Sunday, February 28, 2010
Self-explanatory, really. Especially when it comes up in conversation with a friend, who promptly asks you for pointers!
“I want to learn how to deep throat” I said
“I want to give you the ultimate head
“I want to know how it feels to lie here and get ravaged
“I want to know how it feels to be used, raw and savage”
He stripped me bare, threw me down on the bed
Pulled me roughly around, hung my head off the edge
Then took one step forward, thrust his cock to my lips
I stretched my jaw wide, felt him pause and then slip
Past my teeth, past my gums, past the point of no return
I felt my heart pound, but I wanted to learn
I knew that to start I must learn how to breathe
To control the cold fear that was rising in me
I tried to still him, but he didn’t care
He knows I’m not ready but he’s already in there
At first he glides gently, but as his fever rose
He started to pound me, his balls slap my nose
I tried hard to focus, to slow down his pace
But he was slamming me hard, and squashing my face
And it’s already too late, his cries become frantic
I dig my nails in his flesh – fuck! This feels fantastic!
He’s behaves like he doesn’t remember I’m here
Just a willing tight fuck hole to split ear to ear
There’s no finesse or kindness, he doesn’t even pace it
And when the first spurt explodes, I don’t even taste it
I just feel it flooding, a gush down my throat
There’s so much… there’s too much… I’m starting to choke
But I don’t think about that, because I want it all
The only thing that I need is to empty his balls
And then I was gagging, but I didn’t care.
It’s hurting like hell, but he’s all the way there
The back of my throat’s feeling scarred and red raw
My nostrils are pouring, he’s locked up my jaw
The weight of his hips forced my head to stay down
This must be the way that it feels to be drowned
And still he pumps on, the flow just won’t stop
And I’m going to devour every last drop
And when he’s done and I’ve coughed, and dripped cum from my nose
He lays down beside me and says “I suppose
“That’s put you off ever doing deep throat again?”
And I laugh as I kiss him, say “typical men
“You think I’m so delicate I can’t take a good fucking?
“You think I’m so sweet that you should ration the sucking?
“I came seven times, from three different holes!
“So next time I want you to lose ALL control!”
“Because I want to learn how to deep throat” I said
“I want to give you the ultimate head
“I want to know how it feels to lie here and get ravaged
“I want to know how it feels to be used, raw and savage”
Saturday, February 20, 2010
There's really not much that I can add to this one!
You’re a cunt
Lick my cunt
Let me rub it on your front
Let me rub it in your face
Take me back, please, to your place
You’re a prick
I’ll suck your prick
The taste of cock gets me so slick
I want to drink your cum so bad
Take me back, please, to your pad
You’re a fucker
I want to fuck ya
Then pull you from my snatch and suck ya
I want to swallow all you give
Take me, please, to where you live
You’re such a softy
Your cock’s all soft – he
Needs a rest because you boffed me
Harder than I’ve been before
Let’s just stay in this restroom stall
Friday, February 19, 2010
I've talked before about my love of old erotic movies... I love photographs too, and none so much as this selection, taken in New Orleans' Storyville red light district in the early 1900s.
They are the work of EJ Bellocq, a commercial photographer whose best known work was carried out for shipping lines and business owners. After hours, however, he toured the brothels, photographing the ladies. And that's just about all we know about him - various writers and even movie makers have speculated on his motives... maybe he paid the girls, maybe they paid him; prostitution was legal in Storyville at the time, and a smart girl knew that a picture is worth a 1000 words when it comes to generating new customers. Maybe he got his sexual kicks taking pictures, maybe he just paid his rent.
Certainly his family weren't happy; after Bellocq died in the 1940s, his brother is believed to be the one who defaced a lot of the photographer's original plates, before either giving, or throwing them away. They were finally rediscovered in a junk shop in the late 1960s, since when they, and the photographer, have been recognized for the unique record that they are.
I love the pictures, I love the girls that sat (and stood and lay down) for them, and I thought it would be nice to share some with you. Let me know what you think of them. And if you want to see and know more, click here.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
I was reminded of this the other day, while browsing through the “adult” section at a bookstore in Sweetwater. They didn’t have many and I usually do my shopping online. But sometimes it’s nice to see what you’re going to be reading before you make the purchase, and I’m glad I did because…
Because, because. Because a passage in one so screamed out for a bridge that I almost took out my pen and wrote it in myself. I resisted the temptation, but when I got home, the omission was still driving me crazy. You see, it’s not only in stories that the little things matter. They matter in real life as well. For example….
