As a man, I admit that sometimes I have trouble recognising and identifying my own emotions. Honestly, if I’m not hungry or horny, I don’t have a clue what it is I’m feeling. So when she wants to know how I feel about her, I’m at a bit of a loss.
She definitely makes me feel horny, and she definitely makes me feel happy. Sometimes she makes me feel hungry, especially first thing in the morning but that might be breakfast and I’m confusing her with bacon. Ignoring the hunger then, that leaves happy and horny.
That’s love isn’t it?.
you give my soul a hard-on,
you make my heart erect,
my being throb and pulsate,
my very core erupt.
you make my psyche tingle,
you make my mind inflate,
my life force squirt and dribble,
my spirit ejaculate.
when i taste your flesh,
i want it all sticky.
when i kiss your breasts,
i want them all sweaty.
when you fuck my face,
i want you to stink.
when i lick your arse,
i want you to reek.
when i kiss your tits,
i want to taste your cunt,
and when i lick your lips,
i want to taste my cum.
i had to go to the doctor’s today – i hate it, the depression of the waiting room, the risk of catching a cold, all the posters reminding me of all the horrible diseases and afflictions, i could, and probably will end up getting. most of all, i hate the wait. i know they’re busy and the service is stretched, but to be surrounded by miserable looking fuckers, coughing and sneezing over me is just a shitty way to spend the best part of a morning – thank fuck i’ve got minecraft on my phone, at least.
eventually, i get to see my doctor. she is a hot young asian woman, and, thanks to the recent mild weather, is displaying a cleavage that i could happily spend six months in. this makes discussing personal matters rather awkward, and after several minutes watching her staring, uncomfortably, at her computer display, she turns to me and breaks the news. “i’m very sorry mr mew, but you are going to have to stop masturbating.” i’m flabbergasted.
“what?” i exclaim, “why?” my world collapsing around me, “forever?”
“no, not forever, mr mew,” she sighs, almost scowling, “just while i finish examining you.”
You won’t believe what happened to me on the way to work
I bent down to tie my laces, and a crazy woman attacks me!
Yeah! She starts slapping my ass, and when i turn to confront her, she pushes me onto my knees and shoves my face between her legs! Then, when I turn to pick up my case, she tries to bum me!
Oh my god! What did you do?
I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.
So, the rooms we live in are provided by the charity we work for, the rent is very reasonable. they do keep nagging us though. about smoking pot in them. “please smoke your joints outside?” they keep asking, “that’s our property and we are legally liable”. of course, they have a good point, and of course, we ignore them and keep puffing away like octogenarian grannies on a the 25th mile of a marathon. thing is, the job is stressful, all that bum-wiping, and lifting, and bed-sores, and feeding, and death, and boredom and stair climbing, and caring. you need an outlet and weed was ours. well, that and e, and acid, and ska, and football hooliganism, and speed and uk surf: a genre of music that has sadly not survived.
eventually the bosses do what they got to and call the fuzz. i’m watching the box in the communal area and supping on a pint of shepherd neame, when i see four burly looking blokes and a german sheppard stop outside my room. i know instantly what has happened, and rather than panic, i get up and walk calmly into my fate of being a homeless and jobless criminal. i even manage a smile.
i lead them into my room and just point to the weed on the table next to the bong. they say “all very well and good sir,” all of them staring at my sorry little bag of grass, “but we will need you to strip.” so, i go through the humiliation of a strip-search (wishing that there had been at least one wpc there, to see my dong), and then they let the dog have a good sniff around. she is well trained and loves me, or at least how i smell. there is no other puff in my room and the only point that grabs her attention is my laundry basket. there are socks in there that, if you threw them at the wall, would stick to it, and the cops ask if i have anything in there.
“not that i know of.” i lie, knowing that the cop will have to rummage, very thoroughly through them all.
As they take me to the cop shop i think of doug.
doug and i have rooms next to each other, we smoke a lot of weed together. we score from the same geezer, every thursday, on payday. just like we did today. only difference between us is that i cycle and he walks or grabs a bus. i always get home quicker. he was just arriving, as i was leaving, which means… he’s like half an hour away. he ain’t back yet. there may well be a chance for him to avoid getting busted, if only i can get hold of him before he gets home.
the cops aren’t rough with me or anything, after all, they have what they want, and we almost have a laugh together. all the time i’m thinking of doug. “am i allowed a phone call?” i ask.
