|By Head_Prosthesis on Sunday, June 24, 2001 - 09:35 pm: Edit|
The masses have spoken, MORE CONFESSIONS!!!
"I rolled over and flipped back the covers only to see a hundred and one quivering bald baby chihuahuas staring up at me..."
|By Head_Prosthesis on Sunday, June 24, 2001 - 09:34 pm: Edit|
The masses have spoken, MORE CONFESSIONS!!!
"I rolled over and flipped back the cover only to see a hundred quivering bald baby chihuahuas staring at up at me..."
|By Uncle on Monday, June 11, 2001 - 06:37 pm: Edit|
Lasala it is!
|By Head_Prosthesis on Saturday, June 09, 2001 - 08:09 am: Edit|
Montana or Lasala?
|By Uncle on Saturday, June 09, 2001 - 07:17 am: Edit|
as the sun turns and orbit this ball of mud we call earth, and the morning start in my little dell here in michigan..I wonder what kind of absinthe goes with eggs benidict and cherry sausage?
|By Verawench on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 11:34 pm: Edit|
It's Bingo night for Marc and Don.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 11:19 pm: Edit|
Yeah, I think your right Head.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 11:18 pm: Edit|
It's so quiet. There must be some kind of senior retreat.
|By Verawench on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 12:55 am: Edit|
Soaking day and night in all those Spanish brands must have harmed her self esteem... Look where she ended up.
|By Verawench on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 12:53 am: Edit|
When did the Green Fairy get implants?
|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 12:11 am: Edit|
|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, June 08, 2001 - 12:10 am: Edit|
|By Ekmass on Wednesday, June 06, 2001 - 10:40 am: Edit|
Marc almost better than Miller! Great! Thanks again for sharing.
|By Marc on Thursday, May 31, 2001 - 12:46 am: Edit|
Janette, beautiful brown-skinned Janette. Israeli by birth. Raised in Liverpool. My cockney Jew.
Met her in a bowling alley. Midnight bowling. Manhattan. My team was named "The Flowers Of Evil". We bowled like motherfuckers. Wired to the gills, buzzed and deadly. I took her home. She wasn't easy. I courted her. Nights out in rock and roll New York. Danceteria, Peppermint Lounge,
The Underground. She wasn't easy. When we finally fucked, it was splendid beyond belief.
Her snatch was so sweet. Purple/brown cunt lips encircling a tiny wet pink hole. She'd wear red
patent leather fuck me pumps and nothing else.
Her legs hiked up around my shoulders. The pumps
dangling to the left and right of my head like earrings for a foot fetishist. We'd do blow. We'd fuck. We'd do blow. During the day, she'd work for designer Betsy Johnson and I'd run my vintage clothing company. It was smooth sailing. We had money, cocaine and each other. No problem. Things were kosher, as they say. Then it changed. I found some heroin in her handbag. I was looking for my wallet. She often carried it for me. I found two glassine bags of smack. Even though I enjoyed my blow, I drew the line at dope. No matter how much coke I did I could stop without any physical trauma. I wasn't an addict. But, heroin scared me. And I was stunned that Janette had another life, the junkies life, and I didn't know about it. She told me she'd quit, but I could tell she hadn't. She had the opium look, distant, glazed and detached. When she left me, she left me for smack. Moved to Amsterdam. Disappeared. I've never heard from her since. I met her in a bowling alley. I loved her. I miss her. I miss the red pumps.
|By Marc on Saturday, May 19, 2001 - 05:36 am: Edit|
Haven't you known a woman like Christine? A beautiful woman with no sense of her physical self. Disembodied by religion, drugs, alcohol or self-loathing . With Christine it was Jesus that took her focus away from her flesh. Like Saint Lucia, Christine offered her body to Christ: a sacrificial blue plate special. I can think of so many women like her. Francis Farmer, Jean Seberg, Marilyn Monroe, Edie Sedgewick, Sylvia Plath. They are in the world, but not of it. They are vampires in reverse; dead, and yet, the livng find nourishment in them.
I loved Christine because I love death. I love oblivion. I love the quietude of a world receding into nothingness. I did not love Christine's pussy.
