April 13, 2010


Well fuck me sideways, look who’s here! I’m glad you’re still out there in all your throbbing purple glory. There are so few things in this world one can count on. Death. Taxes. The human libido. But I have a confession, my darling randy reader: sometimes, late at night when the other inmates are restrained in their beds, dreaming their prepubescent penile dreams, I worry that you aren’t out there. That you are no longer waiting for me, that you’ve given up and moved on. That some other girl, some other fantasy, has taken my place. And then I think, well fuck you. Who needs you anyway?

Still, I wonder where you are. What you’re wearing. What you think about when you think about me. Who am I? How long would it take me to tear the clothes from your body? Will your cock spring up at my touch? What will I taste on your tongue? The bloody steak you ate for dinner? The salt-sweet cunt you ate for lunch? Mint, and just under the mint, barely detectable but present nonetheless, the pungent tang of shit?

When you read these words, will you take your dick in your fist and imagine me bending over in front of you, my forearms resting on a desk, a table, the back of a chair? My ass smooth and round, my hair falling over my shoulders. The curve of a shoulder blade, the small of my back. Press a knee between my legs, press your warm dick into the crack of my ass, nuzzle up into that warm wetness. While you imagine fucking me from behind, will you spit in your fist and stroke your hard cock? Down to the root, squeezing, up the shaft, over the head, down, up, over, down, up, over, down. Your balls slap my ass with each thrust and my legs quiver and I moan and my asshole winks up at you as you spread my cheeks and come, smearing sticky white gobs up the crack of my ass. Will you come into your fist, a tissue, an old stiffened sock?

Magnolia trees in bloom uncurl their fragrant pink petals, open their silken cunts to the wind’s searching fingers, and I lie here alone in the asylum, my own searching fingers opening my own silken petals, and I fuck myself as the wind whispers its spring secrets and I think, well fuck you. Who needs you anyway?

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