Blue Balls From London part 7

I am caught unawares .
" Your going to try and have me be your little British Conquest I know what your game is you Fuck you think your on some Fucking sex tour! "

She says in a firm and mean tone .

I feel the blood leave my face I have to try and salvage the situation .
" I'm just visiting I didn't mean to offend you. " I replied

"You dirty little Fucker!" she gets up and without missing a beat punches me dead on in the Dick !!

I fall grasping for air "You Stupid Bitch !!"I yell out holding my head, then my Cock NOT KNOWING WHICH ONE TO COMFORT And within seconds she kicks at it again and grazes the shaft with her foot.
I scream in pain Barry and Stacy Rush out of the Bedroom naked " What the Fuck !! Stacey screams

Sarsaparilla Cowboys

Quitting smoking before his ten year reunion is something Miguel considers the biggest regret of his life. He began smoking in order to hang out with the cool kids in high school; what sort of holier than thou attitude does it take to stop four days prior to seeing them again? Also, there would be nothing finer than drowning this stress for arriving unadorned, unemployed and broken-up to the social event of the season, than the silky, sweet inhale of that cigarette.

Towards the door, a cloud of smokers stand, smoking gloriously, in the frozen sub zero temperature. He leaves the car running, warming his gloveless hands by cupping them and exhaling warm, humid air.

His motivation rapidly eroded forty minutes ago when Elisabeth called telling him she wouldn't make it-- "The sitter didn't show up; I'm so sorry. Max, went out with some friends and I can't get him home. Go, though. If I get a hold of Max I'll see if he'll come home, and I'm trying to find another sitter, it's just that it's late. I really want to be there with you."

Fucking Max. Fucking Fuck that Fucking Fucker.

Miguel eyeballed the highway again, looking North then South for a gas station that he could purchase a pack of cigarettes. His mind slipped from gear to gear, and he changed the radio station to sort himself out. A country song came on that solidified the moment.

Mindy O'Neal, of the more popular girls, walks by the car, peaking her head in and doing an awkward wave. Time has passed so that the stratification of popularity has been destroyed; still Miguel knows his place well enough not to do more than wave back. With a certain air of satisfaction he notices that Mindy has put on weight; with an air of loathing he figures it is probably from having children or doing something meaningful with her life.

Miguel drums his fingers against the steering wheel, before taking out the phone to stare at it again. He types out another message of guilt and grief, then folds it back up without sending it. He looks at the bar, and changes the song on the radio again.

You are Beautiful In the Morning

There are few finer things than those dewy first drops of morning. Waking up to that feeling of warmth and excitement, blue skies, possibilities and love all around. Sheer bliss, and that raw sensation that you are part of everything.

The opening aria to this beautiful life: a loved one sitting with you at the table, doing the daily crossword puzzle together over coffee while the rest of the house sleeps. The new dog coming up and nuzzling you under the arm for attention, temporarily breaking you away from the paper to look down and address her. The knowledge that there is good in the world, and that there are things that are worth fighting for.

Perhaps these are the delusions that go through the mind of Republicans, and what allows them their unique take on social and fiscal matters.

For the rest of us there are four degree below air temps and negative 25 windchill. Stale toast that you fought the mouse of the house over, and are still not convinced it was a fight worth winning. A check engine light merrily winking from the dash of your truck, and the eerie reality that your only reason to have left bed, and face the raw morning is to go to work.

These sorts of mornings beg for a hangover or something that would at least set the bar for a low point to to the day. Instead there are just morning people. They pop up out of nowhere, spewing their well wishes and morning inquiries to your previous night's engagements. These foul creatures will attempt humor and even use a thoroughly unnecessary high pitched voice-- they may well even laugh.

I'm not saying they should all die. I'm only saying that we should make broad new social policies that specifically dictate where and when they can talk. If this becomes too difficult perhaps we should move them all to one centralized location, like North Dakota. Because anybody that can be happy in the morning will surely be happy anywhere.

These Highschoolers Think I'm Homeless

The Starbucks on Fairview and 36 has become haunted by high schoolers. These are the high end models made self-important by mall-purchasable-only attire. These are not normal High schoolers who stay home from Prom, and leave gross messages detailing sexual positions that attendee's, of the dance, parents are doing whilst they are out. No, these are the fucking cool kids. And it is for this reason, dear Coitusers, that I believe they think I am a homeless person.

As you have read in the past, my general apparel is taken from a little known faction of fashion known as "Hangover Chic". The "Basic Look" requires jeans washed within the past month, hooded sweatshirt and a sensible t-shirt with little to medium stainagt; in essence, hipster before people began paying money to look like they weren't paying money, and the hipster look became immediately purchasable.

