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JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


Slippery turds gliding, glistening, out of a pale cottage cheese rumpled bum.

Farts popping putridly like rapid-machinegun fire, turd pellets blasting out at top speed.

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LifeSizePotato
Mar 3, 2005

These lumps.
I know you wanna slump up on
These lumps,
But you can't 'cause you're a chump!
A chuuuuuuuuump!
-LSP


but enough about your posting!

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


LifeSizePotato posted:

but enough about your posting!



LifeSizePotato puckering his gorgeous glistening lips, moaning sensuously as his soft ivory hands pat me firmly on the back.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



That's the problem with drinking, I thought, as I poured myself a drink. If something bad happens you drink in an attempt to forget; if something good happens you drink in order to celebrate; and if nothing happens you drink to make something happen

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



im gay

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


GelatinSkeleton posted:

We're all going to die, all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other but it doesn't. We are terrorized and flattened by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.

Woa, heavy.

God reaches down his poo poo-caked hand, popping out his pinky like a rigid lever, then firmly pressing against my rear end in a top hat, slowly slipping in, inch by agonizing inch, violating my dignity with his swollen malicious digit.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



how do you like your blue eyed boy mister death?

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare



Gelatin Skeleton is pretty good imagery by itself.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



endless cock and balls
-Ginsberg

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


Quivering gelatin skeleton, vibrating and jibbering, swinging his flubbery gelatin skeleton wang.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



We are all alone here and we are dead.

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


Hey man, are you feeling alright, try some imagery with turds or something, have a laugh.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



Did I ever tell you about the man
who taught his rear end in a top hat to talk?

His whole abdomen would move up and down,
you dig, farting out the words.

It was unlike anything I ever heard.

Bubbly, thick, stagnant sound.

A sound you could smell.

This man worked for the carnival,you dig?

And to start with it was
like a novelty ventriloquist act.

After a while,
the rear end started talking on its own.

He would go in
without anything prepared...

and his rear end would ad-lib
and toss the gags back at him every time.

Then it developed sort of teethlike...

little raspy incurving hooks
and started eating.

He thought this was cute at first
and built an act around it...

but the rear end in a top hat would eat its way through
his pants and start talking on the street...

shouting out it wanted equal rights.

It would get drunk, too, and have crying jags.
Nobody loved it.

And it wanted to be kissed,
same as any other mouth.

Finally, it talked all the time,
day and night.

You could hear him for blocks,
screaming at it to shut up...

beating at it with his fists...

and sticking candles up it, but...

nothing did any good,
and the rear end in a top hat said to him...

"It is you who will shut up
in the end, not me...

"because we don't need you
around here anymore.

I can talk and eat and poo poo."

After that, he began waking up
in the morning with transparentjelly...

like a tadpole's tail
all over his mouth.

He would tear it off his mouth
and the pieces would stick to his hands...

like burning gasoline jelly
and grow there.

So, finally, his mouth sealed over...

and the whole head...

would have amputated spontaneously
except for the eyes, you dig?

That's the one thing
that the rear end in a top hat couldn't do was see.

It needed the eyes.

Nerve connections were blocked...

and infiltrated and atrophied.

So, the brain couldn't
give orders anymore.

It was trapped inside the skull...

sealed off.

For a while, you could see...

the silent, helpless suffering
of the brain behind the eyes.

And then finally
the brain must have died...

because the eyes went out...

and there was no more feeling in them
than a crab's eye at the end of a stalk.

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


That's a good compromise, William S. Burroughs can be funny and existential.

ashgromnies
Jun 19, 2004


I've got blood on my hands...

And there's no remorse.

I've got blood on my dick...

Because I hosed a corpse.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



JebanyPedal posted:

That's a good compromise, William S. Burroughs can be funny and existential.

i wish i could remember the passage about being hung from the soft machine, it was gross, perverted and loving beautiful in a similar way to the other works of that gross old heroin addict fucker

FreudianSlippers
Apr 12, 2010
i hated your big dumb ugly macklemore av so i changed it

well cya

Large throbbing cocks glistening with sweat. Huge veiny pricks bashing against each other the thunderous sound the clashing dicks like a deafening thunder storm. Great thick spurts streaming from every tip. Everything covered in sticky white cum.

The essence of a GBS thread.

redshirt
Aug 11, 2007

Hailing frequencies

Yogurt gurgling out his gullet.