“sure.” they smile, “who do you want to call?” i tell them it’s my mate doug. “come with us.” they beckon, and i follow, assuming they are taking me to a telephone. all i wanna say to him is
‘get out of the fucking house man! the pigs are coming!’ they lead me into a room where i see doug, sat, being interviewed by two other cops.
“here is is”, says one cop, “what do you want to say to him?”
“get out of the fucking house man!” i say, “the pigs are coming!”
how i love your eyes,
and your tits,
and your thighs.
how i love your toes,
and your butt,
and your nose,
how i love your armpits
as i love your tits.
how i love your ass,
like a cow
loves the grass.
how i love your tits,
already said this.
There are just some people, who, without really possessing any amazing qualities, are nevertheless, amazing. Usually this is because they think they are, when they are not. Perhaps this immense sense of self denial, is what actually makes them amazing.
I just had a brief conversation with a woman I met coming back from the store, who was such a creature. We bumped into each other because I was not really looking where I was going, my mind on other things, and this resulted in the very English tradition of us both apologising repeatedly to each other. Why was she amazing? Because despite being older even than I am and having let her body go, to chips and KFC many decades ago, and looking like a poorly strung up sausage, she was dressed as though she were Beyonce. Fish-nets, mini-skirt and so much cleavage on display, that if i were to attempt to bare that much flesh, I would have to strip naked, and probably twice.
For the moment of conversation we shared, I got the impression that she was a thoroughly nice old girl. Not bright, but friendly and open and nice, and as she waddled off in front of me, shovelling chips into her mouth, between gulps of White Ass Cider, I wondered and marvelled at human nature and our ability to delude ourselves.
Then I thought about myself: 50, still with a mohawk and sporting bright camo-pants and wondered how ridiculous I must look. I was too scared to actually answer the question but then two 20 something hotties walked past me and giggled. So I got my answer anyway.
I arrived home with the feeling that we can all be amazing, if we are only brave and stupid enough to try.
i long for your rewards,
i fear your punishment.
your control is total
and obedience guaranteed.
but what will you ask?
how much of me
will you demand?
will you push me to my limits?
will you test your own?
i do not know.
how dark is your imagination?
or how far you will go?
i just know,
i want you to take me there.
the last few weeks and days of my life have transformed me, like very few periods in my life ever have. maybe when my son died, or maybe when he was born, but little else in my life has caused me to define and redefine myself as much as the last few days and weeks have. i have lost friends and gained friends. i have had a punch up on the street with one of my best mates, and i have not had a punch up in decades. i have learned a lot about myself and a lot of it i wish i hadn’t. i have had to look at myself hard and admit things i don’t like. i am shallow and fickle and very selfish. i am proud and arrogant and stupid. i have had to look at myself very hard, in a way that made me realise that i am deep and serious and not what i just said. i am as stupid as i am clever. i am a walking contradiction. i can feel real and deep hurt, but i have a capacity to hurt others that exceeds that, and i do not like that about me. i’ve made new friends but lost old ones. i have had to redefine some friendships and redefine how i see myself. i have reconnected with some and disconnected with others. i have seen people change and i have changed. ‘life is like a great wave,’ a one legged surfer’s ex once said to me, ‘try to control the wave and it will crush you, all you can do is read it and ride it’. i have grown and i have shrunk, and growing is the more painful and difficult. i have lost and i have found, and sadly i have learned more from what i have lost, although i am learning right now that if my neighbour does not turn his music down, i am going to find my cricket bat and he is going to lose some teeth.
Shhh, and I’ll let you in on a little secret.
I have very dark eyes, they are almost black, and I don’t need sunglasses. I do wear them though, in the summer, but only so that I can look at women’s tits without them realizing.
I am worried however that the slobbering might give the game away.
i want to write poetry for you
i want to come in my own mouth and for you to watch
i want to cook for you
i want massage your feet
i want to hold your hand
and make you tea
i want to feel my cock between your breasts and
i want to make you laugh and bring you breakfast in bed
i want to hear you giggle
i want to kiss the back of your neck, every time i see it
i want to tell you every time i get a hard on
i want to take a big magic marker and write filthy words all over your body and then
i want to take ‘tasteful’ black and white photographs of you and masturbate over them
i want you to strap on a vibrating dildo and fuck me in the ass with it
i want to ram my cock down your throat until you gag
i want to make the slowest love ever to you that anyone has ever made
most of all
i want to make you come
come so fucking hard that you can’t help but bite me
come so hard you forget your own name
i want to fuck you into a coma
share a winter’s day with me
shiver and chatter
watch frost and hail
share blankets and kisses
and fuel bills
have sex in front of the tv
In six score hours
we will finally kiss
for the very,
very first time.
