In the words of my favourite friend and queen, Yode Olubajo:
This year, I’m struggling to write you because it truly has been an anus horribilis on a world wide scale… Where does one start? We continue to witness evil on an unprecedented scale, with the loss of so many innocent lives… One cannot begin to imagine the sorrow and pain of the families and loved ones of the victims… And for the victims who survived these atrocities, many now living very different lives than what they had imagined for themselves..
Many of you will be asking, if there is a God, why is this happening?.. Well, you see, heaven helps those who help themselves. We must take responsibility for our actions. Those who use religion as an excuse to commit heinous crimes, have nothing to do with God or religion..The world we have been given, is a beautiful place… And mankind is destroying it.
Nevertheless, I decided that I will see the glass half full, and not half empty. There are many many positive aspects of our lives we take for granted, that we ought to be grateful for.. Just waking up daily and breathing the fresh air, the food on our table, roof over our heads, the wonderful friends and families we share..to state a few obvious blessings..Many of us are at that age where we are losing loved ones, some prematurely, and some, because it is simply time… Challenging and painful though it is, we are still here and must continue to live life to the full.
On a personal note, I feel very blessed… I can not complain about my life. I have my ups and downs like everyone, but, I’m constantly learning to put things in perspective and not dwell on negativity, because it only destroys us in the end.
I reached my 5th decade recently, with many of you celebrating with me. I felt so fortunate and incredibly lucky to be surrounded by so much love… What a week that was…! I am thoroughly blessed.
I’m hoping to be able to give you some news early next year on a project I’m working on.. I’m very excited! And I’m bloody terrified too…! LOL!
As always, I was not able to physically see all of you this year, and it has flown by again..! Each year seems to get shorter, or are we just getting busier?! But, you are often in my thoughts and I continue to pray for your well being and fulfilment..
Wherever you find yourself this festive season, I hope you have a wonderful, relaxing time with your families and loved ones… I am in Toulouse enjoying quality time with friends..As we enter the new year, I pray for a calmer, safer and healthier world for all of us.. Remember to make the most of every day… Life is now! It ain’t no dress rehearsal!
God bless you!
If you fake it, then because you think you owe your partner this trophy as a reflection of their expertise?
Why? Why not: no work, no pay?
Who owns your orgasm? One of my favourite lines in Verses Nature is when Carmina, after a disagreement with her lover, Tatar, writes in her diary: I refused to let him make me come. Think about that for a while: I refused to let him make me come.
Carmina owns her body, its pleasure, no matter if Tatar is convinced otherwize. Her orgasm: a gift she may choose not to give?
So, when and why did I fake it? Not for them. I did it for us. I did it for Simone. Simone Leigh and I met each other online. She writes coffee break erotica for women. We’re kind of in the same line of business. I write ‘high-brow rumpy dumpy’. Officially, I call it erotic literary fiction. Men are welcome. At some point I mentioned to Simone that I am a performance artist. At a later point I had a copy of her The Virgin’s Christmas in my hands. Two plus two makes…
Sure. Why not?
One of the problems I have with most of what goes by the name of romance is the role women play. When I think that most porn is made my men for men and most romance is written for women by women, then why do romance authors perpetuate the happy end myth of woman becomes wife? Is that all there is to it? To us? Find a man then settle down? I thought Austen was dead (in that respect).
Leigh’s The Virgin’s Christmas, upon first reading, appears to fall into the category of romance (and erotica), where the female is but a life-size toy men may operate, battery-free.
Take a second look. I did. As I rehearsed this piece, it became clear to me that the protagonist, Charlotte, is everything but a mere pawn. When the Christmas gift of a threesome with her ‘Master’ and Michael is jeopardized by a snowstorm, it is Charlotte who takes the initiative. Okay, they are stranded in the middle of nowhere, far from their desired destination, but must that mean all is lost? They have food, they have blankets. They have everything they need. And Charlotte can think of a good way to stay warm and kill time…
With two men serving her from both sides, Charlotte gets the pleasure she had set out for. Her orgasm is but a couple of words in the text, words which could (easily?) be lost in the overall narrative. Charlotte is, after all, outnumbered.