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes

Faux-Ass Nonsense
Feb 9, 2013


" When dancing... lost in techno trance. Arms flailing, gawky Bez. Then find you snagged on frowns, and slowly dawns... you're jazzing to the bleep tone of a life support machine, that marks the steady fading of your day old baby daughter. And when midnight sirens lead to blue-flash road-mash. Stretchers, covered heads, and slippy red macadam, and find you creeping 'neath the blankets, to snuggle close a mangle bird, hoping soon you too will be freezer drawered. Then welcome... mmm... ooh, chemotherapy wig, welcome. In Jam."

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say.

Orkin Mang
Nov 1, 2007


To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being hosed arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I hosed you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest loving I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, loving in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every gently caress I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger gently caress than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I hosed them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to gently caress a farting woman when every gently caress drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.


You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your stinkyhole, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's stinkyhole. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your stinkyhole is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.


Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.


JIM

paranoid randroid
Mar 4, 2007



A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now.

It is too late. The Evacuation still proceeds, but it's all theatre. There are no lights inside the cars. No light anywhere. Above him lift girders old as an iron queen, and glass somewhere far above that would let the light of day through. But it's night. He's afraid of the way the glass will fall--soon--it will be a spectacle: the fall of a crystal palace. But coming down in total blackout, without one glint of light, only great invisible crashing.

Inside the carriage, which is built on several levels, he sits in velveteen darkness, with nothing to smoke, feeling metal nearer and farther rub and connect, steam escaping in puffs, a vibration in the carriage's frame, a poising, an uneasiness, all the others pressed in around, feeble ones, second sheep, all out of luck and time: drunks, old veterans still in shock from ordnance 20 years obsolete, hustlers in city clothes, derelicts, exhausted women with more children than it seems could belong to anyone, stacked about among the rest of the things to be carried out to salvation. Only the nearer faces are visible at all, and at that only as half-silvered images in a view finder, green-stained VIP faces remembered behind bulletproof windows speeding through the city....

They have begun to move. They pass in line, out of the main station, out of downtown, and begin pushing into older and more desolate parts of the city. Is this the way out? Faces turn to the windows, but no one dares ask, not out loud. Rain comes down. No, this is not a disentanglement from, but a progressive knotting into--they go in under archways, secret entrances of rotted concrete that only looked like loops of an underpass . . . certain trestles of blackened wood have moved slowly by overhead, and the smells begun of coal from days far to the past, smells of naphtha winters, of Sundays when no trafflc came through, of the coral-like and mysteriously vital growth, around the blind curves and out the lonely spurs, a sour smell of rolling-stock absence, of maturing rust, developing through those emptying days brilliant and deep, especially at dawn, with blue shadows to seal its passage, to try to bring events to Absolute Zero . . . and it is poorer the deeper they go . . . ruinous secret cities of poor, places whose names he has never heard . . . the walls break down, the roofs get fewer and so do the chances for light. The road, which ought to be opening out into a broader highway, instead has been getting narrower, more broken, cornering tighter and tighter until all at once, much too soon, they are under the final arch brakes grab and spring terribly. It is a judgment from which there is no appeal.

The caravan has halted. It is the end of the line. All the evacuees are ordered out. They move slowly, but without resistance. Those marshaling them wear cockades the color of lead, and do not speak. It is some vast, very old and dark hotel, an iron extension of the track and switchery by which they have come here.... Globular lights, painted a dark green, hang from under the fancy iron eaves, unlit for centuries . . . the crowd moves without murmurs or coughing down corridors straight and functional as warehouse aisles . . . velvet black surfaces contain the movement: the smell is of old wood, of remote wings empty all this time just reopened to accommodate the rush of souls, of cold plaster where all the rats have died, only their ghosts, still as cave-painting, fixed stubborn and luminous in the walls . . . the evacuees are taken in lots, by elevator-a moving wood scaffold open on all sides, hoisted by old tarry ropes and cast-iron pulleys whose spokes are shaped like Ss. At each brown floor, passengers move on and off . . . thousands of these hushed rooms without light....

Some wait alone, some share their invisible rooms with others. Invisible, yes, what do the furnishings matter, at this stage of things? Underfoot crunches the oldest of city dirt, last crystallizations of all the city had denied, threatened, lied to its children. Each has been hearing a voice, one he thought was talking only to him, say, "You didn't really believe you'd be saved. Come, we all know who we are by now. No one was ever going to take the trouble to save you, old fellow...."

There is no way out. Lie and wait, lie still and be quiet. Screaming holds across the sky. When it comes, will it come in darkness, or will it bring its own light? Will the light come before or after?

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



Orkin Mang posted:

To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being hosed arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I hosed you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest loving I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, loving in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every gently caress I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger gently caress than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I hosed them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to gently caress a farting woman when every gently caress drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.


You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your stinkyhole, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's stinkyhole. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your stinkyhole is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.


Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.