Studying has ensued to learn more about these pretty people. These common observations develop a hypothesis that everyday grooming and the monetary and time amount spent upon attire leads to a mate; a self evident point as all of the individuals here, on a Tuesday night no less, are ringed by a member of the opposite sex-- in fact one has had the audacity to bring in flowers. Flowers in the middle of winter!

Truly these are fucking high schooler 2.0. These aren't the kids that listened to the 'Mats or the Pixies, or still remember the time Abby Bleaker came over and squished onto a too crowded couch for the entire duration of Benny and June. No these are Frankenschoolers, built for only the operation of getting sex, living off their parents income and eventually having jobs where they will be my boss.

There is no comeback for these fools. There is no dark alley where a switch blade could be drawn, and a throat could be slashed. These are modern times where Jets and Sharks no longer exist, and a more modern caste system has been developed, by parents, to ensure nobody gets hell beat out of them. It probably is forward thinking, but looking out at all these damn fools sitting around me I envy them not-- or maybe I do.

The Sad Puppy Complex

As though my sister life wasn't difficult enough, my parents, as of late, have decided to set her up with a boyfriend. This should be all well and good, and in most circles demonstrates a firm bond between parents and daughter. However, while the gesture is sweet, the real problem with it is my parents infatuation, bordering on religion, with the Sad Puppy Complex.

The Sad Puppy Complex would be an easy enough psychological development to blame on my parents affinity for dogs-- and in many ways it would be a correct assumption. The dogs that have often graced the family household have been the puppies that hide in the corner, or the ones that look particularly sad, pathetic and/or neurotic.

Feona, the current occupant of this position, has all of these emotions down in spades. In fact she is so good she has successfully guilted her way into my parents heartsfar more readily than either my sister or I have enjoyed over the past several years. News on whether my parents have amended the family will to now include Feona has been spotty at best, but a rare Kersto-Hanslican truce may be in development after thirteen years of animosity.

But this is not where the Complex stops. Dad shows his dependancy with a need to swap cars every few years. This is not based on the fact that he wants a new one, rather it is a matter of necessity for him to find one that still runs. His latest vehicle of choice is a Nash Rambler that has no heat, no shocks and an engine that will start only when it's daily breakfast of oil is dangled over its' head. Mom too is not immune. On a recent trip to the grocery store she informed me that she needed cheese. After much hemming and hawing she eventually landed on the most beat up block, telling me that she felt sorry for it.

And so it came as no surprise when my parents brought my sister home a boyfriend. I still don't know his real name, but his level of nicknames has evolved thusly: Chuckles begat NAAd (Non Amusing Anecdotes) begat Ironhead begat Puddin' Head begat Butters. Butters, I'm all but certain, is a nice guy who means well it's just he has little if no ability to socially interact with the outside world.

Case Study #1

Tact

I have often espoused the merits of having any individual show up with booze to be drunk by all [sic me]; this most primative of e-thoughts is what makes this all the more painful. On the night of December 31st, Butters shows up at my sisters house with a case of beer and several bottles of whiskey. Not really having known this young man I willingly accepted the gift, but did so with mixed emotions: what was his motivation in trying to get into my good graces, did this person want to involve me in a heady conversation. Only later did his reasons become apparent; Butters was trying to get me drunk so that I would pass out and he could pork my sister. He, however, had stepped into the wrong dojo...

Case Study #2

He is not funny... really not funny...

This one is more egregious. I still don't know which hell it was that my parents picked Butters up from; my good friend Ohn, a scholar of Chinese Hells, informed me it was probably the Hell of Upside Down Brains. Butters demonstrates this by not being able to come up with jokes. In a sad twist of mental engineering irony, Butters is capable of recognizing points in a conversation when a witty aside could be included however he lacks the mental resolve to say something funny. He still attempts to chuck something up there however it only acts as a conversation killer-- mysterious and silent is not something Butters understands.

Did Butters pork my sister... yes. Did I respond to this in a mature manner by banging pots and pans together at 4 in the morning... yes. Did I make sure that all members were up at 7 in the morning to make me breakfast... yes.

In America, dear Coitusers, we are trained to believe in the little guy, that we actively want him/her to win; the American Dream is our destiny and one day we'll all have happiness and success, and perhaps within all of that is where the Sad Puppy Complex thrives truest. Is it wrong; who is to say. Is it right; most likely not. Still, if it helps you get laid, even at the expense of it being my sister, I think you still have to salute it.

chapter nineteen

“If that bitch wouldn’t have shot me he wouldn’t have been that much of a bitch. I must be slipping.” Said Balddee releasing the creature at last.