I’d been working in the office for a month or so, making a little extra cash to see me through my sophomore year at college, and my first ever office romance was going swingingly. Lester was older than me by about five years, and I suspected he was married although he never said a word. But we’d had a few hot and heavy evenings at the apartment I shared with a girlfriend, and a few pantie-wetting encounters in various corners of the office – it’s amazing how much privacy you can find when everyone else is at lunch.
We rarely went beyond kissing and cuddles on these occasions, but one lunchtime in the deserted break room, I had my hand in his pants before he even knew what was happening, squeezing a cock that was so hard it could have doubled as a battering ram.
That’s what I wished he would use it for, as well.
I longed to find out how he felt in my pussy, I dreamed of discovering how he tasted. And today, I’d determined, I would. I’d unbuckled his belt, unzipped his fly. Now all I needed to do was lean over…
I moved slowly. There was nobody around, and there was no reason to rush. I blew on the tip and smiled as he groaned, then inhaled deeply. I don’t care what they do in porn films, stuffing cock in their mouths the moment it appears, I like to study my meal before eating. Admire the shape, the color, the texture, and breathe in its scent as my face gets closer. Poke out my tongue and test it gently. Little things, little things. And only when I‘ve done all that do I ever so slowly open my mouth, and start feeding.
Lester was feeding, too, one of the pastries that someone had brought in every morning for the rest of us to share. Now, of course, it lay forgotten in one hand, as my mouth closed around him and I let out a moan … of happiness, of hunger, of complete satisfaction.
I sucked and he sighed. I licked and he laughed. I kissed… and he came, without a word of warning or even a twitch, just a jet of hot white that shot out so quickly that I didn’t even have time to catch it. It splashed on my hand, it went over his trousers… always conscientious, he grabbed for a napkin and began mopping it up – which was when the door to the break room opened and in walked one of our co-workers, Debbie.
Now, we weren’t stupid, Lester and I. We had our backs to the door for just this kind of reason, and in the split second it took for us to register we’d been seen, he had his cock in his pants and buckled away before Debbie had even said “hi.”
Me, though… sitting there with a cock full of cum dripping off my fingers. What was I going to do?
Easy. I snatched the pastry out of his hand, then turned to the invader and held it aloft. “The trouble with these things,” I said with a smile, “is that they always put way too much icing on them.” And then I moved my hand to my mouth and licked it clean. It was the greatest icing I’ve ever tasted, and beside me, I heard Lester inhale sharply, then breathe out, "fuck, you're hot."
So yes, it's the little things that always get me, the ones you might not even think of mentioning if you were writing a story. That's why I'm glad I write verses instead.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
It’s like those manuals you turn up in the sociology section at Borders, or masquerading as advice on the Internet… “how to do this perfectly,” “how to give that the best”… they really are meaningless, because expertise itself is meaningless. The best sex comes when you don’t know what you’re doing, and everything you do do is a brand new sensation. Physically, you might improve your technique. But you can never replace your emotional virginity.
ANOTHER FIRST TIME
We'd fooled in the back of his dad's Cadillac
On a few sticky-seated occasions
Now his folks were away and he asked me to stay
At the end of last summer vacation
We never got far in the back of the car
(Second base, if you know what I mean)
So I said, "yeah, alright," and then stayed up all night
Browsing my bro's magazines
I wanted tonight to be more than alright
It's my first time! A night to remember!
But I really don't see why my virginity
Should be the only thing on our agenda
We kissed and made out in each room in the house
Till we wound up in his parents' bed
But when he tried to slide in me, I wriggled myself free
Said "I don't want your dick yet. Give me head."
I wasn't surprised by the look in his eyes
I'd not intended to be that brazen either
But the words' very sound made my heart wildly pound
And my pussy burned up like a fever
"I was reading about it," I explained, and I doubted
Whether he had more idea than I
But then, dutifully, and quite beautifully
He planted a kiss on my thigh
I was nervous and scared... would there be too much hair?
Should I have shaved off my thicket?
I felt my heart race, blood flooded my face
Then he kissed me, and I whispered "lick it!"
I've felt his fingers before, cos they've fingered me sore
But this time was gentle... I gasped
My cunt was so slick, and his tongue on my lips
Made me wish that this moment could last
His thumbs part me wide and his tongue slips inside
Gracefully tracing my folds
Then he teases my lips and his hands on my hips
Dig in as he goes for the gold
This feels so amazing, I'm just lying here blazing
As his mouth and tongue swirl in my hollow
His fingers are plunging, his coiled tongue is lunging
And I'm pumping out juice - God! He swallowed!
