Whatever

Fuck it and shit.

I Read It

"A Dhampir (also dhampire, dhamphir or dhampyr) in Balkan folklore and in vampire fiction is the child of a vampire father and a human mother, with vampire powers but none of the weaknesses. (in fiction, the reverse occurs as well)."

Non-fiction is now, as ever, a dangerous place to live.

Erotic Grape Fan Fiction

Vedra Rubbinstuf stretched out - entirely nude - on her pink davenport.

"Ho hum," she said. "Another dull day! Whatever shall I do with the time... and me so horny, as well..." She did not realize that she had inadvertently made a popular reference to the film Full Metal Jacket. She was merely unable to refrain from observing that she was, indeed, very horny that afternoon.

She looked around the room. Her television sat on its orange crate in the corner. "Oh, piss on television! Who could want to watch that stuff on such a boring day!" Several books and magazines were stacked by the easy chair. "Pfff!" she said. "Books! As though I wanted a book! As though I were an asshole!" She reached for a grape from the plate on the table, and as she placed it whole in her mouth, a thought struck her.

The smooth, cool, and slightly wet grape rolled around on her tongue, and she found that her dire horniness only grew worse. She pressed it back out through her lips - her full, luscious lips - and held it between her thumb and her finger, studying it. Below, her horniness raged like a hot, wet thunderstorm.

As a child, she had made a game of placing as many as grapes in her mouth at once as she could. (Twenty-seven, in fact, on an occasion when she was in practice and had found some generally small grapes.) An overwhelming compulsion struck her to repeat this childhood diversion, but without using her mouth at all.

"I'm going to stick all these grapes into my pussy," she said.

As the first grape passed up into her eager and attractive pussy, she gasped with thrill. This was what she had been waiting for, not just on this dull afternoon, but her entire life. She could hardly imagine that her pussy or grapes existed for any reason other than this union. Why were grapes edible at all? It was an unnecessary distraction, she realized. Vedra inserted three more grapes in sequence.

At this point, she was trembling with pleasure - sexual pleasure - and could barely hold the plate of grapes steady. As the fifth grape slid home, Vedra realized that her delights had come with a dilemma. Thus far, all the grapes were still whole and intact, which seemed to her to be in the spirit of the game. But it was inevitable that the crowding of the grapes and the contraction of her notoriously powerful vaginal muscles would soon crush most or all of the grapes. She tried to decide whether this outcome bothered her, but found she could concentrate on nothing but the placement of the sixth grape, and the electric shivers of pleasure coursing through her body as the cool, sleek surfaces of the grapes ground over each other within her.

After the eighth and then the ninth grape, Vedra slid from the davenport onto the carpet. She gasped and moaned. Gasped and moaned erotically. The grapes, through some miracle of ideal eroticism, were all still intact. Soon the twelfth grape was pressing against her. Her eyes rolled up. She could see the room around her, but felt as though it were a little unreal, as though she were really somewhere else. She meowed like a cat and didn't even know why. Seventeen grapes.

As she pushed the final grape in with a small popping noise, she found she could no longer lift her arms. All of her limbs were trembling. So many grapes, she thought to herself. Her deep breathing began to catch in hitches. Finally, it had gone as far as it could. She moaned (she was having an orgasm, see?) and felt all of the grapes being suddenly crushed within her.

She lay still on the carpet, her heart hammering in her chest and a pool of grape juice growing around her butt.

"Twenty-eight," she gasped.


---

Some months later, Vedra sat down to dinner with her friend Evelyn, a lovely and statuesque sapphist dressed in an attractive cream-colored evening dress. "It's so wonderful to see you again, Vedra," said Evelyn, who occasionally said very boring things in the course of making small talk.

"I'm quite glad to see you, Evelyn," said Vedra. "I have something I've been very eager to show you. But first -" Vedra produced an unlabeled bottle - "may I offer you some wine?"

?

per Wikipedia:

Monotremes also lactate, but have no defined nipples, excreting the milk from their mammary glands via openings in their skin.

Sure, but... I mean, but... I mean, that's what placental mammals do, too, but they have defined nipples.

I mean, I guess my question is, as long as we're throwing the phrase "defined nipples" around, how does one define an opening in the skin out of which a mammal produces milk?

Right?

I guess my main point is that I would fuck the shit out of a monotreme, hell yeah. One hole? Yeah, that's all the holes I need, baby!

I know what I'm doing to that hole!