This is where I step in. I transform Charlotte’s climax into the climax of the story, thereby relegating the men’s orgasms to mere narrative side effects. I read the word Master, seeing in my mind ‘Master’, the citation marks meaning ‘so-called’ and thus dethroning him who, throughout the story, remains nameless (thus exchangeable?). The thrust behind the M as I pronounce it – Master… Michael… – could easily override the softer pronunciation of Ch in Charlotte – Ch/sh, like: be quiet… shut up… it’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone… (???)
My Charlotte stays in control. Her climax, not theirs, steals the show, as ‘Master’ becomes servant, one with no other option than to accept Charlotte’s decision regarding when they will meet again.
The Virgin’s Christmas is part of a series and in this particular episode (episode 7), there are no wedding bells, near or far. Maybe the three will meet again in the New Year? Charlotte will decide. In the meantime, she gets on with her life. With her studies. She’s a bright one, Charlotte. Neither her ‘Master’ nor the love-stricken Michael are calling the shots. I loved being her. Even though Simone Leigh doesn’t accord Charlotte’s orgasm the same weight that I, as a performer, may, it’s there in the text. I didn’t write it. It’s there, waiting for me. Is my more feminist-oriented reading of The Virgin’s Christmas to be reduced to simply faking it?
Make your own mind up.
Today is Friday, which is alias for my Matthew Temple special. To make today particularly special, I have a double bill for you. First up, the next episode of RAPE! Then discover Matthew from his contemplative side in the next blog post.
“Put your gun away man.”
“Yeah, put it away.”
“Macro, watch yourself.”
“You’re going to get us arrested.”
“No one’s going to get arrested. I’ve got a permit to carry this. Stop making a big deal.”
“It is a big deal.”
“What? Were you going to say something?”
“Yeah. Just. Stick to what you know, man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you don’t know shit about firearms. I had to take a weapons safety training course to get this permit. So I know shit about firearms.”
“Just keep it away, man.”
“Just watch your mouth, Macro, or I’ll thump your girl.”
“You ain’t gonna thump shit.”
“Macro, you’re pissing me off. If I wanna thump your girl I’m’onna thump your girl. Now why don’t you two get on with your date. Sherman and I are gonna find us some pussy.”
So Macro and his dog bitch girl wandered off into the night, to have ugly sex between ugly people which everyone knows is shit.
And Sherman lectured me on the anti-merits of Holding a Gun When One Goes Out Selecting Pussy and the Pitfalls of Aiming a Gun at a Bitch When You Don’t Intend to Shoot and the like. Sherman was getting very professorial, and I wondered when he was older if he would be like the ancient schoolmarms which traversed our school and taught our classes.
“You need to leave your piece at home.”
“But how will I make bitches all scared like?”
“I don’t know. But sooner or later, if you bring your gun out, someone’s going to call the police.”
And what do you know, he was right. The very next morning my roommate who was a stinky faggot woke me with a start. The stinky faggot informed me that the police were at the door and behold, as I looked up from my covers there were the old black and blues, peeking into our dorm room door.
My gun was on my desk chair, fully loaded. I threw a pair of boxers over it, very casual, and pushed the stinky faggot out of my way.
“Do you mind waiting outside, you stink,” I said, and the stinky faggot complied.
As he pushed open the door I could see there were two of them, short cop and tall cop, and they were no doubt ready to play all sorts of games with little old me.
“Can I help you?”
They spoke my name. “Is that you?”
“Yes. What’s this about?”
“May we come in?”
“Come right in, come right in brothers. Can I interest you in a cold brewski?”
“We’re on duty. Have a few questions for you about last night.”
“Last night eh? Can’t say I know much about it.”
“Can’t say you know much about what?”
“About anything, really.”
“Were you at Bruno’s on State Street last night?”
“Indeed I was!”
“Do you own a weapon, sir?”
“I own a wee Glock.”
“A wee Glock.”
“What makes it a wee Glock?”