will eventually meet,
although our hearts
entwined long since,
with magical words
that flew through space;
love at the speed
My soul gets erect
that i think
we will kiss,
in six score hours
High on a cold, stark, mountain top, lies a snow beaten research centre. It is so remote, that it can only be reached by helicopter. Inside instruments whirr and click, dials spin and needles dance. Its only two inhabitants a professor and a research assistant grab hold of each other and kiss deeply and powerfully. They have both wanted this for a very long time and their long suppressed passions rise up in them. They tear at each others clothes madly almost devouring each other with their wet, hungry mouths.
Behind them, needles scratch zig-zag patterns across scrolling graph paper and around cylinders, but right now their work does not matter to them, they are consumed with each other.
Deep beneath them, miles below ground, a magma flow courses through the earth.
He lifts her onto a bench and, jerking her skirt upwards, he pushes against her, feeling the heat between her legs with his hardness, ripping open her top and kissing her neck greedily, as though he had only moments to live. With the desire of a starving tiger, she tugs at his belt and trousers until she has him freed. He shoves her further back and she pushes instruments and beakers, and piles of documents, roughly out of the way. Paper flutters around them and glass shatters on the floor, chemicals hiss and steam. She raises her hips to help him, as he lifts her skirt and pulls down her already dripping panties.
Behind them needles twitch in their dials, climbing jerkily upwards towards red. Screens flash with data.
Below them the volcano is becoming aroused. Little jets of steam gasp and sigh from its surface. and boiling lava gushes through its veins.
A pen on a graph starts drawing faster, more frantic zigs and zags.
He pushes her over onto her back, sending more paper flying and a computer monitor crashing to floor and he bends forward and kisses her glistening pussy. “Oh yes!” she she half moans, half whispers; it has been so long since a man had done that to her. He continues; little kisses at first and tiny little tickles with the tip of his tongue but he is so crazy for her, and so wants to pleasure her that he is soon flicking hard and fast at her clit, responding to her every gasp and sigh, his engorged cock brushing against the cold hard steel of the bench, sending shivers up and down its length. He revels in her, filling his mouth with her erotic tastes and his nostrils with her inflaming odours. ‘Now!’ she shudders, “Fuck me now! Before I come! Fuck me!”
Sulphur spits from the volcano’s sweating flank and huge clouds burst in gasps from its gaping mouth. the ground trembles and a flock of birds take to the air.
Climbing onto the bench, he kisses her belly and breasts as he rises up her, until they are face to face, eye to eye, and his shaft hovering over her pussy, tickling it. She tastes herself as they kiss and she guides him into her. He fucks her fiercely and deeply, pulling back each time until he is almost out of her before plunging back into her with a strength that shakes her whole body, filling her, taking her breath away and drawing light screams of joy from her. The bench rocks under their frenzy and she digs her fingers deep into his buttocks pulling him as hard into her as she can.
The Magma rises faster now, deep below them, flowing thickly through the body of the mountain. Until it can take no more. Until it must find its release.
He rears up as he comes and bursts into her and she clings to him, their bodies in unison with his eruption, their orgasms shooting through every muscle in their bodies, their bodies pulsating in time with each other’s.
The molten lava rises and bursts from the volcano, shooting high into the air, a thick gushing hot liquid. It splatters the landscape around, in steaming great pools and it flows in great rivulets down the mountain’s sides. Over and over the volcano erupts in hot sticky squirts, covering everything before it, seemingly never ending.
After a long while, the professor gets up off the bench and looks around her, something is not quite right. She looks at a screen. “Fuck!”, she screams. her assistant looks at her,
“What?”, he asks. She looks back at the screen and his eyes follow hers “Oh holy fuck!” he murmurs. They both turn round, to the window and are just in time to see the pyroclastic flow before it engulfs them and turns them into dust.
I said long ago, that I would no longer be accepting blogger awards, and it wasn’t because I thought that they were a pointless (but very imaginative and caring) form of chain letter, but because being nominated gives me such an almighty erection that, I would fear for my mortal safety, were I to be nominated more than once in quick succession. It is only thanks to the swift action, and early arrival, of my cleaning lady, Mrs Go’onanonanonagan (87 but with the tits of an 85 year old), that I was not later discovered drowned in a pool of my own semen, after having received three such awards within the space of a single afternoon.