I'm feeling him drink my exquisite pink
My toes curl, my hips leave the bed
He's sucking my clit... no, he's chewing on it
And it feels like I'm fucking his head
I'm bucking and flying... I hear someone crying
Hold my breath - Christ! That screaming is me!
But I just couldn't care, as my fists twist his hair
And I grind my cunt hard, fast and wildly
Then I tense. God, I'm coming! I can feel the mad drumming
"If you stop what you're doing, I'll kill you,"
I don't know if he heard, but in my mind I hear words
"When I'm finished down here, girl, I'll drill you!"
It feels so good it hurts! I'm coming! I squirt!
Feel him pause with surprise, then recover
Then he's frenziedly licking me clean while still flicking
My clit with his thumb. What a lover!
I'm catching my breath. Oh God, I need a rest
My eyes closed, my gasps mixed with laughter
My bro's magazines may have conjured this scene
But they never explained what comes after
He covers my titties with hot, warm wet kisses
Smearing pussy juice over my chest
Then I watch while he stands, strokes his cock in one hand
Then slips it between my damp breasts
I giggle, I love it, my tits hang above it
I hold them firm so he won't slip
His hips gyrate fast, I don't think that he'll last
Long... and then his cock prods at my lips
There's a leap in my heart... hey! This wasn't part
Of anything I read last night
I'm a little bit scared... but hey! He was down there
And anyway, he tastes alright
I part my lips slightly, to show I'm inviting
Him in but I don't think he saw it
His movements are graceless, he's fucking me faceless
One stroke... two, three... then he floors it
He's deep me in my throat and I try not to choke
Try to swallow as much as I'm able
I can hear myself gulping it down as he's pulping
My tonsils with his still swollen cable
My panic subsides as his cock starts to slide
Back out of my mouth, to lay twitching
More out than in, on the ridge of my chin
And I raise my head up, my mouth dripping
I cradle his balls as his cock softly falls
Hot and sticky to lay on my wrist
Just moments before, it was eight inches or more
But now it's the size of my fist
I kiss him; his mouth tastes of cunt oil and jizzum
And I cannot believe my good luck
If this is what it's like on our very first night
I can't wait for the first time we fuck!
Sunday, February 14, 2010
The flowers were dead, and the card misdelivered
The restaurant screwed up so we didn’t get dinner
When the bar asked for ID, I’d forgotten my purse
So why did he say things couldn’t get worse?
“Wanna go back to my place?”
I asked; he said yes
At least there was one thing
That couldn’t get messed
And we just couldn’t wait
Till we got up the stairs
I dropped to my knees
Sucked his cock then and there
He leaned on the wall
His hips gently grinding
I couldn’t believe
All the flavors I’m finding
Then I paused… shit! Goddamit!
He was so nearly there
But someone else in the building
Was coming downstairs
Victoria’s Secret sold him the wrong size
And 50 First Dates was scratched on both sides
He needed to pee, and his voice sounded terse
When he said surely things just couldn’t get worse?
We reached my apartment
I pushed him in quick
I had unfinished business
With a thick, spit-slicked prick
I rubbed his firm helmet
All over my face
Felt his sweet precum smearing
I came at the taste
I said “you’re delicious!
“My favorite supper”
Then my throat closed around him
And he slipped in like butter
But when he reached for my pussy
And I felt his tongue kneading
“Oh shit, man! I’m early!
“I’ve just started bleeding.”
We gave up! We cuddled. It was one of those days
When things just get worse whatever you say
I looked for some respite once we got into bed
But I just called him Johnny…
…when I know his name’s Fred
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Cool! The social networking site that allows users to send each other cocks, cunts and close-up pictures of everything else, in the form of ad-heavy applications, finds a bunch of erotic stories and verses "hateful." Or "threatening." Or "obscene."
Maybe I should just print pictures of bare breasts and put them on page three of a family newspaper. That would be alright, wouldn't it?
A few comments on my verses from Erotic Stories.com - thank you everyone!
Feedback from gudujee1982, on Sat 13 Feb 2010 05:50 for
"...ly" by JENNY SWALLOWS
this is the best ever expression that represents cock lovers and suckers...........
Feedback from crazychris, on Sun 15 Nov 2009 18:28 for
"Cunt Bitch" by JENNY SWALLOWS
I loved it!
Feedback from Josh, on Fri 13 Nov 2009 22:55 for
"Cunt Bitch" by JENNY SWALLOWS
I went back to reread some and vote again! Still as good the 2nd time around!!