“It’s very small.”
“Did you take your Glock with you to Bruno’s?”
“My wee Glock? No I did not.”
“Where do you keep your wee Glock?”
“I keep my wee Glock in a safe back in Burlington.”
“Mind if we search your room?”
“Be my guest.”
So they start rummaging through my closet and that of the stinky faggot. I make sure they know that one’s not mine.
“What are you looking for?”
“Let us ask the questions.”
“Oh. Duly noted, my good man.”
“What was that?”
I enunciate. “Duly noted, my good man!”
“Do you think this is funny?”
“Am I laughing?”
“What were you doing at Bruno’s?”
“Scoping out bitches.”
“Me and my cronies were scoping the fly hunnies. Bitches. Sir.”
“You know you’d get more pussy if you stopped calling women bitches, don’t you?”
“I beg to disagree. Sir!”
“Did you point your gun at a Miss Angeline Brewster?”
“I’ve never met a Miss Angeline Brewster. Sir!”
“Did you point your gun at anyone?”
“My gun is in Burlington. Sir!”
“Do you know what the mandatory minimum sentencing is for felony assault with a firearm?”
“And you weren’t out pointing your firearm at any women last night?”
“I was simply looking for a little pussy, sir! I had started out earlier with my boy Tic Toc. His name is Sherman but I call him Tic Toc sir! We headed out of the crib and met up with Macrobiotik at Bruno’s, sir!”
“What is macrobiotic?”
“Macrobiotik is my homeboy, sir!”
“Your homeboy’s name is Macrobiotik?”
“Macro for short. Sir!”
“You can quit with the ‘sir.’ You could spend a lot of time in jail if this lady’s accusations are true.”
“I don’t want to go to jail, sir! Sorry about the sir! I’ve heard people get ass fucked in jail, not-sir! I’d like to die an asshole virgin sir! I can’t help it sir! I’m not ready to be fucked by a nigger in prison sir!”
“You have a bad attitude, son.”
“I know, sir!”
“You’re acting like somebody who has something to hide.”
“My story is complete, sir! There was no harassment at Bruno’s. Just a lot of bitches looking to get ass fucked by a carrot. Have you ever ass fucked a woman with a carrot sir!”
“Why don’t you sit over there while we search your place.”
So I sit at my desk, on top of the boxers covering my gun. And I feel that gun pressed into my ass and I think of what it must be like to have a Glock 9mm stuck up your ass by some psychopathic faggot who wanted revenge for all the times I’ve used the “f” word.
These cops were thorough, but they weren’t searching under my butt. They worked their way through the room, opening drawers, looking on top of the closets, then they made me sit there while they went up and down the hall questioning my hallmates.
When they came back they asked me if I was sure my gun was in Burlington.
“Are you even a Scout?”
“It’s an expression. What? You think that just ‘cause I said ‘Scout’s honor’ without being a Scout that that makes me a liar on the point of my gun being in Burlington? My gun is in Burlington, rest assured. Just because my bitch-ass hallmates say otherwise doesn’t MEAN SHIT!”
Then they ask me if I’m on any medication for psychiatric illnesses.
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Are you aware of the university health service?”
“They treat scabies and STDs, right? I don’t have any STD’s. I fuck clean bitches.”
“And what do you mean when you say ‘fuck bitches?’”
“You’re kidding, right? I stick my pee pee in they cooch. What the fuck you think I mean?”
“Do you ever get rough with a bitch?”
“Why would I get rough with a bitch? Maybe I slap ‘em in they mouth when they act up. I mean I might do that from time to time.”
“You know that’s assault, right?”
“I’m not admitting to anything.”
“You need to treat bitches right, ok? When you get a bitch to suck your dick, that ain’t no license to fuck her, and when a bitch lets you fuck her, that ain’t no license to hit on a bitch.”
“Now wait a minute, who ever said I be roughin’ up on bitches? Did they say that?” I point to the hall.
