Skeet, skeet

Twenty second men

This is just SO Tragic!

Freak O'Nature

There are dicks, big dicks and then there are freaks of nature, the sort that make the list of largest structures in the city. These massive monuments provide such labrynthine and interesting questions of care and handling. I mean it's not like you can swallow the thing.

Then there is the issue of what happens when they actually get going and you find yourself on the lower end of a pile-driving re-engineering project! I tell you, my friends, when it comes down to it, just don't worry about it! Just kick back, take it like a big girl should, never cry, and never ever 'worry bout that mule!'

Don't Worry 'Bout that Mule

Under Wormwood

"Let me be mad ...mad with madness of Absinthe, the wildest most luxurious madness in the world."

Stagger Lee

Po-lice officer, how can it be?
You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stagolee
That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

-Traditional American blues song

He was the sort of man who let you know straight up he wasn't nothing nice, a thug, roughneck, if you like, or in his word, "scan-o-lous."

Once he had me in the motel room, he didn't even give me the time to undress. He just pushed me back on the mattress and reached under my blouse to pull out my tits. He took a moment to twist my nipples, then went straight for the object of his intentions, wrenching apart my thighs to spread my legs, tugged my panties in one snap down to my ankles, slammed back my knees and plunged two fingers sharply up the cylinder of my pussy. He obviously liked what he felt inside. "Oh, yeah," he said, "you're fuckin' wet! Fuckin' wet already, you nasty Bitch!"

Feigning protest, I struggled to get up, to escape my prone position on the mattress. Well, not really, of course, but just enough "struggle" to make that big pipe inside his trousers rise to attention. With one sweep of his big right hand he ripped down his zipper, reached inside and fumbled to pull himself out. "You want it? You want it, Bitch?" He didn't even wait for a reply, answering for me, "Yeah, I know you do? I know you been wanting some of this big dick!"

He seized the back of my skull and wrapped my hair into a knot around his fist, then dragged me up to his crotch, and jammed my head down on his dick. I gagged, much to his delight. "Choke on it! Choke on it, bitch!" he raved, taking special delight at the tears that began to reflexively roll down my cheeks.

Yeah, I'm Stagger Lee
and you better get down on your knees
and suck my dick, because if you don't
you're gonna be dead, said Stagolee,
That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

He tossed me back onto the mattress and mounted, then with one cruel thrust, he stuck it in me. It made me squeal, "Oh, gawd!" I shrieked, "It's too big, too big for me like that!"

"Shut-up Bitch!" he snapped back, "nothin's too big for you, nothin's too big, you fuckin' Bitch!" He drilled down deep, "Now take it! Take this Mutha-fuckin' dick, Bitch!"

"Goddamn! Godamn!" I protested without effect. "Shut-up, Bitch!" he said, "You love it, Bitch, you know you do! You love this big long dick!"

"Come off that shit "he growled, "Bitch you know you want it! Maybe I should get on my cell and call my ro-dogs, so you can give everybody a play of that pussy. Would you like that?" he asked. "I might" I responded. "Yeah, I figured" he said with a smirk, "You seem like that type."

He pulled it all the way out and wagged it's big glistening head in the direction of my face and then drove it deep, deep and hard, all the way to the hilt. Stuck it fast, too, with a rib-shaking thud, all the way to the bottom of me, then just for good measure he pulled it back out and stuck it back in again, harder than the first time.

"Oh yeah, yeah, there it go, there it go," he barked, "Your poppin' now, Bitch, poppin wet!"

Truth be told, the big long pipe was gliding easy, gliding in and out without resistance, with me gone foaming wet. He crushed down on top of me, rolling it in and out, running up and back against the walls, finding that feeling he liked, then finally settling in on a steady driving power hump.

Oh yeah, I thought. This is fuckin! This is how I want it, this is how I need it, but I couldn't form the words to tell him. Instead I pulled at his shoulders and threw out my legs, threw them out wide. He had me now, the way I love to let a man use me for his pleasure, and the size of him, that big monster dick, made it seem so total.

Go, Stagolee, go, Stagolee!
Go, Stagolee, go, Stagolee!

Then I must have hollered, though I can't remember, but I felt my eyes roll back and my toes curl up and then I got it. Got it like a bomb going off inside. That cum, that filthy cum, I crave. He let loose a chuckle, I think, and then as if on cue, I felt his muscles tighten, his whole body stiffen, and with a loud satisfied grunt that made my bones vibrate, I could feel his thick cum spurt deep up inside me. Spurt all the way to parts unknown.

