Wasn't feeling especially creative today so I figured I would write a little story taking the lyrics from a number of artists that you may or may not have heard of. I have listed the artists at the very end. This was not as easy as I anticipated due to the fact some of the music is much less mature than others. Still I was able to work with it the best way I knew how. Some musical references are lyrics while others are simply a title to a song. There are 16 in all. If you don't like a lot of 90's music, you probably should not read this entry and instead bend over and fuck your own face. Enjoy!
I was riding down the street in my six four, jocking bitches and slapping hoes. I pulled over to get the scoop where there were knuckle heads outside shooting some hoop. These guys were really balling. I mean, really pumping up the jam. My feet were stomping, the crowd was jumping, and that was where the party was at.
But today, I was interested in a different kind of balling if you get my chauvinistic angle. There happened to be a lot of hot bodies out on this day. I spotted one and instantly labeled her my Cherry Pie. Oh yeah, she was my Cherry Pie, a cool drink of water and such a sweet surprise.
She told me her name was Nikki and propositioned me to accompany her place which was not far. She took me to her castle and I just couldn't believe my eyes. Shad so many devices, everything that money could buy. She said sign your name on the the dotted line, the lights went out, and Nikki started to grind.
Nikki appeared to be a freak to say the least. She had curves like a Coke bottle and a sex drive like a Porsche. But something was telling me to never trust a big butt and a smile, the girl is poison. Being that we had just met, Nikki was momentarily reluctant to pursue what was shaping up to be a glorious afternoon by openly asking me how many other women I had done this with. My reply was direct and to the point, "Why blow up my spot cause we both got hot? I got more Mack than Craig in the bed, believe me sweetie I got enough to feed the needy"
Nikki for some reason became turned on by my direct approach and I could tell based on her smile and subtle but erotic exhale. I pressed on knowing know the more I sex talked her, the more she would be aroused.
"I won't ask and I sure won't beg"
I reached right over and rubbed her leg
"Let my hand slide between your miniskirt. I'll slip a finger in your panties and go to work"
She smiled, took me by the hand, and guided me to her bedroom. The foreplay was almost non-existent as we dove straight into pleasing one another simultaneously. I was reliving my carefree teenage days from the summer of 69 although I was born in 73. Before long we moved onto the main event and were doing it, doing it, and doing it well.
Nikki was experienced but not to the point of making me feel I needed to watch the clock so that she would have time to freshen up for her next appointment. Instead, I was amazed at how her golden hips rocked back and forth and her vacuum-like vaginal muscles sucked the sensation from every appendage save, the one being used. It was as if being hit by a landmine and she had taken my sight, taken my speech, taken my hearing, taken my arms, taken my legs, and taken my soul.
In between various positions and short breaks to inhale enough air to remain conscience I had a moment of clarity that revealed little more than this woman was rocking my world to its hedonistic core. I wanted to be able to return the favor and asked if there was anything she would like from me. Here answer made sense only after I considered the position she was in at the time.
"Left to right, work me all night"
And with the same desperation as an addict trying to make a score she said, "C'mon let's sweat baby"
My self discipline hanging by a thread and the need to show this young Philly all my moxie, I dismounted and spun her around. I now had a full view of her telescoping legs that blended seamlessly into her splendid ass. She looked over her shoulder into my eyes and her glance told me all I needed to know; more dirty talk with a cirque du soleil finish. I was happy to oblige.
"Back that ass up" I commanded her "Call me big daddy when you back that ass up"
Nikki didn't just comply; she approached the final approach like a child trying to get in a last ride at the amusement park. With my left hand holding her hair like ski rope I told her Jimmy needed to finish what he had started. She asked who Jimmy was to which my response elicited another erogenous sigh prompting her to bow her back and slightly spread her legs.
"He's the one they call Dr. Feelgood" I said in my best non-creepy Ron Jeremy voice.
