Intro : "Hey bimbooo!"
"Yes master ?"
"Suck my cock, I wanna fuck this slut.i"
In lieu of the self-obvious continuing *slurp* I'ma go serve myself some spinach lamb curry -- I think maybe the spinach curry is called ghost something in its original appelationii ? -- and be right back to continue our mutual exposee... exposition... exhibition, how do you call what we jointly do, anyway ? Where I show you myself, as I am, meaning a presence, while you equally show me yourself, but as you are : as an absence. As an impotence, as an... I show you my whores and you show me your sores, I show my wholes, pulsing, rock-hard while you show your holes, aching, desperate... it's mutual, of course it is, every action always has a reaction and hey, ever noticed that epitaph up front ? The one that goes
Mentula cum doleat imperio, tibi, lector, culus.
Non sum diuinus, sed scio quid facias.
Did you ever figure out what it means ? Because it's quite relevant here : in your pain we distinguish what our joint activity consists of, and how it'd be classified, you know ? And with it goes the required, self-obvious conclusion : ma doare-n pula de voi, dragii mei.
Anyways, as I was eating out on one of the balconies one of the evernude sluts woke up, and so we giggled and made sport of life together for a bitiii ; but then we're done, and she's asleep, so here I am, again!
Last night we watched that terrible Ossessione re-make with Jack Nicholsoniv that you, in your limited experience as permitted by your limited intellect, think some kind of a big deal, all "intellectual" and "relevant" and "phylosophycal" and shit -- on generator power. The eighties've been returning in force over here, at least four power outages summing to eight hours or more over the past two weeks. How's socialism faring where you live ? Did the eighties return, or not just yet ? Or are you unwilling (to not speak of unable) to notice, and besides, every idiot's idiocy is always new to him ?
Nevertheless, I've pumps and battery banks and gasoline generators and everything else made requisite by the ever mounting cost of living among the sort of imbeciles as'd tolerate your continued existence as you are (perfect! don't you ever change!)
I'm really hoping that sometime soon, sometime in any case before I'm much too old to care, there's the bonfire already, there's the common graves already, there's ten billion trillion quadrillion of your insufferable ilk reduced back to the clay you've always been, that never should've received letters in the first place.
What terrible mistake we've made, what horror this "democratic" golum that in our naivite we thought possessed of some kind of spark, of intrinsic power and ability, of inborn relevancy and importance. And what terrible conflagration required to sterilize the world back into human shape!
Outro "I've lost my underwear."v
"I know where it's at!"
"Everyone knows where it is but you!"
"Fuck. I'm really starting to sound like a slut."
- It's in bad harem... taste, not to mention ill couth and unmannered to have the same girl suck it that's gonna fuck it. It's just... not done, what.
Don't you find it delightful, by the way, having one girl prepare the rod for another ? What's more lovingly sisterly womanly perfectly etcetera ? All sort and manner of deep social practice, voiced for instance as "Make it really big and hard, so it hurts her" becomes meaningful let alone possible in this way, it's just... It's how it was meant to be, what can I say. In practice you can always tell, and I am telling : this is how it was ever meant to work, the whole complex machinery finally makes sense, not part by part and in its parts, but whole. [↩]
- Many years ago, back when I was still wee tyke-y enough to read "science fiction" seriously, I recall encountering for the first time the concept of "matter replicator", a most lazy writing device of auctorial convenience. How's it supposed to work anyway, so you show it the Platonic object and it makes a concrete ? How do you do that ?! For all you know matter replicators already exist, commonly dispersed in the immediate environment, but since you don't manage to communicate Platonic notions...
Anyways, I've built something quite like it, myself. You see, when you take some inane blondy to a thousand-dollar a plate restaurant as part of your simpy worship, she'll maybe give you a blowjob later, right ? Maybe though, her choice, right, you wouldn't think of forcing her or anything. Isn't that right ? Well... I force mine, of course I do, occasionally so excitedly force them they nosepuke on my pubic hair for which physiological act of disobedience they get harshly punished, on top of just how fucking painful it is to have stomach acid in your sinuses. But the blowjob ain't the point : when I take mine to the restaurant, they pay the fuck attention ; and then later they... reproduce what they saw. The cost to me of infinity is one trial and the ingredients, the first thousand bucks buys me the first plate, and the next thousand bucks the next -- however many -- other plates.
It is, I tell you true, the only way to live. The girls themselves look somewhat down on their culinary accomplishments (in direct proportion to how accomplished they are -- the apprentice ones worship the skill, but the masters think it rather insufficient an accomplishment for their life) but what I truly have, made in the shade, is nothing short of the old matter replicator of yore -- for tell it true and dare admit : it's pretty much food and gadgets that'd ever have been, together, 99% of all its output, ain't that so. Well... the gadgets having since betrayed the sacred cause of childhood imagination, all that's meaningfully left is food. So... [↩]
- Not even kidding : she had trouble sleeping because the crazy FЯOG kept pestering her all night, till dawn (for he is a nocturnal frog) and then the wasps buzzed and... So I told her she's too tense (which she is, as young women living their dream may often get to be) and that she should relax ; and had her do sit-ups to kiss me ("see, now you count kisses to fall asleep"), holding her bare thighs. It's sport, innit ? I also played with her bare cunt, so it's also life, right ? Well, there you go! [↩]
- 1981, The Postman Always Rings Twice, by Bob Rafelson. I must admit Lange plays a very credible whore -- started out too young by the amorous exertions of marginals (here, foreigner, works quite well), her dubious at best intellect readily overwhelmed by her thick, heavy sexuality, and well...
It's how it goes. [↩]
- It should be obvious who's speaking on the simple grounds that I'm the only one who even owns any such thing in this house.
See, you may aspire to one day wear the trousers... but I've realised the situation where I'm the one wearing the panties!