It smelled like shit.
|By Marc on Saturday, May 19, 2001 - 04:15 am: Edit|
PORN AGAIN: FUCKING A JESUS FREAK
Christine was beautiful. She looked like she stepped out of a Maxfield Parish painting. Her eyes were always directed skyward, as if scanning the heavens for angels. Her obsessions were celestial. She was barely anchored in this world.
She had only a passing relationship with her body.
She just didn't care about worldly things. As a result, she possessed the world's worst smelling pussy. I found this out after stealing her away from her boyfriend, an alcoholic hippy who looked just like Richard Brautigan.
...to be continued
|By Marc on Saturday, May 19, 2001 - 02:47 am: Edit|
The 80s was my cocaine decade. Cocaine and booze.
Peruvian flake, Bolivian marching powder, a lash of the old pelican. Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo and Absolut. I was snorting lines of blow the length of my arm and taking the edge off with fifths
of bourbon. The old blow/booze see saw effect.
When the alcohol dulls you out, you sharpen the senses with a hit of cocaine. Chemical aerobics.
My early cocaine years were fabulous. I loved the shit. It clarified my senses and I could write like the devil on the shit. I was doing small doses and the crash wasn't severe. But, as time went on, the blow turned on me. I became increasingly anti-social and uptight when I did the shit. So, I started drinking to counter the coke-anxiety. By the mid-80s I was a raging coke fiend and alcoholic. The upside: I got to places
with coke and booze that turned me into a ruthless, insatiable sex machine. The alchemy
of the two toxins would create an aphrodisiac effect that was awe-inspiring. I could have sex for hours...and I wouldn't come. But, to arrive at that place would require several hours of chemical aerobics, drinking/snorting,drinking/snorting,drinking/snorting. The ritual would continue until I achieved the perfect balance of cocaine and alcohol in my system. I had to find the pocket. And when I did,
I became monstrously horny. A kind of horniness that would propell me into acts of extreme ballsiness. I would do things that I wouldn't conceive of doing when I was strait. I would follow a woman into the bathroom and listen while she pissed. When she was done I'd swing open the stall door and offer to wipe her pussy with my hand. I met a girlfriend that way. I fucked a waitress in the dry goods area of a neighborhood restaurant. She bent over a stack flour sacks while I took her from behind. I ripped a whole in the crotch of Elaine's blue jeans and fingerfucked her greasy pussy on a banquette in an Irish pub. I approached strange women and asked them to suck my cock. Some would. I sucked anonymous pussy in bathrooms all across Manhattan.
I peered thru endless layers of steak curtains. I was Ahab and snatch was my white whale. Amazingly, my coke/booze fueled sexual frenzies
never resulted in any kind of punishment or retribution. Most women submitted to my blunt comeons and guerilla sexual tactics. I rarely went home alone. I had cocaine and the ladies wanted it. Back in those days, cokewhores were a highclass breed of poontang. Women of all ages and varieties would allow me entrance to their dark netherworld in exchange for some highgrade
flake. And the sex was always industrial strength.
It wasn't tender, it wasn't loving, it wasn't filled with tears and sighs of joy. No. It was the dance of the beast-with-two-backs. Animalistic, mechanical, aggressive and rarely orgasmic. My dick would usually crap out on me
because of the booze. This was the beginning of my becoming a master pussy eater. Because my pecker was numbed into submission, my tongue became my only active sexual organ. I could devour snatch for hours. Literally for hours.
Women loved me. There were nights when my phone would ring off the hook from women calling me for my services. I had a well-hung tongue and the broads couldn't get enough. And I loved it because
I love eating pussy. I'd rather eat pussy than fuck. If I get a woman off by eating her snatch
it takes the pressure off of the fucking. I don't have to worry about coming too soon. I can get in and get out. Everybody's happy. No performance anxiety.
When i stopped doing cocaine my biggest fear was that I'd lose my gift for eating snatch. I am happy to report: nosuchproblem. My tongue is still
the most agile, intelligent and intuitive part of my body. Bitches, the line forms here.
|By Bjacques on Saturday, May 19, 2001 - 02:13 am: Edit|
I was disturbed too, mainly by the '70s references (shudder). Anyway, good thing I wasn't drinking coffee in front of the PC.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Friday, May 18, 2001 - 11:11 pm: Edit|
Missing what? Let me guess...
A beard, no?