“We’ve had reports. Bitches be callin’ us and lettin’ us know what you’ve been up to, bro! When you stick yo’ dick in a bitch, and she don’t want you to, sometimes bitches be callin’ us the next day and gettin’ they insides swiped. We find you spunk inside a bitch that didn’t want to be fucked, you could go to jail. Bitches’ insides be they own. You can’t fuck a bitch ain’t got no permission.”
“Now, did you take your piece to Bruno’s last night or not?”
“You didn’t pull your piece out on some bitch named Angeline?”
“Nah, man. But that bitch was actin’ up.”
“What did she do?”
“She was lookin’ all fly and shit. She was wearin’ tighty fishnets and I could see her maxi pad between her legs and shit. It was stickin’ out. I was thinkin’ about that bitch’s pussy and shit. Bettin’ she had a fly pussy. Wanted to do a finger test with ye olde pinky, if you catch.”
The officers were coming closer, and I squirmed me butt around the Glock, trying to conceal that I wasn’t sitting on flatness.
“What’s a finger test?” the one officer asks.
“When you get a bitch captive,” I say, “you want to perform Ye Olde Finger Test. This is where you finger a bitch progressively with one finger, two fingers, three fingers, four. Start with your pinky. Ideally you want a bitch who passes the one-finger test, meaning that when you stick yo’ pinky up that bitch’s cooch that bitch is tight as hell.”
“What happens if she fails the test?”
“You move on, my brotha, you move on.”
“Well, we’re going to be keeping an eye on you. If it turns out you’re hiding your Glock on campus there will be serious consequences.”
“Good, my brotha, right with you.” I give them the old thumbs up.
“And take it easy on the bitches. I know you like to fuck but bitches be havin’ feelings. It’s important that everyone be treated with respect.”
“That’s right.” The officer gives me the thumbs up.
“And you boys take it easy on the road. You never know with these university brothas, when someone might go ballistic on ya, jump out guns blaring, like maybe if he had a personal grudge or something. So anyway take care, I doubt we’ll be seeing much of each other after today.”
Then those black and blues took their smug faces and they left me be. And I stood up from sitting on my Glock, and straightened out my ass cheeks.
(from RAPE! by Matthew TEMPLE. Read the rest of this story here.)
Who better than a sleepless writer to explain the distinction between the Lonely Darkness and the Dark Alone? Allow me, if you will.
The Lonely Darkness is tossing in bed until your useless, 800-thread-count sheets turn warm with worry and that Tylenol PM bottle—despite you swearing off sleep aids—beckons from the bathroom shelf. The Lonely Darkness is 2:38 am and dreams you can’t return to and the cruel trick of a bone-tired body and a churning mind, hopelessly bad at getting back to sleep, but effortlessly good at remembering affronts and dread diseases that run in your family.
The Lonely Darkness is every fear you’ve had since the pregnancy stick showed a plus sign. It’s teenage children. Their college applications. Your sister’s cancer. That unwritten book. The Lonely Darkness is the insomniac’s principal’s office where you are furious to have been sent yet again, while fully aware that the true punishment will come in your workday, as sleep-deprivation tortures you into stupidity. The Lonely Darkness is your epic demon.
Then there’s The Dark Alone.
The Dark Alone finds you waking up in a house hushed with the silence of a sleeping family. You peek at the clock—5:12 am—and count forward on your fingers from 11:30 pm. What? Six hours if you round up! (And you always round up.) Energized by this rare sleep achievement, you roll out of bed and reach for your sweatpants dropped on the floor the night before. You slip them on in the searing darkness of your bedroom, and, still sightless, feel around for your Rhode Island sweatshirt hanging inside the closet door. If you’re lucky, you can extract two mismatched socks from the clean laundry pile in the corner. If not, you resort to yesterday’s stretched, slightly pungent ones on top of the hamper. Sometimes you even like those better.
Finally, wasting no time, you steal out of the bedroom where your husband, who has missed maybe a dozen nights of sleep in your 21 years together, will not wake up for two more hours. Although he’s spent some time in The Lonely Darkness, he knows nothing of The Dark Alone. This is your territory.
