Pimp My Blog Yo

Ebony Panther has pimped my blog (not in the sense that it sometimes means where you take something frumpy and turn it into something which is either supposed to be fabulous or looks like something Superfly shat out in a moment of desperation, but rather in the sense that he linked to me while saying nice things) so I'm going to pimp him right back.

You'll have to imagine the Batman sound effect.

See, I'm nothing if not circle-jerky. You should go and check out Ebony's blog, because I've followed it practically from the get-go, and even his filler is sexy. And his life is way more exciting than mine. And I don't know that I've ever mentioned him before. So here, I'm mentioning him with capital letters and an exclamation point.

The Cloud

I discovered through channels (read: I was told about it by someone) wordle.net, which is a complete and utter waste of time but ridiculously entertaining nonetheless. It makes word clouds, like everyone and his brother already has, but it makes them very attractively. I plugged the blog in and after a bit of tinkering it spit out the following (which is better in the larger version that can be viewed by clicking thereupon).

Never being one to leave well enough alone I took all the Flash Fiction Friday pieces I've ever written and plugged them in, achieving a second, equally-exciting result, hereunder:

Honestly, I expected them to be more... not-work-safe, perhaps? I figured there would be some words not suitable for polite company writ large. But while there are one or two lurking therein (I've used three wonderful and horribly-underutilized adverbs of location so far) it's hardly the rampaging cock-cunt-fest I was anticipating. In either case; I'm not sure I'm all that surprised about the Flash Fiction, since I don't write terribly graphic things constantly, but my blog seems like it ought to be a bit more frank and adult.

No matter. Hie thee thither (four, and let that be a lesson to those who believe that English doesn't have a dative) and make your own word cloud all pretty-like. Or just gape in wonderment at mine. The choice is yours.

In closing, in the interest of skewing my ratings a bit, cocks dripping cum all over hot dripping cunts while pussies are eaten by lustful virgin minxes. All together now, if possible in an Australian accent: "Vagina vagina vagina!"

And okay, I know, "thereupon" doesn't really mean what I'm making it mean. It's okay; I'm a professional.

Bad Neighborhoods

Yesterday I awoke bright and early with every expectation of a good day. I had to work, but it was light, and I was leaving early to go out to dinner with my family. Hooray.

Only my tires were slashed. Yep. One tire I'd believe was merely an accident, or a slow leak, or something. But two totally flat tires, both of which were working just fine the day before, and tire-slash-itude is the only explanation. I suppose "slash" may not be the term of art, since they aren't exactly slashed open, but punctured certainly.

So I didn't go anywhere, and by not going anywhere there were hurt feelings and fighting and everything just crashed, burned, had its ashes ground up, put into an urn in the shape of a toilet, and was shit on by a succession of hobos who'd just eaten rat stew. Then it was left to bake in the sun all day, was buried in a shallow grave in the desert, and finally was exhumed by archaeologists who classified it as an artifact from a shittier borough of Babylon and shipped it to a museum in New Jersey where it was accidentally dropped by a man named Steve, who concealed his error by altering the packing slip to indicate that it had never been shipped, then dumped the shards into the bay. Whereupon it was eaten by a whale which got indigestion and died, its body washing ashore on a deserted atoll to be consumed by seagulls and crabs, which as we know will eat anything. Not that I'm bitter.

Oh yeah, and I should point out that I live in a smallish town on a quiet street, not in Compton, so it's not like this is the latest in a crime spree or expected by me in any way. Tire-slashing doesn't happen 'round these parts. I bet it was douchebag drunken college students. They puke on my car sometimes too. I wish I had some mace, just so I could spray them with it when they piss me off. If they try keying my car though, joke's on them because I don't give a shit; my paint is already so scratched it doesn't matter any more. Ha ha, fuckers! Ha! Ha!

I don't usually go into the drama, but this was a bit better than most.

