It's been an opera. It was more than a opera. It was gore theater and I was the leading lady. I became obsessed with angels and ballerina's, things of grace and beauty after sonny and I broke up. I would cry about every fifteen minutes. I was a makeup nightmare. I wanted to be the swan in swan lake and flutter, crumple, and disappear.
Imagine this: your peaking. your in your youth. At the prime of your life. You've finally met someone. and your in love with him. You have a best friend. You have a soul-fucking-mate. And he's the best fuck that ever walked. And he wants to have babies. and what you want is babies. You've wanted to have a baby forever.
And he understands everything you say. and he completes your sentences. And he's lazy but he's spirtual. And he's not embarrased about praying. and he's not embarrased about god, jesus, none of it. He fucking thinks it's all kool. he wants to be enlightened. everything.
And there's even room for you to fix him, which you like, cause your a fixer-upper. He's perfect in almost every fucking way. The only fucking happiness you've ever had. And then he starts slamdancing with Mr. brownstone(herion)..and it all gets taken away from you...
He was in a coma for twenty hours and I was hysterical throughout. I mean, they had two tubes in his nose, two in his mouth, things coming out of every avaiable artery. They had to put the glucose through his neck that night. All of his life functions including pissing were done by a machine.
I mean, I seen him get really fucked up before, but I've never seen him almost eat it like that. And I knew that night as I layed with him praying he wouldn't leave me that I could never see him like that again..and that this would be the end of our story..I've been a zombie for eleven months now. For so long in my relationship and afterward. I've been in isolation, oblivious to everything but my darkest hedonism and darkest hours.
I have to start feeling my heart again. I'm finally returning to the land of agoraphobia trying to purge myself of my vitriol for every man that has hurt me in the past..I did lady macbeth..all right..now it's time to get back with the living....
Showing posts with label boyfriends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boyfriends. Show all posts
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
ONE SICK PUPPY
Dogs give great head. But I digress.
when I was twelve, we had a small dog named Toby. He was irresistibly cute, a puppy pinup with as many neuroses and vices, namely an unquenchable thirst for attention and sex. He humped everything in the house: a little stuffed bunny, my dirty underpants, the loops in grandma's quilt. He repulsed me.
For one thing, dog penises are wet little aliens living inside man's best friend. They are not of this world. Either they look like a drippy corn dog or a melting creamsicle. Neither is attractive with a panting, hyper, buggy-eyed dog on the other end. To make matters worse, Toby was unscrupulous: any soft, smelly thing would do.
At twelve, my orgasms came at mysterious times. I didn't understand what caused the body-cramping rush between my legs and made my month when it happened. I didn't connect sex and the little "o", and I never connected sex with Toby. He was masturbating, but I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that our dog was a barking hormone, and that he was getting the coverted rush every time I saw him hump something.
Fast forward fourteen years. I'm sitting with a friend of my mine in a dark bar slurping free drinks and winks from the bartender, who ocasionally gives us a dollar for the jukebox. Sex and relationships, our favorite victims, were being torn apart as usual. Good head came up-no pun intended- and I slid into a drunken revelation of the best head I'd ever gotten. You know the punch line-my tireless Casanova was a foot-high dog. She screamed. Her best head was also a dog, although taller than mine; she always got the better looking guys.
Was this some disease of the suburbs spread by Wonder bread and Milk Bones? I started to wonder if maybe all my friends harbored secret dog fantasies. The bar seemed to grow smokier, the music muddled, and the crowd closer as we leaned into the lush details of our conversation.
I decided no secret this fun, and perhaps this common, should be kept from my boyfriend. He might be disgusted, but he might pick up some pointers. Reasons why dogs give better head than men;(1) they don't care when you took your last shower; (2) they would put the energizer bunny out of business; and (3) they don't have razor stubble. After listening to my story slack-jawed and short of breath, I don't think my boyfriend like the fact that I cooed about Toby's technique, but he knew the ace would always be in his hand (or mine) and he offered the best of both worlds; dog porn.
And that's the moral to my story; the big "O" doesn't have morals. If it feels good downstairs and no one gets hurt, girlfriend, fuck morals...
when I was twelve, we had a small dog named Toby. He was irresistibly cute, a puppy pinup with as many neuroses and vices, namely an unquenchable thirst for attention and sex. He humped everything in the house: a little stuffed bunny, my dirty underpants, the loops in grandma's quilt. He repulsed me.
For one thing, dog penises are wet little aliens living inside man's best friend. They are not of this world. Either they look like a drippy corn dog or a melting creamsicle. Neither is attractive with a panting, hyper, buggy-eyed dog on the other end. To make matters worse, Toby was unscrupulous: any soft, smelly thing would do.
At twelve, my orgasms came at mysterious times. I didn't understand what caused the body-cramping rush between my legs and made my month when it happened. I didn't connect sex and the little "o", and I never connected sex with Toby. He was masturbating, but I didn't know that yet. All I knew was that our dog was a barking hormone, and that he was getting the coverted rush every time I saw him hump something.
Fast forward fourteen years. I'm sitting with a friend of my mine in a dark bar slurping free drinks and winks from the bartender, who ocasionally gives us a dollar for the jukebox. Sex and relationships, our favorite victims, were being torn apart as usual. Good head came up-no pun intended- and I slid into a drunken revelation of the best head I'd ever gotten. You know the punch line-my tireless Casanova was a foot-high dog. She screamed. Her best head was also a dog, although taller than mine; she always got the better looking guys.
Was this some disease of the suburbs spread by Wonder bread and Milk Bones? I started to wonder if maybe all my friends harbored secret dog fantasies. The bar seemed to grow smokier, the music muddled, and the crowd closer as we leaned into the lush details of our conversation.
I decided no secret this fun, and perhaps this common, should be kept from my boyfriend. He might be disgusted, but he might pick up some pointers. Reasons why dogs give better head than men;(1) they don't care when you took your last shower; (2) they would put the energizer bunny out of business; and (3) they don't have razor stubble. After listening to my story slack-jawed and short of breath, I don't think my boyfriend like the fact that I cooed about Toby's technique, but he knew the ace would always be in his hand (or mine) and he offered the best of both worlds; dog porn.
And that's the moral to my story; the big "O" doesn't have morals. If it feels good downstairs and no one gets hurt, girlfriend, fuck morals...
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