As I lay here in my hospital bed, recovering from an ego overdose, I think it only fair that I respond to Rhonda from Help Me Rhonda (The Seven Things About Me Award), Maureen from Magnolia Beginnings (The Five Best Books Ever Award) and Mad Gay Man from Diary of a Mad Gay Man (Bitches Love Awards Award), for their flattering and honouring nominations.
As per my doctor’s orders, I will respond to each nomination with a post of its own and start with Rhonda’a ‘Seven Things About Me Award’.
The rules of this award require me to first thank the nominee, then to reveal seven embarrassing facts about myself and finally to nominate 463 other bloggers.
Thank you Rhonda:
Rhonda’s blog, Help Me Rhonda, is a witty, sweet and charming, daily dose of life-affirming wisdom and side-splitting humour, beautifully taken photographs and cleverly observed anecdotes. If you have not yet discovered her, then do so now, or I will have you cruelly murdered.
- I could read by the age of three. I kinda taught myself but was encouraged and helped by my family, who seemed to think I was possibly some kind of prodigy. Sadly it was my only trick, I simply had to learn “how to do words”, and after that I was, academically, something of a disappointment.
- I know 30 different ways to kiss – 31, if you include ‘on the mouth.’
- I think its wrong to use poetry or art to get into a woman’s head. It’s much better to use them to get into a woman’s pants.
- I once was a cartoonist, for a chain of pot-selling coffee shops in the Netherlands. I used to get paid in pot and only got the job because the previous incumbent had been tied to his push-bike, by the Dutch Mafia , and thrown into a canal. A very Dutch way to die, their bikes are very heavy.
- I had a girlfriend who ran off with my best friend, and I still miss him.
- I have a notepad and pen in every room in the house. It’s because I never know when I will have an idea. I even have a notepad in the lavatory. Once, after taking a large amount of magic mushrooms, I discovered the secret to life there and, obviously, wrote it down. The following morning, upon realising that I had run out of toilet paper, I had to use it to wipe my arse. Well? What would you have done?
- I have no idea what the pre-wash function on my washing machine is for.
Normally I claim to be unable to nominate anyone because I never bother reading any of the shite you all write. This is not actually true. I do, I avidly, read every word of all your blogs. The reason I can’t nominate anyone is because I am simply too lazy and way too busy masturbating over your gravatar images.
God has a lot of names: God, Allah, Jehovah, Brahma, Waheguru and Akumba, to name just a few.
Personally, I think that there are 7,058,953,712 names for god, at least there were when I last checked.
The best thing about your birthday falling when it does, is that there is always a big fireworks display down by the river. We finish our roasted chestnuts and I stand behind you, in the crowd, my arms around you as we all stare up at the night sky.
I slip my hand inside your long coat and push my hand down inside your skirt and panties, my fingers are cold and you shiver as they slide down over the heat of your pussy. The crowd presses close and no one can see what I am doing to you, nor can they see the way I am rubbing myself against your slowly rocking ass. Even through all our clothes, you can feel how stiff I am.
The sky bursts with light and sound as I deftly rub at your, now wet, clit and the crowd gasp with each flash and bang and, unknowingly, with each of our shudders of pleasure. I get faster and you let out as long “oooh!” out of sync with crowd and a man gives you a funny look; we try our hardest not to giggle.
The crowd, press close around us, unaware of our secret pleasure, and as our orgasms rumble from deep within our beings, the display reaches its climax and the sky explodes in a long series of torrential showers of light and sound, shaking the ground, filling our noses with the smell of gunpowder as we erupt along with the crowd. I feel you tremble with each carnal sky burst, you feel me shudder and squirt into my shorts. We gasp and roar, along with the others but to our own private explosions, the fireworks a mere accompaniment to our thigh-quenching celebration.
I do this thing, when I pass a beautiful woman on the street. I make this wow face. Sometimes I look back and get an eyefull of her arse too. A good friend of mine pointed out to me that this was kinda sexist, and I guess she’s right. So, I amended my behaviour. Now I make that wow face whenever I pass any woman on the street.
Everyone looks beautiful.
I am in love with the whole world
I want to fuck and fight,
love and hate
And laugh and cry.
I want to make a million women come
And a million men weep.
I want to make things
And break things.
I want to stand on a mountain top,
Stark bollock naked,
As stiff as the wind,
In the driving rain
And beat my chest and roar.