So today, in a borrowed car and only too happy to get out of the house, I went to work, where I was forced to sit and feel so incredibly horny I couldn't stand it while various unavailable people cavorted about trying on sexy clothes. To be honest, the clothes weren't even that sexy, but I was seriously wetting myself. I haven't had a cock in two days, and I don't care about anyone else, that's a long time for me. A long, long time.

There are peasant-style blouses involved. I don't know what it is about a peasant neckline, but with the right pair of breasts, it's sexier than topless, in my humble opinion, which at the moment is colored by raging hormones. The gal who wears this peasant blouse is younger than me but already married with children. I sneak looks down her cleavage as often as I can. It's not a baggy blouse; it's fairly form-fitting. It would look so good as it rose up over her belly, then over her pert young breasts, then over her head and off. It would look terrific on the floor, shall we say.

And then there's the lady who is older than I am but must spend all her free time working out or something because she is gorgeous. She wears these track pants all the time, completely obvious pantie lines from behind. I hate to see her leave, but I love watching her go. Sometimes there's no line, and I wonder if she's being naughty or just wearing a thong. I've never had the guts to ask her. She, too, is married and completely unavailable from everything I've heard.

I was doing a bit of harmless flirting with one of the guys in the play too; he's middle-aged and very sexy (I had written "but still" but I realized that many middle-aged men are extremely sexy, despite what they might think). He said, "I'm old enough to be your father," which is just not true at all, but I let him say it anyway because hell, I'm feeling old and anything I can do to feel younger is fine by me. But he, too, is married. He claims he needs to get back into shape; I think his shape is just fine, thank you. I would do him. I'd let his wife watch. Or join in. I've never met her, but at this point she could be anyone and I'd still let her join in. But he feels fatherly toward me, which is just a turn-on to me, but to him it seems to be the opposite. And anyway, married, and I just don't have the balls to go after married men these days. But I'd do him and his wife and a trained pony and the Swedish women's synchronized swimming team all together in a hot tub filled with Cool Whip. Bring it on!

So pent up. Not sure why I'm writing this. I could be masturbating, violently, over and over again until I'm raw and chafed, until I literally cannot cum again, until all of the water in my body has been converted into pussy juice and spilled on the floor, until all the neurons in my brain are firing at the same time and I've burned "orgasm" out of my vocabulary completely, until friction welds my hand to my nethers in a freakish homage to Johnny Tremaine (oh yeah, I went there). That sounded like a good idea earlier, but now I'm just tired and annoyed and horny. I don't want to do it myself. I want someone else to do it, damn it. Is that so much to ask?

Flash Fiction Friday - Night

I am the night, rich and dark and full of promise, hidden in the shadows and yet full of light. I am bathed in moonglow like the essence of rarest perfume, smelling of magic and humid longing. I am the dim but essential longing of spirits trying to be free.

Take me indoors. Turn on all the lights. Bed me in the white-hot shine of human hubris, driving away the shades of past nocturnal predators, when you were naked and alone. I am polluted by your argon-yellow haze, the sickly gleam of false candles.

Drag me away from the sky. Wash away the feral scents. Make me yours. I will flee you at dawn. The sun cannot touch me. We are old friends, but she is the day and I am the night.

---

I found her there in the boll of the tree looking skyward, the starlight glinting coldly from her ebony skin, rich and dark, as her eyes were with twinkling astral fire glinting in them. "I'm from one of them," she said. "But I've forgotten which. It was so long ago."

We made love in the grass, the dusky alien and I; I felt like Captain Kirk, she no doubt felt some foreign emotion, perhaps the urge to lay her eggs in my sternum. Her genital opening was similar to the earth-girls I'd had in the past; perhaps she'd forgotten how to engage the vaginal mandibles.

In the end, once I'd provided her with a genetic specimen, I left her there, looking up, perhaps waiting for the mother-ship that would never come. Sad and funny in equal parts. What else can one expect of life on other planets?