When I start looking for a hole, which I'll find (once) on a monotreme, I know what I'm going to do to it! Hell yeah!

Making love and boning and stuff!

You know what I'm talking about.

Psychology

I just realized that saying that someone is "nuts" is almost as sexist as "hysteria."

Getting Mugged

It was very rude.

So, in conclusion, I determined that the best place in the city to shout as loud as you can is in fact just of Flushing Ave.

I Read It

In December 2007, Italian cinema magazine Nocturno published the first 70 pages dossier completely dedicated to the Frat Pack phenomenon.

The moral is to not read things.

Ahhhh

I have been wondering what is the place to go to in the city to scream as loudly as you like. I do not think the Jamaica Bay Wildlife Refuge is the answer. I suppose the center of Prospect Park may serve some well. A soundproofed room is only acceptable if one owns the property and it has a pleasant view; I guess I would like something in Chelsea overlooking the Hudson and New Jersey and now that I come to think of it the sun. I think that getting far enough out on one of the beaches is appropriate for more native persons than myself. For my own purposes I believe that the answer is the obvious answer, the top of the Empire State Building.

I've also been meaning to start cooking more again.

Update

I have let big desires keep me from responsible updating of this web site, an exercise I undertook in 2003 to make sure I wrote enough every day.

As explained to me, the official reason for my discharge from my prior place of employment was suspected corporate espionage. I was not, strictly speaking, guilty, but I am happy enough to update my résumé appropriately, should there be work in the espionage field.

For the blankly terrified who worry "How will he get food?", do not worry. I have become a freelance graphic designer, so all is well enough in this world.

I have come to develop a certain fondness beyond that which existed for Kings County.

I think other stuff happened as well. It's late to the point of being basically early. Readers must suffice. Though as always, I thank them for the kind attention to this, to which readers have always been a grim kindness.

Readers, you are kind, too kind. I wish you a day in which you eat much chocolate.

LOL JK

Just kidding, readers. Sorry! I was just joking. I am not the victim of bizarre misfortunes and chronic stupidity. These latest tragicomic vignettes are just an extension of the long and wacky tale of my fictional life that I have been spinning these many years. But enough, I say! Enough! I do not get fired from my job for arbitrary and nonsensical reasons. I do not believe in animal symbolism. My name is not Jack.

I live in a townhouse in the West End of Boston. I am a successful civil engineer. My wife is wise and witty, beautiful and gentle. My son is three. My daughter is one. Since I met my wife that happy Spring day along the Charles until the present I have never been tempted by another woman. We get fresh bread from the bakery, and fresh produce from the farmer's market. My children are attractive and healthy.

I have finished writing my book, a light history of American industrial barons, their sins and triumphs and all-too-human comic foibles. My editor, that dear old fat man, tells me he will soon be done segmenting the most egregious run-on sentences.

I never drink too much. My wife and I share a glass of wine with our dinner. I admit, every few weeks, Eben and I sneak out to the river and have a few glasses of gin apiece. But never to excess. The police never bother us. The idea of me receiving a citation for drinking in public is ridiculous.

I jog and I box. My abdominal muscles are slowly softening, and lines are working their way onto my face, but everyone who sees me agrees that the process is happening quite handsomely.

I am an engineer of some distinction. I have the respect of trusted peers. I have helped make bridges and towers, moved rivers' courses, and smoothed over the surface of the land. I have acquired a reputation sufficient that I need never take work that does not interest me, nor work with people who are not capable and bright.

Our home is comfortable and tasteful. Odd bits of our clutter tends to pop up, but I prefer these cheerful reminders of my family's business to austere tidiness. The walls are red brick. We have a black iron fence.

I have settled into a routine of great peace of mind. With time, I have become somewhat blind to those things in the world that are disturbing and strange, the cruel, the sweaty, the disordered things in life. My mind moves peacefully over thoughts of my family, my work, the notes that I am gathering for my next book. I do not know about the bad things in the world any more. They are simply not in my mind. Except now, at night, sometimes. I keep waking up, positive that I can sense at the periphery of my thoughts some kind of hole in my life and the world. I cannot sleep. I stand outside of our house staring at the street for some sign, something solid to help me explain this weird sense of wrong. I turn back to the house and my son is staring at me from the window. A cigarette hangs out of my mouth. I do not know how or why he is awake. We do not say anything.

Wait, wait. Crap! I think I'm doing this wrong. This isn't what the book of magic told me to do at all. God damn it! Now my new pretend life is screwed up, too!