He rolled off me and rested quietly for a moment, beads of sweat formed on his forehead while he rested. I touched his shoulder gently, but he brushed me aside. Rising from the bed be gathered up my clothes and wadded them in is big hands. He hurled the ball of cloth at my head, "Get dressed, Bitch! Get out! We're Done!"

That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

All that, and Dr. Freud too

The other day I was with a guy, a quiet, average sort of fellow. After I did for him what he liked, he said, "I never had another woman let me watch her masturbate, are you BPD?"

"BPD," I asked? "What is BPD?"

"Borderline Personality Disorder" he answered, "You know, a sex disorder, needing to do filthy things for men."

"Is that some sort of clinical term," I asked?

"Yes it is," he replied.

"Are you asking me if I'm a slut?" I asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Yes," I responded, "Does it bother you?"

"No," he said.

Pump and Dump

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.

Now don't get me wrong, I like everything about sex, I like all the trappings. But when it's time to get down to business, the main event for me is the fuck. I want it bad that way. I need a man to drill me, stick it to me. Don't give me that finesse stuff, just go ahead a fuck me; make me feel it. Matter of fact, as much as I enjoy all the fancy stuff, and I do, that stuff is all icing on the cake. When I get down to it my favorite position is with the man on top.

Like I always tell them, I prefer a man on top, where he belongs! It's kind of funny, isn't it, that they call that position missionary-style?

The missionary-style, like it's some sort of religious experience. I guess it might be, depending how you look at it. Call it pre-ordination or something, the natural use of a female by a male, always to be penetrated, always to be used for the pleasures of men.

Oh, I know I must be treading on some bloody, forbidden ground here, but it's the truth isn't it. Deep down we all suspect it. In some cultures they tell you that when a female accepts it she can finally stop feeling conflicted inside. I haven't got an issue with it. I always liked it anyway. I know what men like and I like that too. That's what makes me so shameless, I guess.

There's something about the season that makes me think like this, and to act out on all my little cravings. Something about the season, the cold wet damp waning days of autumn that makes me like a filthy kettle, boiling over. Something about the weather or just the rhythm of nature, but in these wind chilled darkening days of November I seem to need it all the more, want it bad.

The shorter days becomes a sort of maddened hunt, sometimes in the back of my mind, sometimes front and center; a frenzied search for that certain type of man who seems to be the kind who can appreciate me as I am.

Oh yes, just about any man out there can appreciate the no holds barred pleasures of the slick-wet walls of a willing pussy hole, but I like a man who really loves to let a slut be a slut; to let me indulge my craving to the fullest and let it all go in all my writhing glory. When I get like this I want a man to break me down raw and use me.

Saturdays are for boning.

Today's search didn't take too long, and I didn't need to go too far, just as far as Woodward Avenue, one once grand thoroughfare that bisects our City. Despite the patchy attempts at gentrification on recent years the avenue still pierces plenty of forlorn stretches of Detroit. On a wet, cold, overcast day like today you don't find a lot of people out strolling along the Avenue, even early in the day. So I feel fortunate to have found what I'd been thinking about all morning without having to go too far. "Got a man?" he asked in a voice with just enough sugar on it to catch my interest. "No," I responded. "Want one?" he asked. I smiled.

You know the rest.

We spent the late hours of the morning in just the perfect sort of relationship. The kind that lasts about an hour and a quarter or so, just long enough to satisfy both our cravings for the day, most of it in a clinch of power penetration, with he mounted on top, of course. With thinly veiled contempt he mocked, "Do you love me? Do you love me, bitch?" his jack-knife thrusts going deeper with each impalement.

"Fuck me!" I responded, "FUCK ME!"

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.

Blue Tenderloin

It rained all day Sunday. By early evening it was one of those piercing autumn rains, the kind that cuts right though your skin, too cold to wait for a bus on a street corner.

Seeking shelter, the only choice for cover that was open past six was a seedy little cocktail bar at the end of the block. I rarely just duck into these sorts of dives. The scene is always the same, a row of old tables on one side and a row of Naugahyde upholstered stools lined up along bar on the other. The usual patronage for these sorts of places is the local neighborhood drunks, the type that have been sitting at those same stools since 1947.