Feedback from Josh, on Fri 13 Nov 2009 07:19 for
"Fucking My Face Off" by JENNY SWALLOWS
absolutely one of your best ever
Feedback from Lapis, on Tue 3 Nov 2009 22:54 for
"Cunt Bitch" by JENNY SWALLOWS
Only few talented authors can fuse beautiful poetry and hot sex. Congrats
Feedback from Mr. 68, on Sat 31 Oct 2009 12:53 for
"Cunt Bitch" by JENNY SWALLOWS
short, sweet, nice little verse!!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Get Valentines Graphics on yTagi
Hello to everybody who's only just found this blog, and lots of love to everyone who's going to stick around and read. I'm going to be updating it as often as I can, with new true stories, confessions and thoughts, the occasional verse and pictures and more. And don't forget, if you want to read even more, you can visit my website, or even buy a copy of my book, The First Time & 59 Other Magical Minutes.
You can also find me over at eroticstories.com, where I've been publishing for almost three years, and where I am currently ranked #31 in the Top 100 authors chart - the highest rated "poet" in the site's history.
In the meantime, here's a few lines for that Valentine’s card that... oops! You almost forgot to buy!
WHAT DOES IT TASTE LIKE?
It tastes like the very first time that I met you
It tastes like the way that I saw your eyes melt
It tastes like the thoughts that passed through my mind
It tastes the same way as I hope that it felt
It tastes of the feelings that course through my pussy
It tastes like the sweetest depths of your soul
It tastes like I wish I could feel all the time
It tastes of the pre-come that leaks from your hole
It tastes of the strength that stretches me wider
It tastes of the thickness that makes my jaw ache
It tastes of the lengths I would swallow to thrill you
It takes of the floods that I lovingly take
It takes of hard work, tastes of sweat, tastes so salty
It tastes of the gift that your hot hard cock brings
It tastes of my heart as it pounds with excitement
It tastes of the rush of my blood as it sings
It tastes of each time that you fucked me or licked me
It tastes of each time that you’ve slept when we’re done
It tastes of our past and it tastes of our future
It tastes of the cries that you make when it comes
And when I think of the faces that other girls pull
When they tell me the things they won’t do
They won’t swallow their lover? Well, I’m not surprised!
Because no other man’s semen could taste just like you
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Do you remember the days when it was still safe to hitch-hike? When you could just make your way to the nearest highway, stick out your thumb and rely on the kindness of strangers to do the rest? It’s been years since I last even thought about doing that, and even longer since I actually did it. But there was a time when I did almost all my travelling by hand and foot, and I never met a single serial killer or weirdo.
Dave, my boyfriend, gathered up the couple of bags that we were travelling with, and we clambered into the back of the car. Chris, the knight in shining chrome who had stopped for us, waited while we made ourselves comfortable and then eased back out into the traffic. We chatted, the usual pleasantries that occupy strangers on the road – he was a skiing instructor heading home for a vacation; we were kids making the most of our break year, so we talked about that and a pile of other topics and, somewhere in the midst of all that I just happened to mention our final destination, Boulder.
“Hey, I’ll be passing through there tomorrow!” Springs, he explained, was just an overnight halt, stopping off at the apartment he rented with a friend, before driving up into the mountains to visit his parents. “If you want, you could stay at my place tonight, then I’ll take you the rest of the way tomorrow.”
I looked at Dave. We were certainly in no hurry, and it would save us spending another however-long standing at the entrance to the interstate, waiting for another ride. Silently we agreed; “thanks, we’d love to.”
Which, to cut a very long story short, is how I wound up naked on a strange man’s bed, sucking on my boyfriend’s cock, while he had another man’s halfway down his throat. It’s a visual I don’t think I’ll ever forget.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The first reviews are in, and The First Time & 59 Other Magical Minute is looking like a winner. Thank you!
The First Time & 59 Other Magical Minutes by Jenny Swallows
(CreateSpace, ISBN: 9781449568719)
There are so many cultural oxymorons going around these days ("reality TV" for one) that one can't help but curl up your toes a little when a book is served up as "erotic verse" - it's a contradiction in terms, after all. But even a cursory dip into The First Time &... should set your mind at ease on one score, while sending your pulse racing on several others.
This is NOT your father's poetry. In fact, the introduction (by author Chrissie Bentley) makes it clear that Swallows herself hates the "P" word, preferring to view herself as a wordsmith in the mould of Edward Lear, Hillaire Belloc or even Dr Seuss; that is, the purveyor of a stream-of-rhyming-consciousness that simply doesn't known when to let up. It's that brilliant.
