Promise Keeper (frankie)

Frankie strolled around my house in nothing but gym shorts. He’d been there for three days and I was tired of him. I jumped on his back and hooked my toes over his shorts.

Frankie whirled and slammed me into the wall. I got my arms around his neck and held on. He whirled again, lost his balance, and fell to his knees, skidding on the carpet.

“Yeeeee!” he squealed.

I jumped off his back, grabbed the stupid gym shorts, and ripped them from his wobbling ass. His little nipples scraped upon the carpet as I pulled off the shorts.

“Aarrrrrrhhee!”  His screaming pitched higher.

My dick became engorged.

Frankie scurried to his feet and staggered headlong down the narrow hallway. I caught him quickly, with loping gaits, and pulled the gym shorts over his head. Down to the carpet he went with me on his back. My dick landed right in his butt crack. He raised his ass to try and flee, but I had a grip on the gym shorts and buried the head of my dick in his ass.

“Waahhhh!!!”

I could get it in no further. There was a burning pain around the shaft.

“It hurts, it hurts, it HURTS!” Frankie was breathing hard under the gym shorts.

“Goddamn, tell me about it!” I said.

I pulled the head of my dick out of his ass, half expecting to see veins and corpuscles where the head used to be. The head was still there, covered with a slime of unknown origin.

Frankie farted gently and the same slime bubbled from his butthole.

I buried my dick to the halfway ring.

“Yaaaahhh!!” Frankie squalled.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout”, I said. “I told you to leave yesterday.”

“I’ll leave! I’ll leave!”

“Too fuckin’ late.”

This shit was starting to work for me. I worked my cock in and out with small strokes, gaining ground in centimeters.

“Ooo yeah”

“Pull it out! Pull it out! Hunnnnnngg!”

My cock was buried balls deep. The whole hallway smelled like fresh shit. I could hear Frankie breathing steady under the gym shorts. I rammed it home steadily now. Little farting noises came from his ass on the thrust in. Frankie grunted pooping grunts as I pulled out. It felt like his ass was pushing my dick out, shitting my dick out. I loved it.

Then I felt the burn in my nuts. I knew I was gonna blow my load into Frankie’s guts.

“Yeeeeeaaaaaaaahhhhggggg yeah yeah yeah yeah yeeeaaahhhhiiuiaahhh….”

I fell onto Frankie’s back, collapsing like a corpse. His ass heaved and my cock popped out. There was a peanut attached to the head of my dick. A piece of lettuce or something was wrapped around the shaft.

“You ate my cocktail nuts?? Get out you homesteader!”

And off he went.

Fuck Frankie.

it bes that way sometimes

Whether or not we contribute to this life or not is our choice.  If we make the most of it – no matter what our circumstances or where we might find ourselves at any given moment.  Why don’t we?  If you want to do someting or call yourself something, why aren’t you?  (Let’s not talk about me this time.)  What frustrates the impitus?

Anticipation rattles the catapult but there’s no release of the pressure.  It seethes and rots, robs you of sleep and joy;  wasted potential makes your life stink and pervades your thoughts.  Not criminal you say?  But why isn’t it?  Pot is!  Um, who makes these rules?  Don’t we have a responsiblity to our fellow bipeds to do our best; to be a vital part of the whole?

Scripture speaks of the body of Christ (I prefer Yeshua, haMeshiach) being made up by its members; the toe  esteemed or needed no less than the heart – all having unique abilities and positions/stations.  Each necessary for the proper function of the whole.

I once heard this joke about which part of the body rules.  Give up?  It’s the anus.  Think about it.  You can’t shit, you can’t think, your stomach hurts, you have a headache, eventually you croak.  But I meander…and just a banana and an apple keep mine soft and moving.  Sorry, but it might just be a valuable tip to somebody who might be stopped up right now.  Like I said, every little possible positivity is worth it.

And to feel the surge, the stomach turning jump, no matter what it is you’re jumping into: it’s  something thrilling, something rewarding, something positive, that has positive effects on our lives.  Improving us, broadening us.  Opening us to who knows what opportunities, adventures, satisfactions, less depression.

It’s so easy to slide down into that pit, though.  And I can feel it happen when it does.  Only rarely can one talk oneself out of such a fall.  The rise and fall.  Rarely centered.  Mostly hills (mountains) and valleys (crevaces).   Life’s no picnic, but it could sure be worse.

Isn’t it funny that the top chain eaters - the least populas on earth,  enjoy eating the savengers of the greatest portion of this planet?  The scum makers eat the scum eaters.

Being human is rather alien, don’t  you think?  My husband says I’m creepy.  Creepy.  Eeeewww.  I don’t want to creep anybody out, although it is bound to happen – probably with everybody in some way.  Who’s perfect anyway?

  Frohawks.  Scalp/hair decorations are so cool.  Body art that isn’t permanent/invasive.  I’ve never pieced my ears (or anything else), never got a tatoo (but only by chance), never dyed or bleached my hair (unless you count lemon).  Somehow, I think our bodies are made just the way they were meant to be made.  Hair and all.  Although if I was a man, I don’t think I’d like having a beard.  Seems so itchy.  Not inviting to my lips.  If I want to kiss something, I might as well kiss all of it – experience it to the fullest.  And maybe it will kiss me back!  Or touchme!

Boyfriend lets his fluffy, soft tail lightly  brush my legs as he asks to be fed, or just want smy attention.  Dogs wanting my attention creep me out.  But a cat is somehow different – certainly doesn’t crave human interaction like a dog does.  Too demanding.  That’s creepy too.  People need space.  At least I do. 