JIM

LOL all authors are sick pervs

GelatinSkeleton
May 31, 2013



Happy the writer who, passing by characters that are boring, disgusting, shocking in their mournful reality, approaches characters that manifest the lofty dignity of man, who from the great pool of daily whirling images has chosen only the rare exceptions, who has never once betrayed the exalted turning of his lyre, nor descended from his height to his poor, insignificant brethren, and, without touching the ground, has given the whole of himself to his elevated images so far removed from it. Twice enviable is his beautiful lot: he is among them as in his own family; and meanwhile his fame spreads loud and far. With entrancing smoke he has clouded people's eyes; he has flattered them wondrously, concealing what is mournful in life, showing them a beautiful man. Everything rushes after him, applauding, and flies off following his triumphal chariot. Great world poet they name him, soaring high above all other geniuses in the world, as the eagle soars above the other high fliers. At the mere mention of his name, young ardent hearts are filled with trembling, responsive tears shine in all eyes...No one equals him in power--he is God! But such is not the lot, and other is the destiny of the writer who has dared to call forth all that is before our eyes every moment and which our indifferent eyes do not see--all the stupendous mire of trivia in which our life in entangled, the whole depth of cold, fragmented, everyday characters that swarm over our often bitter and boring earthly path, and with the firm strength of his implacable chisel dares to present them roundly and vividly before the eyes of all people! It is not for him to win people's applause, not for him to behold the grateful tears and unanimous rapture of the souls he has stirred; no sixteen-year-old girl will come flying to meet him with her head in a whirl and heroic enthusiasm; it is not for him to forget himself in the sweet enchantment of sounds he himself has evoked; it is not for him, finally, to escape contemporary judgment, hypocritically callous contemporary judgment, which will call insignificant and mean the creations he has fostered, will allot him a contemptible corner in the ranks of writers who insult mankind, will ascribe to him the quality of the heroes he has portrayed, will deny him heart, and soul, and the divine flame of talent. For contemporary judgment does not recognize that equally wondrous are the glasses that observe the sun and those that look at the movement of inconspicuous insect; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that much depth of soul is needed to light up the picture drawn from contemptible life and elevate it into a pearl of creation; for contemporary judgment does not recognize that lofty ecstatic laughter is worthy to stand beside the lofty lyrical impulse, and that a whole abyss separates it from the antics of the street-fair clown! This contemporary judgment does not recognize; and will turn it all into a reproach and abuse of the unrecognized writer; with no sharing, no response, no sympathy, like a familyless wayfarer, he will be left alone in the middle of the road. Grim is his path, and bitterly he will feel his solitude.



lol no one will read this

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


Orkin Mang posted:

To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being hosed arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I hosed you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest loving I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, loving in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every gently caress I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger gently caress than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I hosed them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to gently caress a farting woman when every gently caress drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.


You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your stinkyhole, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's stinkyhole. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your stinkyhole is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.


Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.


JIM

Truly a classic.

Dr. Tim Whatley
Jun 25, 2012

DON'T PAY MORE

BAGELSPORT


author is gay

redshirt
Aug 11, 2007

Hailing frequencies

Dingleberries moisten on curling rear end hairs.

WindmillSlayer
Oct 16, 2013



i suck, then gently caress, a mans cock, it explodes in jizzim, which i consume

Heartbroken 2Twice
Oct 6, 2013


Oh you, whoever you may be, when you are beside me, do not let any sound escape your vocal cords; do not with your larynx strive to outdo the nightingale; and, for yourself, do not on any account attempt to make your soul known to me by means of language. Maintain a religious silence, uninterrupted by the least sound. Cross your hands humbly on your breast, and lower your eyelids. I have told you this, and since that vision revealed to me the supreme truth, too many nightmares have sucked my throat, by day and by night, for me to have any courage left to renew, even in thought, the sufferings I underwent in that infernal hour, the memory which remorselessly pursues me. Oh! When you hear the avalanche of snow falling from the high mountain; the lioness in the barren desert lamenting the disappearance of its cubs; the tempest accomplishing its destined purpose; the condemned man groaning in prison on the eve of his execution; and the savage octopus telling the waves of the sea of his victory over swimmers and the shipwrecked, then you have to acknowledge it: are not these majestic voices finer than the sniggering of men?

JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare


Sputtering spurting diarrhea gorping and sloshing out my rear end in a top hat as I desperately curl my hands into fists and shove them into my rear end to calm the raging torrent of shart.

redshirt
Aug 11, 2007

Hailing frequencies

Yaks jacked up on crank.