The subject is sex, of course - but sex in its rawest, most physically detailed and almost surgically graphic form. There is love and devotion to be found in these pages, and it's shaped with such overwhelmingly animalistic passion that the occasional crudity of language and imagery almost passes by unnoticed.
The verses tend to be short; most barely overflow a page, a couple scarcely top a paragraph. But scene after scenario is documented with such naturalistic precision that the brevity itself becomes an exhilarating experience, while Swallows' breathtaking honesty rises above both form and format to create what practically amounts to a whole new literary style, graffiti'd bathroom limericks spray-painted ten feet tall.The First Time & 59 Other Magical Minutes certainly won't be to every poetry-lover's taste, but we've already established that this isn't poetry. It's lyrical lust.
The First Time and 59 Other Magical Minutes by Jenny Swallows
(CreateSpace, ISBN: 9781449568719)
Reviewed by Amy Hanson, Examiner.com
Before opening your copy of The First Time & 59 Other Magic Minutes, a word of warning. Erotic verse usually falls into one of two basic categories. Either it's a jumble of allegory and imagery that leaves you scratching your head long before it affects any other part of the body; or it's brutal, rude and explicit. Or it aligns itself with the kind of stuff you might find on a bathroom wall, which is a fantastic genre all its own, as any woman who has spent time in a public stall will tell you.
This time it's the work of Jenny Swallows, a long established internet author whose writings range from the simplest, crudest couplet to some breathtakingly well-developed stanzas shot through with a wallop of wicked observation without ever forgetting her primary purpose; to thrill, arouse and sometimes astound.
From alleyway trysts to virginal first time nerves, from saucy confessionals to pillow-talk whisperings, sixty verses fill this volume and while her distinctive name will probably tip you off to a lot of their contents, the introduction to the book (penned, incidentally, by Philadelphia eroticist Chrissie Bentley) insists she was born with it, and didn't simply adopt it as an appropriate nom-de-porn.
Weaving a delicate balance of humor, tension and out-and-out lust, Swallows remarkably avoids any of the traps that normally devour this particular genre. There's certainly little repetition in either setting or style; "the scene," as one of her own titles reminds us, "is as important as the scheme," and just a few well-chosen opening lines ensures every verse enjoys its own individuality.
Swallows insists that her poetic lineage is derived from the literary likes of Hilaire Belloc and Edward Lear, with a glimpse, too, towards Dr Seuss. They, and their admirers, might not thank you for including Jenny Swallows in any list of their most accomplished acolytes. But The First Time & 59 Other Magic Minutes will leave you reeling delightedly all the same.
This slim volume is either the most brilliant poetry ever written, or its antithesis. You decide.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
I never shook those feelings, either, even after we became lovers. At least, she said we were lovers. I always thought of it more as a marriage of convenience, without the rings and the permanency. I was young and ambitious, she was older and greedy. I knew my way around a woman’s body, she was all fingers and thumbs. Literally. But her first pass at me was so clumsy that I almost felt sorry for her, and when I did finally tumble into her bed… the same bed I would spend the next six months in… I at least learned there’s a few advantages to being the office manager’s lesbian lover.
Not that I’m a lesbian. Not one-hundred percent, anyway. I like cock far too much to give that up. But, while guys are good for a few things (well, one thing, really, but there’s a few things they can do with it), I’ve always known girls are good for the rest and, although I could bore you senseless for the rest of the evening listing all of the things that I disliked about Heather, there was one thing I would never have changed.
She loved having her pussy licked.
No big deal, you say. Lots of girls love that. A lot don’t, of course, as many men could testify, but a lot of them do and I’ve known a few of them. But Heather made them look and sound disinterested all the same. She’d start slow and quiet, a few gentle moans as my tongue first traced her lips, a gasp as I parted her lips. And then her legs would wrap around my head, her hands would clamp down onto my scalp, her hips would rise up into the air, and she danced. I mean, really danced, grinding her pussy into my face, screaming and crying and calling my name; I didn’t even have to do anything after a few minutes, she’d be riding me so hard. And when she came, she could have raised the roof.
That’s the main reason I stayed with her. She might have been hell to be with every minute of the day. But the moment I planted my face between her legs, she transported me to a Heaven that I didn’t even realize existed. The sheer untramelled Heaven of absolute ecstasy.