 Since working on the 6th floor of a 12 floor building, I’ve pressed myself to overcome claustrophobia.  Making yourself do something that scares the shit out of you is good for you once in a while.  But Wednesday, I actually took the girl directly between me and the still open elevator door by the shoulders and physically moved her out of my way as I profusely apologized.  I feel like I have to explain, but I hate theose kind of people who always have to explain themselves;  like I care.  So why do I bother?

I must try harder not to hate.  Focus on the parts that are good.  The moments; the excepti0ns.  The inherent beauty of this dimension in time/space (and who knows what else that we have no inkling of) in which we live. 

Some people live such simple lives.  Like the indiginious folk that live on reed islands in the middle of Lake Titicaca.  I was there in ‘76.  Total head trip, but valuable memory. Or Dick Kopekne, who built and lived in his own log cabin, depending on and shipping in only the bare skeleton of what he needed to survive.  Alone in the Wilderness.  But I can’t help wondering what drove him there.  Or maybe it’s just what he always wanted to do and he finally did it. 

Living with an alcoholic isn’t ideal.  But then neiter is living with a creepy, inappropriate. less than desireable chick (why are females referred to as birds?)  Humans can live in isolation but they tend to get kind of weird.  Rather,  weirder.  I know a guy who hasn’t bathed in 30 years.  Thirty years!  And he doesn’t smell like that – whatever that would smell like.  (But then I don’t shower on the weekdays usually.  Is that gross?  I really think Americans tend to wash their bodies a little to much.  And perfume.  Antiperspirspirant.  Smellaphobic.  What the fuck.  Aren’t smells (some anyway) interesing and sometimes pleasant, or at least unique?  Why not make the most of them too? 

Thanks for listening.

madd dog hooker (hell 3)

  all you had to do was buy her a short dog, a shorty of 20/20.
  its a fortified wine. that means that alcohol had been added to it.
she was 53 years old, and would take it up the ass.
all i wanted her to do was get the morphine up into my butthole. past the anus. do not collect money. here are pills. get some up my ass. get some up yours. some somwe lets do some butthole drugs.
 she crouched over me
  “does it hurt?”
  bitch had to jam the syringe in my bunghole 5 times to get 10 mls in there. i could feel it stop, then slide on in.
 i feel another confession coming on,

hell 2

  it was a grey haired bar. all the cocktail waitresses should have had grey hair. they had become a bit long in the tooth for the profession, but they had a place at the grey haired bar.
  economics and sports were discussed over bourbon and beer. wine flowed from little bottles and breathed the air at the grey haired bar.
  confession had left a bitter taste in my mouth. i had really expected to feel better afterward, but i guess i should not have confessed my bitter feelings about religion and god in general.
  the bartenders name was Vicky. she had back problems and a prescription for vicodin.  i ordered a rusty nail and two vicodin.
  “I’m out of vicodin” she said. “i have these little morphine pills. 15 milligram”.
  i dont know anything about morphine.
  “gimmee two.”
   she gave me a handful.
   “no charge. i don’t like them.”
   i wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in my pocket.
   i like my rusty nails light on Drambuie but i didn’t complain when Vickie put too much in the first one. she must have remembered on the next three. they were great.
  i was on the Internet soon enough, looking at morphine pills. conventional wisdom had me squirting powdered pills mixed with water up my ass. I’m talking way up my ass.
  ‘PAST THE ANUS.”

the valium she dropped and the crank flashlight

  yeah, that’s right. a crank flashlight.
  if you happen to live in a meth mega-center, a crank flashlight might sound like a flashlight that a tweaker must carry to look for things in the night.
  things that go bump in the night. like a face. looking through binoculars and what do i see? other binoculars looking back at me.
  i quit speed over ? years ago. its my little secret.
    but valiums………….now that’s another story.
   my wife has a prescription for valiums, and she likes them… a lot.
  most people like valiums. the only people i’ve ever met who don’t like valiums are natural born assholes who are addicted to their own assholishness.
  she does not give me valiums often. she almost never gives me blue valiums. one night, when she was stoned on weed, she dropped a blue valium.
  i don’t know about your house, but when you drop a pill in this house, the weirdest shit happens.
 1. it rolls under the microwave, where dusty tumbleweeds obliterate the eyesight.
  2. it rolls over to where the cats eat tuna fish cat food that has slopped out of the little cat dish and rotted for the past five years.
  3. it bounces and the rolls into the bathroom where it comes to rest in a sticky splotch of urine on the linoleum next to the commode.
  4. it lands under the coffee table where we eat. it gets lost behind grains of rice and pieces of broccoli and sandals and besides its indoor/outdoor carpeting that’s been glued to the historical wooden floors that i’ve halfway sanded back to originality, so there are great holes in the carpet for the one blue valium to rest in.
    5. i get out my crank/valium flashlight with the high beam on and crawl like a crackhead picking at bits of popcorn in the carpet.
      viola!! i have one blue valium.
   i let it rest on my tongue, savoring the moment. it tastes bad and i swallow as my eyes close.
    6. it wont go down. it burns my throat like a jagged pill from hell. i puke a little bit, and drop to my knees instantly, my hand grasping instinctively for the crank/valium flashlight savior.
  7. the little blue pill floats atop the moat of vomit.
  8. there is no hesitation.
             9. tired now

morning wood

he was a good friend. i could only see his torso because i was looking at his sister who was sitting in a wheelchair. i had to strap her in for a dangerous journey. one of the straps crossed her waist and she squirmed involuntarily as i buckled it up. i hooked my fingers over her waistband playfully and she writhed spasmodically. she was cocked and loaded and i was back in a day when every woman i saw had a target i couldnt see. she would be mine. it was just a matter of getting her alone.