Nikki was under my physical control but I was a slave to her mentally. The only reason I had her under my physical power was because she wanted it that way. She truly loved being dominated and seemed to climax each time a new order was given that was followed by a heavy thrust.
"I could spend my life in this sweet surrender" She muscled out between heavy gasps of air.
"I could stay in this moment forever"
It was at this moment each of us gave into our own inhibitions and worked feverishly towards a triumphant climax. With each thrust I gave Nikki, she would push back harder and faster. I grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled it so that her guttural moans were now directed towards the track lighting, to show her I was in charge. She responded by reaching back with her left hand while bracing herself with her right, and grabbing and scratching my ass in a way that said, "I'm in charge motherfucker and you better not stop".
The orgasm we shared was experienced and new, as we had each cum many times before meeting one another, but never like this. Fighting to stay conscience and not give in to hyperventilating, I focused on what my remaining senses allowed me to take in. As the surrounding elements from outside her bedroom began to fade to black, everything near became enhanced as sound to a deaf man. It was almost as if I could feel every stitch in her 500 count bed sheets, see every shadow cast upon her ceiling, hear every chamber of my own heart beat, and smell... the smell was that of teen spirit.
Two hours later I awoke to a dimly lit room and a note on the counter of her bathroom. It simply read, "Thanks, you were great"
I understood all of the unwritten words and had to smile. She totally understood that I'm just a gigolo and everywhere I go people know the part I'm playing. She had flipped the script on me by providing me the best sex of my life, and bailing before I ever had a chance to ask her to a normal night out. Had she been still there and I, a gentleman; I would have tipped my hat and said, "Well played Madam"
With that I dressed, took in the aroma of our hasty rendezvous and whispered to a small picture that Nikki had of herself in the picture album left open on her coffee table, "Thank you my darling Nikki, you were the best".
1. NWA
2. Technotronic
3. Warrant
4. Prince
5. Bell Biv DeVoe
6. Notorious B.I.G.
7. Too Short
8. Bryan Adams
9. LL Cool J
10.Metallica
11. C + C Music Factory
12. Juvenille
13. Motley Crue
14. Aerosmith
15. Nirvana
16. David Lee Roth
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Friday, February 5, 2010
Crazy News and My Demise
Many of us have, if not a sympathetic heart, a caring heart for the ill. Admittedly but with slight protest, even I can become a sucker and feel bad for the old guy who worked 30 years in a coal mine and smoked 2 packs a day and think, "Maybe all of the information DID get past one person".
In reality, my criteria for picking who to feel bad for, who to hope can die quickly and painlessly, and who I wish would have a sudden infusion of extra-sensory overload as they go through a steady stream of chemotherapy, is as complicated as the new tax laws. So like the government, I will just say that the rules are in place and you have to trust me on them.
As I get older I have become more aware of how life is not infinite and the myriad of ways we as humans move on to the next stage. Some of us go quietly and dignified while others are well chronicled as a part of Darwin's theory. I have always thought about my journey to the finish line rather than about the last breath itself and the one ailment I feel I would be most comfortable with is "Old-Timers" disease. I have come to believe that if diagnosed early enough, I could start to prepare myself, and those around me, for what is to come and therefore to a degree, alter some of the wiring in my brain to accept the Nike phrase Just Do It. By it, I mean be the carefree entertainer I have always wanted to be but suppressed do to being easily embarrassed and not confident in my ability to entertain.
So while surfing around online sans, trolling the internet for porn but telling the wife I'm checking scores, I am suddenly distracted by a story of a fire at one of the local hospitals. Today's news story; to use a golf, a baseball, and battered wife analogy, hit the sweet spot. According to my previously mentioned IRS scale for caring, this story registers as something worth paying attention to. It turns out that a truck that was plowing the roads and parking lot of a local "medical facility" had caught fire while next to a wing of the building sending flames four stories high along the brick and windowed siding. As the news flashes pictures of the burned truck and charred building, the news caster states that the fire had taken place at the psychiatric wing of the building.