A beer gut?
A penchant for channel surfing and nut scratching while drinking beer and filling the room with a noxious odor that makes the dog leave the room?
|By Ariadnae on Friday, May 18, 2001 - 10:26 pm: Edit|
Ah, don't worry Marc, some of us just don't have "it" with the same sex. In that vein, pussy does nothing for me. But I think you have to try it to know your body and heart just aren't into it. Sure, I love my girlfriends, just not *that* way. They're lacking a certain something...
|By Marc on Friday, May 18, 2001 - 11:26 am: Edit|
"just as I'm beginning to enjoy what you're writing along comes some term that just makes me laugh or cringe."
thankyou. That's what I'm trying to do. As I said, Sex can be funny....and disturbing.
regarding sucking cock, I've done it all my friend.
But, when it comes to sucking cock, my experience is very limited and not particularly pleasurable.
I've tried to keep an open mind but sometimes my body rebels.
|By Melinelly on Friday, May 18, 2001 - 08:53 am: Edit|
ariadnae, you're right about the menage... although those two guy/one gal situations you see popular in porn just don't cut it. for it to really work, the two guys have to be able to indulge in eachother and give the gal some viewing pleasure occasionally... with one guy/two gals, there's just a bit more constraint needed than most men have for it to work just right... i'm just waiting for marc's "art of sucking cock" post before he wins my admiration.
thanks for the stories marc, they'd be some alright erotica if not for the occasional drift towards the vulgar... just as i'm beginning to enjoy what you're writing along comes some term that just makes me laugh or cringe... but what do i know, i'm just one reader ;)
|By Marc on Friday, May 18, 2001 - 02:06 am: Edit|
GLORIA: THE LAST TABOO.
In the 70s I spent a good part of my life going to poetry readings. Boulder, Colorado was home to The Jack Kerouac School Of Disembdied Poetics, a school where beat poets taught creative writing.
Gregory Corso, Ginsberg, Burroughs, Creeley, and
many other fine American poets, gravitated to the school and would often read their poems in local bookstores. I would attend as many readings as possible. I was at a reading given by Jack Collom, a local Boulder poet, when I met Gloria.
The reading had ended and I was browsing the bookshelves. Gloria was doing the same. After a
short while, it became clear that we were checking each other out. A quick glance, a smile, an embarrassed aversion of eyes. A mating dance.
Eventually I approached her and introduced myself as a young poet. She was impressed. Although not a writer herself, she had a profound admiration
for wordslingers. We left the bookstore and I walked her to her car, a blue Volkswagen bug. She offered me a ride home. I accepted. She drove me home and parked in the driveway. We had barely spoken but there was an unbelievably intense electricity
shooting between us. Have you ever met someone and immediately knew you were going to fuck them? I was going to fuck Gloria. Though not that night.
We did kiss. For a long time. And she did put her hand in my pants and played with my cock. And I did place my fingers in her sweet cunt. But, we were both living with someone and had nowhere to go to consummate our desire. We agreed to meet the next day at the apartment of a friend of mine.
The next day Gloria and I met at Jim's. Jim was a silversmith who had a small studio. The studio had a twin bed in it. Barely large enough for
one person. It didn't take long before every square inch of that bed was covered with come and sweat. Gloria was the most uninhibited and voracious lover I had ever known. She was insatiable. And she was extraordinarily generous . My happiness made her happy. It was exquisite.
I moved into my own apartment and Gloria began to visit me on a regular basis. One evening we took a bath together. Gloria was nestled between my legs, her back leaning on my chest, her head resting in the curve of my neck. We lay in the tub
without talking, soaking in the warm water. Gloria quietly started to masturbate. This was a first for me. I had never seen a woman masturbate.
She simply placed her fingers between her cunt lips and started to rub her clit in a circular motion. I watched intently, mesmerized. After a few minutes she shuddered and went limp in my arms. She had come. I found the experience of watching her masturbate erotic and yet I also felt useless, irrelevent. She didn't need me. Was she letting me know that? Was this her way of making me feel powerless? No, that wasn't Gloria's style.
Gloria was just doing what Gloria wanted to do.
She was shameless, guiltfree, liberated. We got out of the tub and walked to the bed. She pushed me face down onto the mattress. Then she did something no person had ever done to me before.
