a stash of drugs and weapons. We were flabbergasted, we had no idea that we had a library.
It was a dodgy kinda pub, you know the sort, dark and seedy, old men nursing their half pints so as to make them last the whole evening, or topping up their glasses from cans in a bag under the table, but I was meeting the man there, so there wasn’t much I could do except grin and bear it.
When I got up to visit the bathroom, several heads spun silently in my direction, beady eyes weighing up my pint greedily. I sat back down and flipped over a beer mat. On the back I wrote, in simple block letters “I HAVE SPAT IN THIS BEER”, propped it up against the glass and went and took a leak.
When I got back, my drink remained untouched. I grinned, I was way to smart for these lowlifes, I thought. I took the card and laid it back on the grubby Formica. I took three long gulps of the cool, golden liquid and then noticed that underneath my words on the beer mat, someone had written the words “SO HAVE WE”.
i like my women like i like my coffee.
What? hot, sweet and black?
nah, bought from a street corner and costing less than three quid.
You think you’re funny, don’t you?
sure, i could make people laugh just reading from a dictionary.
Really? how would you do that then?
i’d read it with my cock hanging out.
i’m gonna lose her mate
What makes you think that?
i found something
an appliance, you know, a device
Lot’s of women have those buddy, I wouldn’t worry about it.
no man… i’ve always known that’s all she needs me for
What was it? Some kind of vibrator?
much worse than that mate
a universal remote control!!!
I was recently nominated for The Booker Award by the delightful Maureen, author at Magnolia Beginnings, and although I never accept blogger award nominations – my ego being already over-inflated – this one had me thinking about all the wonderful books I have read over the years.
Here is a list of my top, all-time five:
- Catch 22 by Joseph Heller
- The Dangerous and Painful Masturbation Magic Pop-Up Book by Paul Bollokov
- Gormenghast (trilogy) by Mervyn Peake
- The Mechanism of Mind by Edward de Bono
- Narziss and Goldmund by Hermann Hesse
- 101 Recipes for Kittens by B B Q Feline
- Fermat’a Last Theorem by Simon Singh
- Catcher in the Rye J D Salinger
- Mark Twain by Huckleberry Finn
- Trainspotting by Irvin Welsh
- How to lose Friends and Irritate people byDale Carnage
- The Fractal Geometry of Nature by Benoit B Mandelbrot
- The Yoga Guide to Self-Felation by Ike A N Bendova
- Watchmen by Alan Moore
- How to Count to Five by Arthur Unknown
I’ve not followed Maureen for long but her blog is a must-follow and full of sweet, smart, well written observations and musings, and her avatar picture makes for fantastic masturbation material. Thank you Maureen.
Today I decided I would write a deadly computer virus and unleash it on you all.
It turns out that I lack the necessary programming skills, so if you wouldn’t mind sharing this message with all your followers and manually deleting all the important files from your hard drive, I’d be very grateful.
Thank you 🙂
the food was awful,
i told her,
the service sucked,
the restroom was
a total disgrace,
and the parking was
i waited ages
for my meal,
the beer was warm,
the fish was cold,
and what she said
when i complained…
she said “sorry but
i don’t work here.”
I really thought I’d witnessed something miraculous this morning. In my own kitchen.
I like my coffee hot and the one I had made earlier had just begun to cool a little. It was still pretty hot but needed 20 seconds in the microwave, just to get it right. I popped it in, set the dial and waited for the ping. When I took the coffee out, it was stone cold. Well, not stone cold, but room temperature and a lot colder than it was when I’d put it in.
At first, I thought I was dreaming. I know enough about physics and how microwaves work to know that what I’d just seen was simply not possible. I pinched myself, not asleep. I tasted the coffee again, still cold. My heart started to race as my mind tried to figure out what had happened.
I peered into the oven, unsure of what I was looking for, when it struck me. At the back was a mug of coffee that I had placed in there last night to heat up and had then forgotten about. During the 20 seconds, the turntable had revolved by half a revolution and the two mugs had changed places.