---

We made the oil, rich and dark, and massaged it into her skin until she gleamed all over like chocolate, the supple tones of her flesh enhanced by the shades of nightfall. I couldn't resist running my tongue over her pert breast, shining in the moonlight, chilled and bittersweet.

The shaman said the ointment must go everywhere, but it seemed almost blasphemous. Finally I waved my helpers away, took the oil in my hands, and worked it into the creamy skin until my fingers were slipping in and out of her tightness.

I feared failure until she sighed and sat up, her eyes narrowed as if even the dim light of midnight was too much for them.

"Lie back," I whispered. "You've been dead all day. Rest." The servants went running for mulled wine, but I stayed by her side, faithful handmaiden to my lady, my fingers still inside her slowly-warming body, bringing her to joy.

---

A trio this week, because I was procrastinating and then suddenly was struck in the pants with inspiration. Other than all being at night based on the same picture, I can't draw a connection between them.

Sadly, the only thing the first will make anyone think of, myself included, is Batman. But that's okay, because before Batman became a joke for saying, "I am the night," it was pretty badass. Perhaps I was going for something a bit more mythical than literal here, or maybe just complaining about light pollution. Or maybe it's the opposite of the story I wrote a long time ago about the woman who is in some way related to the sun. It's not about vampires or werewolves in any specific sense; I think night is a deeper thing than just vampires and werewolves. Plus they've been done to death.

I don't know where the second came from. It just sort of happened. It wasn't funny enough to make a joke, but there's a bit of wistful humor. The picture seemed like something which could have come out of Star Trek if Star Trek had been way cooler than it was. That woman could definitely be a priestess of the brass brassiere, which is what my family always calls the alien women Captain Kirk goes for.

And the last one was the toughest. It wound up being way, way over the limit, and I almost left it that way, but I decided that there's no point in limiting yourself halfway and then wimping out, so I cut brutally. I was sad to see some of the more florid prose go, but I don't think it died on the editing table. Borderline necrophilia, or devotion to duty, or magic, or all three plus other stuff. I know that's how I'd like to be awakened from the dead. Hell, that's how I like to be awakened period.

Flash Fiction Friday is the goddamned Batman.

Random Goings On

I saw Pam today. Oh wow. It doesn't seem like it had been that long since I saw her last, but in the intervening days (weeks actually, I guess) she's gone from slightly pleasingly plump to full-on sexy preggo beast. Every pregnancy is different, but she's definitely showing more than a little. I wouldn't be able to swear I knew when conception occurred; she might be ready to drop any day now for the look of it.

But the thing I really like about it is that she isn't fat at all (yeah, I'm shallow; I don't love her so I'm not required to be anything else). She's stayed roughly the same shape everywhere except her middle. She was never severely thin, but she's stayed pretty much the same, except her belly is enormous (and incredibly sexy for whatever twisted mental reason I find pregnant bellies sexy) and her breasts have gotten larger (which, of course, makes me jealous except that they'll start sagging soon if she's not careful). Her ass is, if anything, looking better than it did before; she claims that having to hold up more weight is the key to a toned butt, and who am I to argue. Her hips have filled out a little too, but in a funny way that just preserves the curves; her belly has gotten bigger, so bigger hips to compensate seems to just accent the belly more.

I'm gushing about this, because I love preggos and I'm also envious of her pregnancy a little, biological-clock-wise. I didn't get to do more than give her a hug and a surreptitious kiss, which I'm pleased to report that she returned without awkwardness, although it wasn't really sexual. I had no time to do anything else; we just checked in, then both had to run off and do other things. They haven't set any kind of date for matrimonial dealings of any sort, although I get the feeling that she'd like to get married and maybe Kirk wouldn't. The baby is doing well and the pregnancy is fine and there's not a whole lot more to say, except I told her I really wanted to see her some time when we had more time, and she seemed amenable to that, if I ever find a time when we can meet up.

