Friday, January 29, 2016

Let Me Hug You, Girl

**I need to be good at something. I'm not saying this because I'm drunk, but because I really need to be good at something else, and not just putting dicks in my anus. So let me write some more, instead.

It is now five in the morning, and I can hear him fucking her in the other room. There is no groaning or moaning or cursing involved. Where's the sexual grammar that blooms with expressive delight? And this is decidedly boring most especially when there's nothing to see. It's the irregular thrusting sound that muscle upon muscle upon the iron frame of a four post bed that's giving them away. It's muffled, but distinct, a soft whoomp/creak followed shortly by a series of irregular whoomp/creeks, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, whomp... creak, pffooottt went my unoccupied ass, and then a succession of the usual whoomp/creaks.  

I am not one to judge. Maybe it is acceptable for two consenting, exceedingly drunk adults to fuck each other most especially when they're attracted to each other right off the bat. Several hours of brandy ignites, and then intensifies, the magnetic intention, and his erection, and that explains my listening to the Whoomp... Creak Show. I get that, and I am not going to knock on their door just to be a lousy friend and tell him that his real girlfriend will not know anything. I say real because there is an alarming increase in the population of Drinking Sessions Girlfriends. I have no choice but to come to terms with that minority. The Whoomp... Creak Show will not air otherwise. 

It is now 5:40 in the morning. And they're still at it.

I now bear Unfortunate Knowledge. His forward thrusts are singular, and I can give you a list of three or four dirty boys that will out fuck him ten times out of ten. This is not what disappoints me, however. I used to look up to him because of his flowery homilies about loyalty and fidelity and The Great Love, you know, the usual crap that weakens in the face of two liters of brandy and three hours of flirting. I'm still hearing him fucking her in the other room. The Whoomp... Creak Show is still airing. Whatever happened to all that face, pretty boy?

I mildly wonder how looking at him tomorrow will be like. He did me no harm, he bore me no false witness, he ruptured none of my tight orifices, he did me no wrong. It is now 6:10 in the morning, and I am waving a cheerful Fuck You to fidelity. I learned today that Nearly Nothing beats a raging erection.


  1. Replies
    1. Hello Erik. I feel like I know you somehow, perhaps from five or eight years ago, glacial periods, if you ask me. Thank you for dropping by.

  2. Yes, you do. There was Ira, and IE (Ayi) and Markus-coz and so on. Remember now?

    *weak smile*

  3. Oh yes! Yes! Yes!

    *orgasmic triumph at the recollection*

    Hey, Erik!


    How have you been! Oh Lord Mercy, how have you been! Notice how that's not a question? This is because I remember you now, with fondness, and I smile with the recollection. You were one of the earlier friends I had, as a blogger. This is like a reunion, except without the hugs and drama.

    I miss you. And why can't I leave comments in your blog?

  4. Hahahaha. If this was an airport, we be Lando and Baldo running towards each other, and screaming "Hayup ka! Na miss kita!"

    Sabay yakap/s. O ayan. Drama. HAHAHAHAHHAHAHHAHA.

    Something went wrong as I installed the skin, sa blog. It's werking now.

    More importantly, where is ebribadi..? How do I get back to the groove?

    1. Our audience is our oxygen. Everybody died of progressive asphyxiation some glacial periods ago, and the survivors are barely breathing enough.

      This Blahg of Bullshit's chest still expands. And it is happier now because you're here again. You remind it of the happy days, you know. You have no idea how your presence encourages it. Thank you, Erik.

      That, there, is drama.



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