“How do we move him? We only have two minutes and sixty-six seconds to get him into the hole.” Asked Satchel or Bel.

“Maybe he’ll follow the music?” replied Bel or Satchel.

Clap Your Hands, Say Yeah’s Satan Said Dance came on, and the group made a processional through the office. The creature, moving in a funeral like dirge, followed the music; the rest of the group walked behind.

They reached the cleaning supply closet and entered. Balddee stooped and threw his whole back into lifting the heavy iron door that covered the hole from whence the creature had come.

There was a grunting from behind them as the creature played his final savage card. All the creatures had re-awoken. Moving slower than they had before, and with no life left in their eyes; they stumbled down the hall towards the small group.

“Thirty seconds.” Satchel or Bel cried out. “What the fuck are we going to do with all of them?”

“Try throwing things at them?” Balddee answered, flexing his arms as he sweated the giant door.

Balddee yelled one final time and the iron door opened. “In the hole, ugly.”

Satchel or Bel threw the stereo into the hole where the creature complied, and finished his slow sad march into the hole.

An alarm sounded indicating that the time was up. Their was a scream of rage from inside the hole then the thud as the iron door clanged shut.

Then more thuds as the group behind them collapsed– their connection broken. Dead Dirty Orpheus, the last and final connection, letting out a final gasp of anguish.

“I guess their shit was weak.” Satchel or Bel exclaimed.

The four remaining survivors looked down at the wreck of the office, the barricade that held in front of Harmon’s, the pile of dead bodies who were twisted into various shapes, the emptiness of it all.

chapter eighteen

There was a moving picture playing before Dirty's eyes. Not in dull black and white like his usual wants or desires; this played in front of him in visceral color where everything was touchable, everything was within reach.

The hold loosened on crude reality, and he drank in the sweet nectar of It. He cupped his hands around the base of the jaw leaning in, cocking his head. He felt the thickness and weight of hair, the lips parted smile which closed as he moved in for that one and most important first kiss.

He watched Balddee rush into the room. Saw in slow motion as Balddee, now framed in a bleeding sepia photograph, grab and try to stop a hand posed above his chest. Then he watched Balddee's grip loosen and the hand plunge into him wrenching out his heart.

The heart is such a simple thing, the size of a clenched fist. And he laughed to himself, he thought he'd already given that away.

Balddee’s answer is too loud, too guttural to understand. Dirty felt the creature reaching out to Balddee. Reminding Balddee of a party where the steaks were under done, but everybody he cared about was there, and how Baldee chased people around with a chef’s knife.

Dirty and the creature looked over at the face of Balddee to see a face not of happiness but of anger and rage.

The creature became angry at Balddee for not wanting to be happy, and Dirty felt an intense need to kill him.

The sepia faded away as noises return. The world became faster, sharper. “Two minutes and thirty seconds! Balddee how much longer can you hold him?”

“Eighteen seconds.”

The power coursed through Dead Dirty’s body and it reached for whatever weapon is available to him.

Satchel or Bel, the one not holding onto the radio, noticed, “Pedro, Dirty! He’s coming back to life!”

Dead Dirty felt Pedro’s claws scratching at its’ face, its’ eyes. It heard the time being yelled again: “Just ten more seconds!”

It ripped Pedro off of its’ face and grabbed hold of Balddee’s arm intent on rendering it from his body.

“Five seconds!”

It noticed, too late, that Balddee had relaxed his grip and felt the crushing elbow thunder down, breaking its’ nose. Then everything stood still again and its’ arms felt chained to his sides.

“That should be it.” Satchel or Bel said, looking curiously at Dead Dirty.

“Good,” said Balddee. “Last things last though.”

And Balddee picked up the knife that Marjorie had fallen on; it had become re-exposed during the fight. He picked up the knife and Dead Dirty felt it plunge into his chest through the place that his heart used to be.

Then all went black.

Blue Balls From London Chapter 6

She takes the lead I do nothing but submit to her advances finally she tells me to undo her Bra I begin to show attention to her breast I lick and suck them she can feel me throbbing through my pants her moaning gets me going she grabs and loosens my belt buckle shoves her hand down the front of my pants and proceeds to caress my Manhood.

I become engorged her perfume is faint yet pleasant I nuzzle her cleavage, I move my hands underneath her underwear and begin to stimulate her .

This is where it all went wrong .she moans grinding on my hand
So .. so your leaving for Paris? " she whispers through heavy breathing ."
Huh ? I replied
Sharply and very suddenly, She stops all movement I freeze confused by her sudden withdraw .
" Is there something wrong ?" I say grasping for air
"So what kind of girl do you think I am ." she yells out