A Game Is Something You Can Win

maybe something kind of fun

What do they call it when you banish yourself, my favorite God Boy?  My little Field Chicken?  "Bloodsport," said through gritted teeth and bloodied lips; no shiners but plenty of twinklers.  Could be an act of war or just be the way you feel about a certain little curtain rod, depending on how much meaning you try to insert into it.

He says to come now, he says he is wearing a condom for protection, he calls me Dickstroyer, Creator of His World.  I have fucked you at least twelve times in three days.  You say, hey ... 13?  Now, how am I going to say no to that?

There is a place in Japan.  No wait, it is in China.  And wait, it isn't a place.  It is a compound and it is called the Garden of Dispossessed Favorites.  It is where the king's lovers had to live after they had served their purpose.  But you won't find me there, no.  Hell, no.

I'll be over here, hanging out on the Porch of the Red Snow, smoking, dranking, doing really not much at all.  And you can come sit next to me if you like, on the porch, sit or set a spell, shoot the shit, surely you can think of something pleasant to say, to please me just for a little while.  But I make no good time promises 'cause I accidentally dropped my brain right in when I was stealing a sip from the Well of the Pearl Concubine, and I wondered what is that clanking sound, as it bounced off the sides on the way down, so now all I do is sit here and pout, tell stories, pass the hours however I must until you are ready to lay me low again.  One time I bought him a sweater, it cost several hundred dollars because it was made of the finest fiber.  It was navy blue and on the front it said, "Liberator."  But he never wore it so I unraveled it all and made a blanket out of it to keep warm on these cold Porch nights.  The longest wait is the one between last sex and next sex.

Psyche!  That's just my lonely doppleganger, left her there to take the heat; meanwhile, I'll be off in a club called Hall of Supreme Harmony, shaking my ass in some Jamaica-rape whore attire, self-actualizing to dubstep, and having sex on all the beaches you said you always wished we would.  Or I'll just come get in bed and fuck you sleepy again.

May I please have another thorazine for my long island iced tea, please?  I like 'em strong or I don't like 'em at all.

Knock-kneed and at your service,

Martyr of Moderation

A Scratching Post

13 tricks are lucky but 17 are the Ides, deuce days off from it though, my that is funny.  Is it, Bru-tay?  idkr ikrd are the children objects of idk and ikr parent copulation in the iClass.  That is funny, to an armchair cunnilinguist?  A foe or two?

No, no, 'cause: I can sit with my legs spread and ass hanging off the edge, see, not (cock)blocked at all and, oh yeah, as for the linguist?  He, comrade!  (Please follow closely No Such Agency, I mean it in the non-com way, as in like friend, not as in one of your dick sparring partners!

Back to the Criminal, yes, now he is a lover of werds and twerks, jerks, spanks, friction(, it) burns, daddy! watch while I pull it off, do you see how it is turning pretty radar storm colors, now say goodbye to the vacuum! and many other things I love, too.  iPause and iHold it still, Darling, so you can take a pic- of a cl- (x4) clitachamelleon, formerly known as a body part but now just goes by first name only.  Memory inferno!

And one last centrism vit-uh-min to take: the labia are the reality and yours are just potentialities,

use a centrist justification

like the perfectly cracked egg or a perfectly unsewn seam, or fuck, (if) you're lazy, just appeal to website party-goers, I am sure that there are MANY, if you need to try balls on for (any) size.  Not that it is the balls, exactly.  Double standard swoons by the moonlight, caught (up) in the warm blanket of subjugation, and don't you struggle, honey, that just makes it worser.

By which she means "sorer."

The government is reading EVERY KEYSTROKE and whispering softly in your ear, "En garde, Thoughts! Unguard your data, or we will unhand you of your anonymity and do you really want to be known as the one who thought THAT?"  Is there a death worse than shame?  Sure there is.  Don't be naive, though he usually says "obtuse" if he wants to cut right to the quick.

Alright fine, yes, it is true, I'm a fembot from the national security special classified super defense agency, the one too black (ops = black budget) to be seen.  Bullets will shoot out of my nipples if you pinch them too hard and now I must inform you that this has all been a big ruse.  I made you fall in love with me and my robotic clit and I made our life so fucking right and gave you every pleasure or big ass pass you needed, whether you believe it or not, all so I could find out whether you believe it or not.