And I saw Perry. You newcomers may not know who he is; he's got a tag and you can check out the first post about him for some of the skinny, and then the rest of them if you want more. We just ran into each other in the store, oddly enough. He made it clear he would love to see me again. I'm not sure how I feel about that. I mean, he's a fine lay, and he gives wonderful head, but I am not at all interested in becoming anything more than a fuckbuddy to him, and I think he's looking for girlfriend material. Not my type for that at all, I'm afraid, even were I looking for a boyfriend. He didn't mention Sveta either, which carried all sorts of connotations; usually, if she and I share someone, they want to see both of us again. Perry only wants to see me again. We'll see. Probably nothing will come of it at all. I'll let you know if that changes. He seems a bit sad if he can't get anyone but me. Or maybe I'm just the greatest. Down ego, down! Bad ego!

And lastly, I am once again trapped in unavailable hottie Hell at work. Several very attractive women, mostly older than I am which is saying something since I usually go for younger women, and all of them totally taken. I got lucky with Kate; most married women really are taken where I work. But you never know.

Anyway, I'm spending all my free time looking at hotness. Catching pantie-lines under tight pants. Bra straps through thin shirts, or even when a neckline swoops too low. Glimpses of tummies when arms are raised and shirts are just a little too short. As yet, no upskirt action, but that's only a matter of time, I guess. And none of it available. And me with very little outlet for releasing these pent-up tensions. Is it any wonder I was all over Pam, or that I'm seriously thinking of calling up Perry, or seeing if Kate's free for an evening, or even just going out looking for some friendly and available person to help me get off? No, it's no wonder at all. My brother is dating some floozy (I'm not judging, not at all), my sisters are either practically married or constantly getting some, my father, bless him, is only one man, and my sweetie is away probably getting plowed by a senior (college, not AARP, although I wouldn't care if it were the latter) even as we speak.

And I haven't had anal in what seems like forever. Probably only been a week, but don't tell my ass that; she'll attack you.

Speaking of Magic

And speaking of sex, and humor. I actually saw this when it was new and relevant and meant to post it then, but since I don't simply repost amusing videos and all, I didn't, and then I forgot. But thinking of magic and funny and so forth, and also because Advizor brought up SNL and reminded me, by God I'm going to do it.

And if you can't see embedded youTube videos, the address is http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQlIhraqL7o Sing along!

Flash Fiction Friday - Pit Stop

The garage was like a radiator without coolant: dry as bone and hot enough to fry an egg. From the tinny speakers of the old beat-up radio came the crackling sound of a lonesome cowboy, or at least singing like one. Earl didn't know or care. It was too hot to think.

The dusty winds blew the shining red mirage into view, and he gaped as he saw the impeccable finish, chrome like a mirror, and ruby-studded hubcaps. "Howdy," she said, slipping a toned leg over the door and sliding out without bothering to open it. "Been tickin' somethin' awful; I wonder if you'd give her a good tune-up 'fore I'm Mexico-bound. Could be worth your while." She smiled, all shining teeth.

Earl made no move to rise as the sultry figure popped the hood and bent over, pointing at something he couldn't see. Her twang went on about the engine while Earl stayed put in his folding chair, gazing at the shapely flesh before him.

Finally, he could take no more. "Lady, I got to tell you something," he said, and she turned to him with a look in her eye that said she wanted to hear it, was dying to hear it. "I ain't the mechanic."

---

Cars don't inspire me. I wouldn't know the make of this particular car if it ran me over. And that ass is extremely distracting. So only one this week. And I've also got very little in the way of post-game wrap-up either. Except to say that, no offense to PB, but the phrases are sometimes hard to work in without being extremely corny or extremely inventive, and this week I was neither.

As promised, no list this week because you can see it over at PB's place, since thank goodness he's back and I'm no longer obligated in any way to be anything more than a mooch. You can be a mooch just like me. Flash Fiction Friday has all the advantages of taking advantage, while being able to convince yourself that you're doing something for the children. No, wait, that's not true at all. You're not doing it for the children. Get those children out of here. I'm trying to work.