“This play is really boring.”
“They can’t hear us.”
“Shush! It’ll be over soon.”
“I don’t know what’s going on.”
“It’s your line.”
thanks to cowards for this
The entire city of London, it would seem, has become obsessed by the Olympics. Now, while I’m delighted by team GB’s successes, I gotta admit that I have been more absorbed by an alternative sporting event, the Cunnilympics, which is held every four years in the Twat and Merkin pub, down the Old Bent Road. Like the original Ancient Greek version, Cunnilympic events are performed naked, although, unlike the originals, they consist mostly of contestants performing athletic, and sometimes dangerous, sexual acts. There are parallel bar events and ring events and several kinds of marathon. There are sprints and shooting and a very interesting variation on weight lifting, and this year synchronised masturbation was included in this venerable (venereal surely: ED) sporting line up. The Cunnilympic version of the pole vault is probably the most dangerous event and, after table tennis, was always my favourite, until this year that is, when I was able to get tickets to the men’s relay final and the heavyweight cock wrestling.
Four teams of strapping, naked and erect young men, from America, Russia, Great Britain and China, stand in the centre of the arena, in front of an audience of mostly women and gay men and wait for the starting gun, all of them stiff and twitching in anticipation. The idea of the competition is for each athlete to grasp their neighbour’s ‘baton’ and bring them to orgasm, at which point the neighbour grabs his neighbour’s cock and so on until all four contestants have come, the first team to have all their athletes blow their loads, being declared the winners.
The instant the starting pistol fires, four powerful hands grasp four pulsing pricks and start furiously pumping them up and down. The Chinese get off to a flying start with How Hee Cum squirting a thick streak of jiz over the back of the Russian reigning champion, Boris Jerkov in just under 20 seconds. Next to come is the American Mark Spurtz, who, despite his nine inch member has been training hard for up to eight hours a day, and as he comes into his partners face he shouts “God bless America!” and turns expertly to grab Joe Spunks twitching prick. The British are in a close third place and catching up fast as Bradley Cummings lighting fast fist coaxes several hot, thick squirts of cum from Robin Bellend’s tiny but potent shaft. Then disaster strikes as Paul Bollokov slips in a puddle of Karl Kumova’s semen and drops his baton, earning the Russians instant disqualification. After one minute forty-eight seconds the Americans and Chinese are neck, and neck and Cum So Fa and Dick Seaman start to shoot their goo together. Its going to take a careful examination of the slo-motion replay to decide this one, and as they both grunt and jerk their way to conclusion and glory, the crowd cheer “Come on Britian!” and they do.
Still sticky with sweat and each other’s juces, the team captains mount the podium, erect with pride, as the queen herself hangs their medals on their throbbing members. The crowd go wild and get ready for the heavyweight cock wrestling, where two amazingly well endowed athletes will clash cocks until one of them becomes flaccid.
When I’m talking with a woman, I make a point of not staring at her boobs, its not polite or respectful, “apparently”. The other night though, I was on a date with a girl who talked about her breasts incessantly. I figured it would be rude not to look.
You walk in and look at me. Its hard to know, from your expression, what you are thinking, but when you tell me to take off your shoes, I know. I slip them off, one at a time, and place them neatly side by side at the end of the bed. “Now, take off my dress.” you say, and I unzip it and let it fall gracefully to the ground. Under your dress is a sexy black silk slip. “Take it off.” you tell me.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, I’m sure.” you say, confident and certain of what you want, and I inch it gradually down, revealing matching, skimpy black panties. “Take off my bra.” you instruct me, a fire burning in your eyes as I unfasten it and place it down on the chair.
“Take off my panties.” you tell me with a definite insistence. I edge them down gradually, gingerly almost and look up at you.
“What now?” I ask, trembling slightly.
“Now,” you tell me, “if I ever catch you wearing my clothes again, we’re fucking finished!”