My mind has now been stimulated in the same way as if I had headed south of the border and arrived in the front row of a donkey show. I am a combination of shocked and smitten. Immediately I am picturing the inmates err... residents standing at their windows, loosely chained to their heating units, watching the tranquil snowfall after most likely being involuntarily overdosed with cocktails of muscle relaxers and anti-depressants. Suddenly, their view is obstructed by a literal wall of fire to which their drawled words and swaying motions are replaced by clapping hands and requests for marshmallows and weenies.
As I finish listening to the announcer in the background of the piece recap the events and give the happy ending about the residents being moved back into their rooms, I couldn't help but picture myself, resigned to my Old-Timers, going through the scenario myself.
Picture a mash-up if you will, of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and The Matrix. After taking the blue pill I realize each snowflake is part of a binary message sent by the mother ship informing me of her return. Her message is clear: kill the Indian, rid yourself of all uncleanliness by banging the life sized Scooby Doo stuffed animal while singing You've Lost that Loving Feeling, and then jump through the window and into the light that will ultimately lead me to a new world where the area between the vagina and ass is called the mouth.
My fear for the fire at the crazy house was not directed towards the residents and the self inflicted harm that could have resulted from what could have been a potential human SMORES roast. It was that in our very well structured society full of Nazi-esque Nurse Ratchett's and bleeding heart Mother Theresa's who have no fucking concept that maybe they really don't know what is best for each person or what they feel, they might just be missing out on the final moment of happiness by someone that is actually just sane enough to know they want to go out in a crazy way.
My vision, and hope would be that after I had taken my final swan dive into the hospital parking lot, that my family and friends would attend my funeral service and have a chuckle or two during the canned comments from the preacher who probably knows me as well as the serial numbers on the money he is collecting for being there. Each time he references how "crazy" the world is, how bad would it be to have a collective "Banzai" from the crowd? Sure beats the hell out of crying about all the pain I had to go through mainlining toxic chemicals.
In reality, my criteria for picking who to feel bad for, who to hope can die quickly and painlessly, and who I wish would have a sudden infusion of extra-sensory overload as they go through a steady stream of chemotherapy, is as complicated as the new tax laws. So like the government, I will just say that the rules are in place and you have to trust me on them.
As I get older I have become more aware of how life is not infinite and the myriad of ways we as humans move on to the next stage. Some of us go quietly and dignified while others are well chronicled as a part of Darwin's theory. I have always thought about my journey to the finish line rather than about the last breath itself and the one ailment I feel I would be most comfortable with is "Old-Timers" disease. I have come to believe that if diagnosed early enough, I could start to prepare myself, and those around me, for what is to come and therefore to a degree, alter some of the wiring in my brain to accept the Nike phrase Just Do It. By it, I mean be the carefree entertainer I have always wanted to be but suppressed do to being easily embarrassed and not confident in my ability to entertain.
So while surfing around online sans, trolling the internet for porn but telling the wife I'm checking scores, I am suddenly distracted by a story of a fire at one of the local hospitals. Today's news story; to use a golf, a baseball, and battered wife analogy, hit the sweet spot. According to my previously mentioned IRS scale for caring, this story registers as something worth paying attention to. It turns out that a truck that was plowing the roads and parking lot of a local "medical facility" had caught fire while next to a wing of the building sending flames four stories high along the brick and windowed siding. As the news flashes pictures of the burned truck and charred building, the news caster states that the fire had taken place at the psychiatric wing of the building.
My mind has now been stimulated in the same way as if I had headed south of the border and arrived in the front row of a donkey show. I am a combination of shocked and smitten. Immediately I am picturing the inmates err... residents standing at their windows, loosely chained to their heating units, watching the tranquil snowfall after most likely being involuntarily overdosed with cocktails of muscle relaxers and anti-depressants. Suddenly, their view is obstructed by a literal wall of fire to which their drawled words and swaying motions are replaced by clapping hands and requests for marshmallows and weenies.