She slid down my body, parted my ass cheeks and stuck her tongue in my asshole. I was paralyzed
with bliss, embarrassment and extreme selfconsciousness. My asshole was the part of my body that I was least familiar with. I had never seen it. I rarely touched it other than to wipe it or scratch it. And here was a beautiful young woman licking it.When someone sticks their tongue into your asshole you go rigid. A person's asshole is the most ignored and least loved part of your body. It is unaccustomed to being loved. It took me a long while to relax and let Gloria work her magic on my winking blinking brownie cake. But, as I became more comfortable with what she was doing, I began to feel years and years of armour and repression melting away. An area of my body that I had previously regarded as unbeautiful
was becoming a lovely and sexy thing. Years of psychotherapy could not have accomplished what Gloria's tongue was doing for my self-esteem and
self-love that night. I was okay, my asshole was okay,
the world was okay.
A few days later, I wrote an epic poem about Gloria eating my ass. I read it at a poetry reading with Gloria in the audience. Everyone knew who the poem was written for. Gloria was beaming with pride. I had written a poem for her.
When the reading was over, people gathered around Gloria, curious about the woman who had inspired my revery. She loved the attention. She was in the center of a literary circle, she was a muse, she was beautiful. She was also wearing the most amazing dress. It was completely sheer. Her lovely tits and pussy were visible to the world.
It was a magnificent vision. A thousand times
more potent than any poem I had ever written.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 11:12 pm: Edit|
I was 13 and alone. I had a paper route on the east side of town. The business district. They tipped me well in those days. Those that didn't? Well they suffered by not getting a paper. It was the local paper and the businesses were supposed to get them for free.
On the route there was a house tucked behind a store in the midst of their parking lot. It was a rental and occasionally when the tenants would move in or out they would fill the dumpster with lots of wonderful treasures.
Once I found classical records, some violins but one day I found the mother load. Porn! Lots of it. Not just Playboy but Hustler Cheri Oui JUGGS Knockers and Knob Job!!! The jewel in the crown though was an imported hardcore magazine printed in German. Illustrated with photos of full insertion and cum shots! "Der Blüte Angreifer" I believe.
Tingling all over I took the magazines home for private perusal. The news bag was heavy and full but my mother didn't even notice. I ran upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed. I spread them all out and was giddy with excitement over the booty I had found.
I started looking at the German one and immediately experienced a hardening in my crotch. It was all crooked and was starting to hurt. So I decided to let it out and breath. (Ariadnae:Maybe they do get snotty?) When I did that it struck my how good it felt touching it. I was very gentle with it at first only holding it with my thumbs and the tips of my index fingers and middle fingers. Squeezing now and then.
After a few moments though I graduated to a full on bartenders grip. I was pulling one long beer for no one in particular. Instinctively the stroking ensued... SWEET REVELATION!!! SWEET surrender...
A style and pattern developed that has been consistent and unchanged ever since(other than changing hands).
|By Aion on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 10:26 pm: Edit|
"Lamia" by Clark Ashton Smith
Out of her desert lair the lamia came,
A lovely serpent shaped as women are.
Meeting me there, she hailed me by the name
Belovèd lips had used in days afar;
And when the lamia sang, it seemed I heard
The voice of love in some old avatar.
Her lethal beauty like a philtre stirred
Through all my blood and filled my heart with light:
I wedded her with ardor undeterred
By the strange mottlings of her body white,
By the things that crept across us in her den
And the dead who lay beside us through the night.
Colder her flesh than the serpents of the fen,
Yet on her breast I lost mine ancient woe
And found the joy forbid to living men.
But, ah, it was a thousand years ago
I took the lovely lamia for bride...
And nevermore shall they that meet me know
It is a thousand years since I have died.
From "Selected Poems" by Clark Ashton Smith, 1971: Arkham House Publishers
|By Ariadnae on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 08:07 pm: Edit|
"The 50ft cock??"
Hmm...I wonder if I dated him? (Unless you're talking about a really huge dildo...)
But, after awhile, there are only *some* that are memorable.
From what you say about the menage, Marc, it's apparenly much easier for one woman to take on two men than for the opposite. Of course, I wouldn't know anything about that....only theorizing...