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.
I checked my bank balance today.
I have enough money to last me the rest of my life.
Providing I don’t ever buy anything ever again, or die tomorrow.
“I call her Black Beauty.”
“Awww, that’s sweet.”
“Not really, she looks like a fucking horse.”
Erotic writing for women is all the rage these days, and having turned my hand to the odd dirty ditty or two in my time, I thought I’d share a few thoughts on the subject. Bearing in mind that you are writing to suit female fantasies rather than male fantasies, here are my top ten tips on how to get those pussies purring.
- NEVER USE EUPHEMISMS: Women hate anything subtle or clever, so never use phrases like ‘inner depths’ or ‘glowing wetness’. Call a cunt a cunt, and by the way, women love that word, so try to use the word ‘cunt’ as often as you can.
- NEVER INVOLVE ROMANCE: You are writing about sex not a bloody love story, so keep it that way. Women have no interest in feelings or emotions and romance turns them right off, so never have any hand holding or have your characters gaze into each other’s eyes. Never, ever have them be in love, the words ‘I love you’ will make her cunt as dry as the Australian outback.
- AVOID DIALOGUE: Women do not get off on words, so do not have your characters engage in conversation, unless its the occasional “Yeah, you like that bitch, don’t ya?” or a “Fucking take that, bitch!”
- USE PICTURES: As already mentioned, women are not aroused by words or ideas and are primarily visual, so add lots of pictures. Massive, cum drenched cocks and gigantic artificial boobs are guaranteed to get them hot, especially if the boobs are dripping with a ridiculous amount of thick white semen.
- AVOID POWERFUL WOMEN: Women do not like stories where the girl is in charge or has any power or deserves any respect. Wherever possible make sure your female characters are fucked by their bosses or some authoritative figure.
- TALK ABOUT COCK A LOT: Women have little interest in their own bodies or pleasure, so describe your male characters’ pricks in great detail and always make them infeasibly large and concentrate on his orgasm, not hers.
- AVOID CUNNILINGUS: No woman wants to read about how a man would go down on her, that stuff disgusts them.
- INCLUDE LOTS OF BLOW JOBS: Blow jobs are a guaranteed pantie wetter, so write about these in great detail. Most women would much rather choke on an unwashed cock than be fucked or eaten out.
- AVOID THREESOMES: Unless it is a FFM threesome avoid such scenarios. No woman has ever wanted more than one man at a time.
- INCLUDE LOTS OF GIRL ON GIRL ACTION: If you want to show your softer side, then you are probably gay, but if not, write about hot girl on girl action. Include as many women as you can, preferably covered in oil or mud and having them fight each other is another way to get your female readers wet. Note: cunnilingus is acceptable is such scenarios.
So there you have it. Ten certain ways to get the girls dribbling in their knickers. Have fun, and I look forward to reading the end results.
I am sorry to inform you, but sadly Mrs Bucket has passed away. She was found here in Kyle’s office this morning, clutching a picture of his unimpressive dick, having drowned in a sizeable pool of her own love juice.
My name is Sally Dofuckall, and I will be taking over until Kyle returns, which should not be long. He sends his kindest regards and says he is having a great abduction, he is particularly enjoying the orifice probes that these aliens so like to employ. He has met God, who he thought was a dicksplash and Elvis, who he thought was a god. He say’s that Joan of Arc gives great head and that Mother Teresa is into fisting.
I found this poem in his drafts. I hope he doesn’t mind me publishing it, I’m not sure it is finished.
i wanna dance with you
i wanna romance with you
i wanna fly with you
and get high with you
i wanna cry with you
i wanna die for you
i wanna come in you
and have fun with you
i wanna sleep with you
or count sheep with you
if we can’t
you are the most beautiful woman on the planet.
you give me me a hard-on that feels like granite.
and we would never have met,
if it wasn’t for the internet.
i wish your name were janet,
then this bloody poem would rhyme.