Mariana Horchata
Jun 30, 2008



Orkin Mang posted:

To NORA
Dublin 8 December 1909
My sweet little whorish Nora I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. I am delighted to see that you do like being hosed arseways. Yes, now I can remember that night when I hosed you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest loving I ever gave you, darling. My prick was stuck in you for hours, loving in and out under your upturned rump. I felt your fat sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes. At every gently caress I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if a gave you a bigger stronger gently caress than usual, fat dirty farts came spluttering out of your backside. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling, and I hosed them out of you, big fat fellows, long windy ones, quick little merry cracks and a lot of tiny little naughty farties ending in a long gush from your hole. It is wonderful to gently caress a farting woman when every gently caress drives one out of her. I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. I think I could pick hers out in a roomful of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have. It is sudden and dry and dirty like what a bold girl would let off in fun in a school dormitory at night. I hope Nora will let off no end of her farts in my face so that I may know their smell also.


You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your stinkyhole, you little depraved blackguard. I hope you will surprise me some time when I am asleep dressed, steal over to me with a whore's glow in your slumberous eyes, gently undo button after button in the fly of my trousers and gently take out your lover's fat mickey, lap it up in your moist mouth and suck away at it till it gets fatter and stiffer and comes off in your mouth. Sometimes too I shall surprise you asleep, lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently, then lie down gently by you and begin to lick lazily round your bush. You will begin to stir uneasily then I will lick the lips of my darling's stinkyhole. You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your stinkyhole is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly.


Goodnight, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird! There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself, sweetly, dirtier, dirtier.


JIM

came in to post this but was beat...its certainly the high water mark for literary expression of intimacy in sexual relationships



king salmon
Oct 30, 2011



down below a crease at mex's navel, the stocky guy's amber ankles held apart the infinity sign his jeans made, without drawers. broad nosed, wide jawed, hair black and smooth, eric's cock rounding his mouth, mex grinning up with his pitted face. forward of his foreskin, a ridge of whitish yellow encircled mex's own cock head- which eric could see down beneath the thick thighs below his chin each time the mexican's mouth slid back. with the taste of dynamite's cheese and urine and the memory of jay's, eric felt the simple sight of mex's turning him on as much as the yearning in the man's raised eyes. eric's cock slid in and out mex's mouth. left of them, the stall wall was thick with blue paint. in it were three ordinary sized glory holes. to the right, another aric hadn't see was wide enough for a whole head!

Bip Roberts
Mar 29, 2005



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QGk8m51WDA

Edit: Dramatic reading

Bip Roberts fucked around with this message at Jul 3, 2014 around 05:29

QCIC
Feb 10, 2011

die Stimme der Energie


7 Is there not an appointed time to man upon earth? are not his days also like the days of an hireling?
2 As a servant earnestly desireth the shadow, and as an hireling looketh for the reward of his work:
3 So am I made to possess months of vanity, and wearisome nights are appointed to me.
4 When I lie down, I say, When shall I arise, and the night be gone? and I am full of tossings to and fro unto the dawning of the day.
5 My flesh is clothed with worms and clods of dust; my skin is broken, and become loathsome.
6 My days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle, and are spent without hope.
7 O remember that my life is wind: mine eye shall no more see good.
8 The eye of him that hath seen me shall see me no more: thine eyes are upon me, and I am not.
9 As the cloud is consumed and vanisheth away: so he that goeth down to the grave shall come up no more.
10 He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more.
11 Therefore I will not refrain my mouth; I will speak in the anguish of my spirit; I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.
12 Am I a sea, or a whale, that thou settest a watch over me?
13 When I say, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaints;
14 Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions:
15 So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than my life.
16 I loathe it; I would not live alway: let me alone; for my days are vanity.
17 What is man, that thou shouldest magnify him? and that thou shouldest set thine heart upon him?
18 And that thou shouldest visit him every morning, and try him every moment?
19 How long wilt thou not depart from me, nor let me alone till I swallow down my spittle?
20 I have sinned; what shall I do unto thee, O thou preserver of men? why hast thou set me as a mark against thee, so that I am a burden to myself?
21 And why dost thou not pardon my transgression, and take away my iniquity? for now shall I sleep in the dust; and thou shalt seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.

QCIC fucked around with this message at Jul 3, 2014 around 05:39

Exclamation Marx
Feb 18, 2012

doesn't give my
opponents much
time to run up a
to lection does it


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JebanyPedal
Feb 17, 2011

Pan American nightmare
Ten thousand feet fun-fair
Convinced that I don't care
It's safe as houses I swear
I was just sitting musing
The virtues of cruising
When altitude dropping
My ears started popping
One more red nightmare



Imagined that he is fiercely reading the contents of this thread.

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