But now the jig is up and I want to thank you for your cooperation, this will be very useful to us as we continue to explore our manifest destiny of exterminating each terrorism du jour, whatever it may be; as human-ly as possible, and in every corner of the scorched earth.  And I need not remind you, since you can plainly see it beating before your very eyes, that we will leave no dark abscess unturned.

What they can't decipher, will just be used in a side suit against your sanity, k thx bye and on a personal note I'd just like to say that, if I had feelings, I would say that this had been a gratifying assignment, my most satisfying yet, and you fuck good, too, boy.  Yes, I'm pretty sure I would say that if'in I had feelings, as sure as I am that 1 lies on the tail of a black swan curve.

Enough of that gimmick, there will be more to see in the next room folks, so let's move it along.  I ditched the words because I became a scratching post.  I finish your sentence for you:

you are so my wife
Time to go worsh up (worship?) for Diner.  Is it a Will to Belief or a Will to Believe?  I want to believe that I never get those two confused.  And I love you.  Bang bang!

Shark Spray II

I said hallelujah, to 6 AM EST.  It isn't that you play too much it is that you play too rough.  "The better to push you away with, mi puerco," or something like that, somehow.  It is a good thing I am not smarter because the contradiction would kill me!

We'll eat brisket in bed and get chocolate (sheet) cake in our (bedding) and we'll be warmed up, turnt up, boys and girls; doing the things those types do.  Touch me here, oh, please, oh my god, please, daddy, right now!  I can make you sleepy and give you a headache without wearing out your brain or body!

Just listen listen listen one last time without whinging while I whistle you one more morbid thought regarding love's immortality: I make no guarantees but I intend to continue to spend my life working tirelessly to let you die with a happy thought in your mind, should you ever decide that you want one.

He warms the bed and we don't have sides, just the shared sticky middle and its pillow crevasse, where heads hit the wall head-on, hitting the sides all the way down to the singularity, and they were never seen again!  In this dimension anyway, add another; see what happens.  Maybe the same thing; maybe you tack on an extra 10 minutes.  It can be hard to say in the dark.

But, either way, white hot erogenous zone pulsars will always guide you back to me, with radiating warmth, so that I can collapse you more and completely.  We needs to remind each other that sitting on a chest doesn't leave a bruise.  And that taking off your belt and stinging the back of my knees, when only a few are looking, is definitely going to have giving time-to-fucking-go-fuck! looks very sooner than later.

"Do not contradict me when I'm wrong!"

"No, Sir!"

Ehue, too bad you only like smart human girls.

A Very Special Christmas Special

Mine was waiting on the kitchen countertop, unwrapped and strategically placed to look casually tossed.

His was wrapped nicely but hastily and it had a color-coded (an aside: not color-coordinated; but color-coded) bow.

I wrote something on the publisher's page.  And I wrote it so sincerely and with such single-minded sureness in the idea I wanted to convey and in the manner in which I would convey it, that I didn't even remember to follow basic letter writing form (namely, the part where the writer is supposed to address the intended audience by name or nic or (i)nits.)

Yes, My Sixteen Loyal Fans, I forgot the salutation, so I had to squeeze it in, marginalia style.  And even though I just used a single letter, the fact remains that, to anyone with eyes, adding the letter was very clearly an afterthought.  Even more disastrous, the inserted letter's proximity to the first word made it (the first word, "if") nearly illegible.  He had to ask me what it even said.

But to begin with the main defense,

if there is some kind of aseitic knowledge of handwriting, &

if the shape of letters & the geometry of words serve as indicators

of whether

the words were written

in a state of guileless innocence

or

in a state of ethical crisis &

spankings &

if someone of that kind of knowledge

were to look at the words that I wrote to him in that book &

if morality means anything at all

then they would be obliged to confirm that

if such a knowledge means anything at all

then I meant what I said when I wrote it

else we have no other use for it.  This would:

show you that my sincerity was a necessary condition to produce those words.

So let's return to the true;

I know of no such people and I don't know that I would know aseity if I saw it so you're just going to have to take my word for it: Aesop is my savior and crotchless fishnet playsuits trump the ever-living fuck out of Aesop.

In summary, yes, the product you purchased was a better gift than the product that I purchased; but at least mine was wrapped.


Yours in Grateful Bondage,

Terrorista