And what's all this about peckersnot! Geeze! Does that mean that the pecker sneezes? That's a funny way of looking at it, but it's too close to regular snot for my comfort. I'm not so sure I want "peckersnot" shot on my stomach any more.
|By Marc on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 07:03 pm: Edit|
PORN AGAIN: FUCKING A JESUS FREAK.
GLORIA: THE LAST TABOO.
A TURK IN BLACK LEATHER.
THE 50 FOOT COCK.
|By _Blackjack on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 05:01 pm: Edit|
This one time, at band camp...
|By Pataphysician on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 08:55 am: Edit|
Pauline? Boulder? 1970's? I think you may be my dad, Marc.
|By Rimbaud on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 08:50 am: Edit|
Thanks for sharing, Marc.
~21st Century Rimbaud
|By Chrysippvs on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 08:32 am: Edit|
Marc you constanly remind me why I am such a big fan of Schopenhauer.
|By Oxygenee on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 04:55 am: Edit|
Reticence is not really a defining characteristic of yours is it Marc...
|By Zack on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 02:38 am: Edit|
Her last name had to be Sanchez...
|By Petermarc on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 02:28 am: Edit|
i don't remember this verse in '88 lines about 44 women'...maybe in the techno-remix...
|By Marc on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 02:18 am: Edit|
P. was the all-American girl, tanned, athletic and thoroughly wholesome. USDA, grain-fed, free-range femininity. She liked her sex strait. No kinky shit. That was fine with me. I ain't no Marky De Suede. Missionary position with a finger up the ass is smooth sailing for me. But, one night in a drunken stupor, P. decided to get experimental. My teenage Martha Stewart wanted to play with some new tools. Well it so happened that I had a bigass pink rubber vibrator with those feelgood nubby things all over it. It looked like a Jimmy Dean sausage with prickly heat. I whipped that sucker out and waved it in my
sweet little cheerleaders face. Would this do?
She nodded, bubbles of booze-infused spit forming on her eager lips. I kick started the pink Terminator and placed its bulbous tip against her squigly clit. She rubbed up on it bigtime.
The all-American girl was entering a zone where
the smell of pussy juice mingles with the acrid stench of burning plastic. She was digging this new technology when suddenly she grabbed the vibrator from my hand and shoved it in her mouth.
Lubricating it with saliva, she then plunged that
sucker right up her bunghole. Marie Osmond was fucking herself in the ass with a big pecker made out of Tupperware. She was happier than Suzanne Sommers with a thigh master. She kept driving the vibrator up her ass and then bringing it to her mouth to lube it up. It was dark and I could barely see what was going on, but eventually things would become all too clear. An aroma, actually more like a really bad smell, started to permeate the room. It got worse. I started to gag.
What the fuck was going on. I turned on the light
and was met with a sight I'll not soon forget.
The vibrator was covered with shit and little Miss Cheerleader was smiling through a mask of glistening caca. There was poop all over her face. It was Minstrel time. I was expecting her to break out with "Danny Boy" at any minute. My blonde, all-American girl had become a poster child for Fecal Fetishists International. A spokesperson for the butthole version of Oil Of Olay. Man, was it a stunning sight. Shit-encrusted eyelashes, shit between her teeth, shit up her nostrils, shit on her chinny chin chin.
Miss all-America was finally getting a taste of what the world is really all about. This was a good thing. My guru, Chogyam Trungpa, called negative experiences "the manure of the bodhi field" (the shit of reality). Buddhists value all experiences, even negative ones. Bad experiences are like shit. Shit is energy, things grow in shit. Celebrate shit. My Miss America with her shitty smile had become a Buddhist.
|By Absinthedrinker on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 01:52 am: Edit|
Now I understand why you didn't answer your phone last night.
|By Germanandy on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 01:49 am: Edit|
welcome mr. bukowsky ;)
|By Marc on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 01:27 am: Edit|
COME AND LAUGHTER.
Sex can be funny. In fact, its usually funny...if observed from a distance. Is there anything more ridiculous then the sight of two dogs getting it on? Their frantic spastic dance makes them appear
electrocuted. I've had my share of goofy sex.
Imagine a petite pale-skinned girl of about 19. So pale as to almost be transparent.
A fragile looking thing. A mere wisp of a girl.