Downstairs you rinse out the only mug you will use at this hour—the cracked purple one your kids painted a decade ago at Clay Dreams—and brew your dark roast (the beans, the heat, the cool dash of cream) that will taste better than absolutely anything else you put to your lips all day. Nearly trippy with gratitude for sleep and caffeine, you will carry your mug to your office, set it on your desk, open your computer.
And there they are, the thoughts, seeded by quiet, watered by dark roast, they grow in the fertile soil of the morning hours. They thrive in The Dark Alone, not unlike the way plants require sun. They vine and flourish. They flower. They fruit.
In the Dark Alone you may only write for one hour, but it is always the most productive hour of your day when nothing comes between you and your words. No one’s worry or radio. No cellphone. No child. In these morning hours, you will be awed by the power of your ideas to bloom, bold and vibrant on the stalk of your genius, growing in size and strength, until all at once the sun, like a burglar, breaks through the crack between shade and window pane. Still tapping away, head bent to the sound of your inner voice, you try to ignore that thin band of brightness, but then you hear an alarm clock upstairs, then another. Soon a symphony of rap and radio and shower noises ensue while you rush to hold onto what is fast slipping away.
Minutes later the light is full up, cast across the to-do list on top of your inbox. Your daughter stumbles downstairs. “We’re out of cereal!” she shouts. And your son needs a ride to early band. Your husband, who only ever wears matching neutrals, wanders into your office. “Does this tie match?” he asks.
“Perfectly,” you assure him. And with those first words, the spell is fully shattered.
“What time did you get up?” he asks.
He winces when you tell him. He doesn’t understand.
With that, you kiss him good-bye, shut your computer, and step beyond the now blurred boundary of The Dark Alone. You toast a frozen waffle for your daughter. You tell your son you’ll drive him. You check your phone. You nibble a cracker. You look at the house, the mess, the clock. The darkness hid a hundred needs, the way the light spares nothing.
Already you miss the Dark Alone, your secret place of creation. You can only hope it will be there again tomorrow.
Sandra Miller‘s essays, articles, and short stories have appeared in over 100 publications including The Boston Sunday Globe Magazine, Spirituality and Health, and Glamour Magazine which produced a short film called “Wait” based on one of her personal essays. Kerry Washington starred. You can find out more at SandraAMiller.com. Or, if you happen to be up at 4am, visit her blog, www.nightmath.com, where Sandra reckons with all things nocturnal.
(originally published in Brevity Magazine)
Time for the third episode of RAPE! I’m in two minds as to whether I should start a whole new blog to feature adult fiction or continue to share it here. I take it my readers are freethinkers, able to laugh at themselves and the world. I take it you all won’t get your knickers in a twist if I don’t stick to what is politically correct. Good. Got that sorted. Let’s move on. Matthew, over to you.
It was a while longer before I again saw Little Miss Defiance. She had to do her things and I had to do mine before we were to meet the second time. While she was masturbating to my image and sticking all manner of vegetables into her pussy, I was hanging with my boys, Tic Toc and Macrobiotik. We were at Bruno’s.
“Is this it?”
Macrobiotik looked at me. “What do you mean, is this it?”
“Sherman, you promised me this wouldn’t be a sausage fest.”
“It isn’t.” Sherman motions toward the dance floor. “There’s like..a seven-to-one ratio out there.”
“Yes, but all those bitches are sasquatches. Sasquatches don’t count.”
“Show me one sasquatch.”
I point to a very large girl with hairy armpits. “Sasquatch.”
“Just ‘cause there’s one sasquatch doesn’t mean they’re all sasquatches.”
“Yes it does. They infect. I’m going to take a piss.”
I get up. I can see those motherfuckers later. Dragging me to this hellhole..sasquatch-breeding motherfucker. Bruno’s huh? I think Bruno has a pink dildo up his ass.
I go down this long hallway leading to the bathroom. There’s a guy and a girl making out. He’s this academic-looking type, and she has on fishnets, is slightly taller than him, and has a purse slung from her shoulder. It’s open. As I walk by I look in the purse and it’s littered with condoms.