As I finish listening to the announcer in the background of the piece recap the events and give the happy ending about the residents being moved back into their rooms, I couldn't help but picture myself, resigned to my Old-Timers, going through the scenario myself.
Picture a mash-up if you will, of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and The Matrix. After taking the blue pill I realize each snowflake is part of a binary message sent by the mother ship informing me of her return. Her message is clear: kill the Indian, rid yourself of all uncleanliness by banging the life sized Scooby Doo stuffed animal while singing You've Lost that Loving Feeling, and then jump through the window and into the light that will ultimately lead me to a new world where the area between the vagina and ass is called the mouth.
My fear for the fire at the crazy house was not directed towards the residents and the self inflicted harm that could have resulted from what could have been a potential human SMORES roast. It was that in our very well structured society full of Nazi-esque Nurse Ratchett's and bleeding heart Mother Theresa's who have no fucking concept that maybe they really don't know what is best for each person or what they feel, they might just be missing out on the final moment of happiness by someone that is actually just sane enough to know they want to go out in a crazy way.
My vision, and hope would be that after I had taken my final swan dive into the hospital parking lot, that my family and friends would attend my funeral service and have a chuckle or two during the canned comments from the preacher who probably knows me as well as the serial numbers on the money he is collecting for being there. Each time he references how "crazy" the world is, how bad would it be to have a collective "Banzai" from the crowd? Sure beats the hell out of crying about all the pain I had to go through mainlining toxic chemicals.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Hello and Goodbye
Hello new readers; one for sure and possibly a couple piggy backing prospects with the outside chance of gaining a following of emotionally advanced, I'm too cool for school teenage Freudian malcontents that truly wish to bang their parents but have become to lazy due to their prescribed overdosing of ADHD medication.
Goodbye to all that you thought was sacred, off limits, too risque, or falls into the ever expanding net of political correctness. If you are reading this, there is very little chance you will ever be in any kind of office and if by chance you somehow become elected even as the president of your neighborhood watch trust me, your days are limited.
My intentions in this blog are simple, direct, and pointed. I hope to discuss hot button topics and personal experiences that will have absolutely zero effect in enriching the lives of the reader. In staying true to today's societal form, this blog will be of benefit to me and those that are possibly into self mutilation of their own moral compass.
So before I jettison into the "blogosphere" as it seems appropriately named due to the demise in quality content, similar to our own atmosphere (read into that; filled with manufactured toxic bullshit) I will leave you with a quote from Robbin Williams that is not only slap nuts funny, but will indicate some of the future ramblings and views from your truly.
When discussing Michael Jackson's use of Propofol as a sleep agent with his doctor, his doctor states, "Using Propofol to fall asleep is like going under chemotherapy because you are tired of shaving your fucking head"
Goodbye to all that you thought was sacred, off limits, too risque, or falls into the ever expanding net of political correctness. If you are reading this, there is very little chance you will ever be in any kind of office and if by chance you somehow become elected even as the president of your neighborhood watch trust me, your days are limited.
My intentions in this blog are simple, direct, and pointed. I hope to discuss hot button topics and personal experiences that will have absolutely zero effect in enriching the lives of the reader. In staying true to today's societal form, this blog will be of benefit to me and those that are possibly into self mutilation of their own moral compass.
So before I jettison into the "blogosphere" as it seems appropriately named due to the demise in quality content, similar to our own atmosphere (read into that; filled with manufactured toxic bullshit) I will leave you with a quote from Robbin Williams that is not only slap nuts funny, but will indicate some of the future ramblings and views from your truly.
When discussing Michael Jackson's use of Propofol as a sleep agent with his doctor, his doctor states, "Using Propofol to fall asleep is like going under chemotherapy because you are tired of shaving your fucking head"
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