Visualize her in lace and velvet, a gothic apparition. Call this young girl Kathleen. I did.
I had wanted Kathleen for the longest time. She was my girlfriend's best friend and the lover of a close friend of mine. But, none of this stopped me from lusting after her. I wanted her and I was going to have her. Oh, gentle soul.
Kathleen's lover and my girlfriend were out of town one weekend. No, they had not left together,
it was merely a fortuitous coincidence. That left Kathleen and I partnerless in New York. I decided
to make my move. I invited her out. She accepted.
I picked her up by taxi and we went downtown to the Mudd Club. We danced to Soft Cell, Joy Division, Kraftwerk and got very drunk. We kissed madly on the dance floor, salty sweat on our lips and stinging our eyes. She was so tender, so delicate, like a butterfly. I took her back to my place. We fell onto the bed and I kissed her insanely, frantically devouring her lips, her ear lobes, her alabaster neck. I couldn't believe it,
I was about to fuck my beautiful flower, Kathleen. I slowly undressed her, revealing more and more of her translucent skin. I was undressing a porcelein doll. She had an unworldly
delicate element to her, she seemed to float inches above the bed. I removed her underwear. Her pussy was childlike. A tiny mound of flesh with a tuft of golden hair. I leaned down to it and kissed it.
It trembled and arched upward, sweetly begging for more. I was in rapture, transported to a world where small things in beautiful packages
ruled the planets. Oh my gentle Kathleen.
I took off my pants, my underwear. I tenderly turned her over on her belly. She raised her lovely derriere toward my prick. I spread her smooth and hairless thighs. My pecker was hungry.
I entered her wet pussy slowly and gently. We began the dance. And thats when the apocalypse began, thats when the air raid sirens from the underworld awoke the demons of air and turbulence from my tiny Kathleen's tender pubes. Her twat started emitting the loudest
CUNT FARTS I had ever heard. They were roof rattling sound barrier breaking explosions from the very depths of her being. I lurched in fear for my prick's safety.
The g-forces alone could squash and mutilate the most stout and calloused of penis heads. The eruptions of air belching from her snatch were pinning my pubic hair to my belly. Like the ears of a dog with his head out the car window, my balls
were flapping in the torrents of her twat's tornado. And the sound, my god the sound. Gideon's trumpet was a pathetic whimper compared to the wailing of my little Kathleen's snatch.
It was as though John Coltrane were playing his sax through a stack of Marshall amps. My poor terrier, Spike, was cowering in the corner, in a state of doggy fear and bewilderment. Neighbors started banging on the walls. Her cunt was out of control. It had developed some new form of tourettes disease. Instead of profanities, it shouted in a language only known to the gods of hurricanes, earthquakes and blues singers. Her snatch had turned into Joe Cocker. And it was belting to the cheap seats. And then a final burst propelled me up the against wall, where I remained in complete and utter astonishment.
How could such a small, delicate creature like Kathleen produce such monolithic sounds? What
magic possessed her? I had no idea. Nor did I care. I loved her. I loved her noise. I had weathered a force for which there is no name. I had come out alive and grateful. Like Jim Morrison, I was a Rider On The Storm.
I watched Kathleen dress. The lace. The velvet. As she left, she smiled and bowed to me. She knew I would never be the same.
|By Petermarc on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 12:59 am: Edit|
uh, ok, now i know what i've been doing wrong...it's supposed to be two women...thanks...
|By Head_Prosthesis on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 12:11 am: Edit|
Pecker snot and Piss Flaps... I'm dyin' over here!
|By Marc on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 12:04 am: Edit|
THE MENAGE AND A LESSON LEARNED.
It was sometime in the mid 70s. I was living in Boulder, Colorado in a stone cottage at the foot of the mountains. I lived with a young girl from New York named Pauline. She was blonde, tan and had the proudest cutest ass I'd ever seen. She loved me, but that would change. And that's another story.
One night Pauline had a friend visiting, Brenda.
As I sat at the typewriter snorting blow and reviewing the first Ramones' album, the two women
chatted and laughed in the bedroom. A few snorts and a couple of paragraphs later, Pauline and Brenda started giggling and calling out my name.