I say, “What’s up?”
They both kind of turn and look at me.
“I said what’s up, baby?” I do this little motion with my hands that’s designed to make a bitch go crazy.
The guy is looking at me like he’s really angry.
I say, “Tell your man to stop looking at me.”
The guy says, “Just leave us alone, ok?”
I keep my eyes on the girl. “Tell that motherfucker to stop looking at me.”
She puts her hands on his cheeks and turns his head to her. “Stop looking at him.” He turns and they’re looking each other in the eyes.
“What’s your boy’s name?”
“He fuck you in the ass?”
She doesn’t say anything. I’m looking at her body. She’s got fly legs. Fly tits. And a fly-ass face.
“Francis, what do you think you’re doing with a girl like that? You can’t handle her.”
“And you could?” the girl says.
“Yeah,” I say, and smile. “What kind of tampons you use, bitch? Kotex? Playtex?”
“Let’s go,” the guy says.
But I flash my gun.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say.
“I use OB alright.”
“Super protection? Extra glide?”
“Don’t answer that,” Francis says.
I put my gun to his head. “Let her answer.”
“Extra smalls,” she says.
“Extra smalls?” I start to get hard. “What dorm you live in?”
“Don’t tell him.”
“Francis, do you want to get shot in the head?”
“Crawford. I live in Crawford.”
“Good. You two can go. Be good and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, ok, Francis?”
Then this bitch says, “Don’t you want to know the room number?”
“Why, do you want me to know it?”
Francis says, “Let’s go.”
“Do you want me to come and visit you at night? I can suck the blood off those extra smalls and stick my dick in your extra-small pussy. Francis, would that be ok with you?”
The girl says, “Just let us go.”
“No I’d like to hear him say it. Would it be ok with you, Francis, if I snag your girlfriend’s small-size fishnet cunt and drop a load in it?”
“Yes, it’s fine, can we go now?”
You can tell by the look on fishnet’s face that she’s not happy.
Francis says, “What?”
“You’d let him drop a load in my pussy?”
“I wouldn’t really let him drop a load in your pussy, I just want him to get the gun out of my face and let us go on with our evening.”
“I’m gonna let you do that, Francis. But I want you to promise me one thing. When you’re fucking this bitch, I want you to know that I’m there somewhere, over your shoulder maybe, waiting to take over when little miss fishnet here gets tired of your pencil dick. Ok. Go on. Go on! I’m trying to take a piss here! Get the fuck out of my face.”
And, gun in hand, I unzip right there and take a piss in the hallway.
On the way back to the bar, this Poindexter-looking dude sees me and he sees the pile of piss. I give him this hard look and he just keeps going. “Thought so,” I say.
It’s just Tic Toc, sitting alone.
“Where is Macro?”
“Dancefloor,” Sherman nods.
I look to the dancefloor. Indeed there is Macrobiotik, dancing with some average-looking girl.
“Is that the girl from his polisci?”
“That’s the girl from his polisci.”
“That’s the reason we came out here?”
“Sherman. Tic Toc. What the fuck. We gotta get out of here.”
“‘Cause I flashed my piece.”
Sherman turns. “What?”
“There was this fishnet girl with this gentleman named Francis. Francis is, shall we say, a cake boy. Francis has no right being with this piece of hotness. And then there’s me. I found out where she lives. She wears extra-small tampons, super protection.”
“What does that have to do with you flashing your piece?”
“They were actin’ up.”
“Well we have to leave this bar.”
“That’s what I’m sayin’.”
“Before the police get here.”
“I’ll get Macro.”
So Sherman heads over to ye olde dancefloor and tugs on Macro’s shirt. I see them arguing and Macro’s girl looks unhappy so I figure it’ll be a while. I turn to the bar to order a shot.
“I’ll have the gunslinger’s special.” I laugh. “That’s a special..for gunslingers—”
“There’s no guns allowed in the bar.”
“I know that, I was just saying—”
“What are you having? I don’t have all night.”
“A cup of Goldschläger.”