This place wasn't any different, except maybe a little more dingy. The joint stunk of cheap booze and a thick patina of decades of cigarette smoke. The denizens of this particular hole in the wall consisted of a few old men hunched over the bar at the back near the Men's Room, a rumpled bartender with a few days stubble on his chin and a third patron stood at the front of the bar, sipping a beer. In the back corner of the place a grainy old TV was lit up with the dying moments of some football game playing in the background, fourth quarter white noise, only the bartender seemed to notice the game was on. He seemed annoyed when I took up a place on a stool halfway up the bar, squarely in front of him. "What kind of beer do you have?" I asked.

The bartender wrinkled his brow, as though I'd asked him for directions to Paris. "Bud," he said, "You want beer, I got Bud."

Budweiser! Only a wrecking ball and a back hoe could land a beach head in a place like this for the micro-brew revolution. For a moment out of the rain, and a little warmth, I accepted my fate and I motioned my order for the great American swill. It was cheap enough I suppose, a buck fifty a bottle, and a clean glass on the side.

While I sipped my beer, the bartender's attention turned to the football game running endlessly on the TV. My attention turned toward the man at the front of the bar. He seemed interesting enough, not entirely unattractive. I'd guess he was in his mid-forties. He was tall, slim and of a non-descript ethnicity, Latino maybe. He had a thin clipped mustache and his tawny gaunt cheeks were pock marked. His thinning hair was jet black and slicked back. He wore a matching worn set of navy blue work cloths, his shirt partly unbuttoned at the top, revealing an incongruously white undershirt.

He had noticed me too. Though I am used to such things, his searing leer was, in this case, causing me a bit of discomfort. Even so, I found him repulsive and compelling, all the same. I immediately got the feeling from him that he was, in fact, the sort of man who was quite understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for.

Moments later he proved me right. Leaning against the bar, he grasped at himself with just enough subtlety that I could receive the message. Underneath the greasy dark blue cloth, an ample meat roll danced to the keystrokes of his finger tips, ample enough for me to notice it, anyway. After an awkward few minutes of letting me watch him "adjust" himself, he slid down the bar and settled onto the stool next to mine. "Hi beautiful," he said. I smiled. This was hardly the most offensive pickup line. I'd expected something more vile. I began to doubt he was the sort of man I'd figured him to be, but that thought was quickly swept away when he wrapped his long skinny fingers around the inside of my thigh.

Receiving no objection from me, his hand quickly slipped under my skirt until it met his target. "Why don't you let me heat that up?" he offered. This was a little more along the line of what I was itching to hear. "Got a place to go?" I asked. "Well," he hesitated a moment, then added "I work at a shop up the street, we can go there. Nobody's there now, and I got the key."

I nodded my approval, and leaving my half consumed beer behind, followed my new acquaintance back out into the rain.

Fortunately, it wasn't too long a walk, just a few doors down to a little Auto workshop, some little hole in the block that purports to specialize in "imported cars," just a greasy hole off the alleyway. In a place like this one doesn't find too many candles, satin sheets and soft lighting, but then, I've never been the romantic sort. I simply headed for the back, jumped aboard a long workbench along the back of the wall, kicked off my heels and got ready for what we came here for.

He reached up under my skirt and tried to yank down my panties from the crotch, when his first attempt failed he tore them off. Approvingly, I spread out my legs.

He stepped back a moment, to pause, or to look over my exposed split, then spat, ""You cunt! You fuckin' cunt! You fuckin' little cunt"

Cunt? Cunt is such a filthy, degrading word, a nasty word. Cunt, it's so blunt, so raw, it titillates me.

I threw my thighs back and out, so he could get the idea that I was ready to get used for his pleasure.

"Aw!" he snorted, "you're a nasty little fuck toy, aint you, aint you?" He didn't wait for a reply, before adding, "I figured it! I figured you was like this!"

"I hope I'm about the dirtiest bitch you can imagine." I said.

"Yeah, the dirtiest?" he asked. "Show me! Show me how dirty you are."

Just to prove the point, I reached between my legs, slipped my forefingers up and in and stretched it open; pulled it wide open and showed him the hole. "You mean, like this?" I asked.

His eyes got wide as I've ever seen a man's eyes get wide. Then, dipping his fingers inside, he pulled down on the bottom of my pussy wall, to get a better look inside, or just to see how wide he might get it to gape open.

Just a hunch, but I'm guessing I made the grade; the dirtiest bitch he could imagine, the bottom of a man's world.