Have you ever had your face completely mashed to pulp by a soaking wet pussy? It shouldn’t be so much fun. You can barely breathe, for a start. Her pelvic bone hurts you as she pushes it forward, your neck cricks, and the wetness makes your skin crawl. But every thrust brought me closer to coming, and the best nights we had, which were the best nights I’d ever had with anyone, were the ones where we reached our peak together, not once, not twice, but every time.
Orgasm after orgasm tearing us both apart, until it were like those giggling fits that you sometimes get, when all you need to do is look at somebody and you both break down into uncontrollable laughter. With Heather and I, we only needed to exhale after one orgasm, and another would be bearing down upon us immediately.
That was the extent of our relationship. We'd meet, we'd orgasm, and then we'd orgasm again. Nice work if you can get it, and even nicer when I think back on it and realize that I've forgotten all the things about her that used to make me so mad. Like... like... see? I've forgotten.
Wherever you are, Heather, I know it's your birthday today. So, have a good one!
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
It’s okay, I don’t mean the warty-nosed, pointy-hatted, hubble-bubble-toil-and-trouble type. I mean, the harnessing of natural powers and energies, and directing them where you want them to go. Well, if you do, then I think we’re going to have some fun. And, if you don’t… well, you don’t have anything to worry about, do you?
There’s three cardinal laws. First – never use the craft to obtain something you don’t deserve. Second – never use it to inflict pain or suffering upon another living being. And third – never fuck with a witch. And, if those last two sound like they might not be completely compatible, then that’s just another of life’s rich paradoxes.
I think you know me, don’t you? I’m the girl down the street, the woman on the bus, the chick you see at the diner every morning and, though you’ve never passed more than a nod or a “hi” with me in real life, we’ve done a lot more than that in your daydreams, haven’t we?
Do you remember the one where I bumped into you on the bus? It was raining, so the bus was packed, and I was pressed up against you for half a dozen stops. Gave you quite the hard-on, didn’t it. Especially when you realized that it wasn’t my purse that was rubbing your cock, it was my hand. And that wasn’t the hiss of the tires you could hear, but my attempts to muffle the orgasm that was bearing down upon me like a freight train.
Or the one where you looked out your window one morning, and caught me skinny dipping in next door’s pool? You waved and I called you over, and I was teasing you because you wouldn’t take off your pants. You asked why it was such a big deal, and I said if you remove them, I’d show you. So you did… and I did.
Go on, close your eyes. You can still feel my lips around you, can’t you? The suction as I draw you in, the flick of my tongue as it lathers your shaft, and the look in my eyes as you push yourself forward, till the tip of your prick is tapping my tonsils. And I’m holding your hips and guiding your movements…. Yeah, you like that, don’t you? And you know what? So do I.
But you don’t want to hear about your dreams, do you? You know them all already. (Oh, but that one where you fucked me up the ass and I couldn’t sit down for two days? Next time, try and make it three, yeah?) Let me tell you about one of mine. Except, I’m not sure whether it still counts as a dream, if it’s already happened. But I’ll let you decide that for yourself.
So I write these verses, I post them online, and then I sit back and wait for the readers to respond, which is probably my favorite part of the entire exercise. You hear from everybody - the shy ones who drop the odd compliment, the cute ones you wind up thinking of as friends, and the fun ones who’ll take a line from the verse (or a thought about my photo) and they’ll run with it.
Do you even know what a turn-on it is to sign into your mailbox, open a letter from a complete and utter stranger, and it’s like opening the door to a sauna, the heat and passion just leap out at you. Sucking and fucking and licking and flicking, and it’s better than porn because it’s personal. So you do your best to send some back to them, by word, by thought, by Harry Potter owl, whatever comes to hand.
But then there’s those mean-spirited little people who don’t write letters, and don’t have anything constructive to say, but they’ll send you a note that’s as low as they dare – why? To register their dislike of your verse, that’s fine. But is it just me, or does it start to look suspicious when you find a cluster of three or four in your mailbox, all sent within ten or 15 minutes of each other? It’s almost as if someone has marshaled a bunch of different screen names and set out to knock me down. In fact, it’s exactly like that, so here’s what I’ll do. I’ll weave a little charm around the verses I write, and we’ll see what happens. You write with your heart (or your dick or your pussy) – great. Nothing to worry about. But write out of spite or nastiness, and the next cock you see, whether it’s your own in the mirror, or the one in your hand, will be the same length in inches as you gave me in kindness.
Which will be great if you find yourself needing a paper-punch in a hurry. But it won’t be much use for anything else.