“You can have a shot.” The bartender leaves.
I’m tapping my hands on the bar and Sherman and Macro and Macro’s girl come up behind me.
“So let’s get outta here.”
“I’m having a drink.”
“We’re leaving because of you. Skip your drink.”
“I already paid.”
“No you didn’t.”
The bartender comes back. He tells me the price and I put it on my card.
“Can’t you pay with cash so we can get out of here?”
“I never carry cash.”
“What kind of policy is that? You never carry cash? Psychopath.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Why do we have to leave?” Macro’s girl says.
“Because I’ve been a bad bad boy.”
“What did you do that’s bad?”
“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” I say.
Macro puts his arm around the girl.
“Macro, what the fuck is this bitch’s name?” I say.
Sherman says, “Drink your drink.”
“I’ll drink it..in a minute. I don’t like to be around a bitch and not know the bitch’s name. ‘Specially if the bitch is the bitch of a friend of mine.”
“Nice to meet you, Kelly.”
And I do my shot. Then I sign my name on the credit card receipt with a scrawl that in no way resembles my signature.
Outside, the four of us walk down State Street. There are many hunnies, bitches, and hoes, as well as a few vixens, some foxes, and an intolerable number of dykes walking hand in hand and flaunting everywhere that they had released themselves from their dangerous dependency on dick. When dykes pass I think of how tight their pussies must have become after such a long vacation from dick, or in some cases a complete lack of dickly intruders. To turn a dyke is the ultimate accomplishment for a straight guy. Or, let’s just say it is one of the ultimate accomplishments, for their are many ultimate accomplishments.
“So, Kelly, when you suck Macro’s dick does he precum a lot?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I’m concerned about my man here. He’s showing a lack of progress, academically. All he wants from you is your polisci notes.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.” I smile at Macro. “Now about this precum.”
“Why are you always so interested in everybody’s sex life?” Sherman asks.
“Because it’s my specialty.” Duh.
We walk a while, and I think the subject is dropped. But then Kelly says, “I haven’t sucked his dick yet.” And she looks at Macro.
I felt like a proud mother, hearing this “yet.” Knowing Macrobiotik sperm would be lodging themselves between the teeth of this average-looking girl as she gulped down his cock. I mean, hey, if he wanted to date down with this mutt-looking girl Kelly, she better be sucking his cock. “She better be sucking his cock hard,” I say.
And everybody looks at me for saying that.
“Me, I like a girl with a pretty face. Like that girl we met at the coffeehouse this morning. Wasn’t she pretty, Sherman?”
“If you like mice.”
“Mice? You think the looked mousy? She wasn’t mousy, you just like a long face, Ticky Toc, where I like a round one. She had a round face, it wasn’t mousy. If by mouse you mean she had a small pussy, then I bet you’re right. I bet that girl’s pussy is just as defiant as she was. She was like holding her fist up in the air in protest.”
“She wasn’t holding her fist up.”
“But it was like she was holding her fist up. Like she was Che Guevara and I was the Cuban emperor.”
“Uh, dude, Cuba doesn’t have an emperor.”
“Shut up, nigga.”
“Can you not say the n word?” That was Kelly.
I stop walking. Then everybody else stops walking.
“What? I just don’t like that word.”
I look at Macro. Then I look at Kelly. I pull out my gun. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, bitch.”
(from RAPE! by Matthew TEMPLE)
Still ever so pleased with the recent 5-star review of Verses Nature Vol.1 . So pleased that I’m now going to give that book away for FREE on October 29. Make the most of it!
Now that you can have Verses Nature (In The Beginning Was The Heat) and Verses Nature (The Making Of) for FREE, what more do you want?
What??? Oh, alright then. I’ll give you Long Time Walk on Water (‘Highly, highly recommended’, says a reviewer on Amazon). Free for selected days in November.
What??? Oh, alright then. I’ll also give you Mut@tus (high-brow rumpy-dumpy for you and your friends, but not for your mum!). Free for selected days in November.
Watch this space and kindle promotions on Amazon. Don’t say I’m not nice to you.