It was a short lived high point of our "relationship." You can guess the rest. He didn't last too long, only a few long pokes of the dick, but sometimes that's all a man needs for this sort of thing. No matter, it was a filthy enough fuck, just the same, the sort I'd hoped for.

After one last thrust he climbed aboard the workbench, crouched over my face and with a grunt, spewed a thick jet of creamy satisfaction across my face.

Fornication

Fornication, to pick a word, is my philosophy, my world view, my raison d’etre.

I for one don’t go in for romance and relationships. I stopped looking for love in all the right places around the time I gave up on Santa Claus. I have a sex addiction, for sure, but beyond that I suppose I’m a little off, a little twisted. But, you know, I’m not guilty about it. Maybe nature just hard wires some people a little different. Maybe serving the needs of men in that way is my function, my little niche on the planet. Maybe it’s the pheromones. Whatever it is, I crave it.

No, I don’t believe in love. I just believe in the fuck. The fuck, and the craving for the fuck; and the only relationship I need is an introduction to a good hard dick. Besides, the way I see it, the only thing a man needs to love about me, when its all said and done, is that feeling he gets when he runs it deep up against the walls of this pussy-hole to get that feeling he likes!

The Dark at the Top of the Stairs

There is a place I know. It's like so many other places like it. There is nothing special about it except for the privacy it affords. My place is a stairway that leads to an overgrown railroad property. I'm not sure why it's there, or what it may have accessed originally. These days it's just an old concrete stairway with rusted disused railings. For some reason it has never been closed or removed. It's located in the heart of the city but when you reach the top of the stairs you might as well be in some forgotten wilderness. The only people that visit the place are up to no good. Occasionally a freight train may pass by, but mostly it's an empty thicket of underbrush strewn with discard bottles and other bits of debris.

My place at the top of the stairs is very quiet and private, and you can hear any would be fellow trespasser long before they reach the summit. This place at the top of the stairs is quiet, private, overgrown, remote, and above all, just treacherous enough for a smuggled encounter, a dark dreamscape for working off a craving for filthy sex. My place at the top of the stairs is a perfect destination for two to writhe away the moment, give or take twenty minutes.

When I get in that mood I might visit my special place at the top of the stairs with anyone who might, for a moment, spark my interest. Maybe I'll take up with a man who made me a lewd offer, or maybe some guy nervously spinning his wedding ring, deciding whether to let his inner demon out. In the privacy of the thick brush I can make a kind of nasty picnic of it. Nobody need for romance, or even names.

In makes no difference what sort of man he is, most of them are really quite nice, regular gentlemen most of the time, no doubt. But me I want to get a man to let his inner dog out, and the place at the top of the stairs is the perfect place to get down to basics. After all, in a place like that, any man is understanding of what a bitch like me gets used for.

In the end I always get what I came for, a bone-rattling deep thrusting fuck, and if I served the man right, he'll leave me with a thick creamy reward to remember him by.

Every now and then some guy will try to reform me. To them I say, don't try to redeem me brother, this is how I want it, this is who I am. I'm the dark at the top of the stairs. Just let nature be.

Fallen Angel

Hello dear friends,

For those who were wondering, and those who e-mailed or posted comments and inquired.

I’ve been away.

Sorry for the silence for the past few months.

Since May I’ve been on an extended vacation, slash, work-study tour of Los Angeles, the city of the fallen angels.

All is well with me, and with you too, I hope. Thanks for asking!

I have plenty to share, of course. Where to begin?

Los Angeles is the imitation of a city, a trash pile of the used and discarded. LA is in the business of fantasy and pleasure, not solid values. They built a mighty industry on the basis of it. It is a city completely without charm or subtlety, at its best a Babylon of the gutter. LA is the sort of place you can go to lose yourself in the urging of the moment and to serve yourself up willingly as a sacrifice to the demon-gods of carnal cravings.

They’ll tell you that in Southern California anyone can remake themselves; any one can make it. Maybe so, maybe no, maybe make you, maybe break you. One thing is for sure, and make no mistake about it; Angelinos like to fuck, not with amore, but with headboard banging thrusts.

In LA, fucking is everything it should be, not hidden away in the filthy alleys of the mind, but rather in its proper place, out in the open for the whole planet to fondle and see.

In short, LA is the perfect place for a bitch like me to spend her summer vacation, and so dear friends, if you missed me, rest assured I’m back and better off for all the nasty wear and tear.

Hugs and kisses to you all!