"Marc, Marc, come here Marc. Come in the bedroom, Marc". The mantra continued until I finally got up from my desk and walked into the bedroom. And there they were, naked and entwined in each other's arms, beckoning to me to join them. It didn't take much beckoning. I was naked in a flash and on that shit like gold on a chalice.
Brenda had a hold of my cock, stroking it like the Aladdin's lamp as I chowed down on Pauline's peach-fuzzed meatpit of mortal delight. The cunt juices flowed and I swooned in their intoxicating vapors. At one point, I had my dick in Brendas snatch while fingerfucking Pauline. I had a tandem rhythm going that was doing the right thing for all three of us......until I came. After unloading about a half pint of pecker snot,
I was totally wasted. The girls, on the other hand, were far from sated. In my arrogance, I thought this whole scenario was for my pleasure, my fantasy in the flesh. In my greediness, I forgot about the pleasure and needs of my two
beautiful companions. But, they had not forgotten.
They were sucking each others snatches as though
pubes were the only source of oxygen on the planet. Lips against lips, moist flowers pulsing in a lysergic dance, mouth to mouth, tongue to labia, piss flaps comingling with gum and tooth.
An orgy of pink, like an explosion in a Pepto Bismol factory. Only more poetic. The bed was rocking as Brenda and Pauline came over and over again. And me: I watched feeling as useless as
a vibrator without a battery, a condom in the wallet of a priest.
The lesson learned: when in bed with two women, a man should be patient. Don't demand to be part of all the action. Observe, kick back, enjoy. As the women devour each others snatches, be sensitive to their rhythms, watch the intensity build. And just as they are starting to orgasm, grab your cock, rise up and come all over them. Anoint them with your pearlescent manhood. Baptize them in the viscous holy water of sexual extacy. And then kiss them and call them "lover".
|By Zack on Thursday, May 17, 2001 - 12:03 am: Edit|
That was just like porno, but funnier.
|By Head_Prosthesis on Wednesday, May 16, 2001 - 11:15 pm: Edit|
|By Marc on Wednesday, May 16, 2001 - 11:04 pm: Edit|
I remember receiving my first blowjob, a gift from a young hippie chick named Vicky. I was out
walking my dog in Ho Chi Min Park in Berkeley.
It was a beautiful California afternoon. The kind The Mamas And Papas sang about. The warm breeze blowing in from the bay was laced with the smell of pot smoke and incense. Like most days in those days, there was a festive vibe in the air. And I was 16, living on my own, answering to no one, feeling supremely groovy. I lived in the moment, did as I pleased and worried about nothing. As I was leaving the park, waiting at a traffic light, a beautiful, longhaired, willowy girl sidled up next to me.
She was walking a huge German Shepard. We smiled at each other and crossed the street together.
After walking side by side for several blocks, she looked at me and said "follow me". Nothing more, just "follow me". And I did. She led me to her home, which was a garage converted to a very sexy hippie pad. She closed the door behind us and immediately took off her clothes, a simple dress made of Indian fabric. I took off the only thing I was wearing: a pair of white bellbottoms. She lit a candle and we sat across from each other in the yoga posture known as the half-lotus. We didn't talk. We just gazed into each other's eyes. She was really a beautiful girl. The quintessential 60s flower child, a Marianne Faithful type. Brown hair, large hazel eyes, full lips in a perpetual pout. Her tits were gorgeous.
Small, with alert and proud nipples. Her snatch,
a tuft of golden down. After a long silent period of meditation, Vicky gently pushed me back onto
a mattress that lay on the floor. She started kissing my mouth and worked her way down my neck, chest and belly until she got to my cock, which was vibrating like a tuning fork. Then she did something for me that no girl had ever done before, she put my pecker in her mouth. Sweet Jesus. My eyes rolled back in my head, an act not just of pleasure but religious rapture. I was so thankful for what Vicky was doing to me. I felt loved, my cock felt loved, someone was enjoying my body. Up until then, it was always me taking control, obsessed with giving pleasure not receiving it. It took me awhile to accept, surrender and submit to Vicky's generosity.
And then when I came in her mouth my entire body convulsed with the most liberating burst of energy I had ever felt...followed by sublime thankfulness and serenity. Yes, heaven does exist and its gate, that day, was Vicky's gentle loving mouth.
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