The Girl With No Lunch

The little girl went to school without lunch.   She cried all day long as the children around her chomped on their apples and buttered biscuits.  The teachers offered her nibbles of their sandwiches but nothing could calm the little girl down.

At school’s end, everyone was glad to see poor Tabitha depart.   Everyone except Arthur Dresmanian.   He found a beauty in Tabitha.   Something so freeing in the tears and its accompanied wailing.

The years that followed, Arthur fell so deeply in love with Tabitha, all he could do was stutter in her company.   By seventeen years of age, she had enough of his silly ways.

“What is it with you, Arthur?”

“Nu-nu-nothing.  Yu-you?”

“You hate me?  Do I scare you?”

“Nu-nu-no.  Wu-why?”

The only cure for Arthur’s irritating stuttering, she realized, was to kiss him.  She lodged her lips upon his, pushing Arthur against the cold lockers.  Seconds later, she pulled away asking, “Now, how do you feel?”

He responded with a kiss.   Never again did Arthur stutter.   Never again did Arthur speak as he fell deep into Tabitha’s mouth.  Her canines tearing him apart.  Blood dribbling down her chin.  She raced to the bathroom only to be stopped mid-way by Principal Hayes, an old curmudgeon.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

She pointed to the blood on her chin.

“What happened?  Forgot your lunch again?”

Tabitha nodded.

Hayes sighed, extracting a miniature notepad from his back pocket, “Alright, who was it this time?”

Mountain House

Going to a mountain house.  There’s a family there in hiding.   They’re paranoid someone’s out to kill them.   I’ve been asked to guard them.  The parents, George and Harriet, are under the impression I enjoy using handguns.  Never touched one in my life.   As a matter of fact, I detest weapons.  My purpose at the mountain house is to assure they understand my visit will be brief.  I’ll prepare an Indian buffet then take the long boat back to my urban shack.  Flip on the tube, roll myself a smoke and then pass on the bearskin carpet.

Unwanted House Guests

Theses unwanted house guests shield themselves as love but really they are pariahs.   They just appear.  Looking back, you wonder if you invited them in?   Maybe a little…life can be lonely sometimes.   Boy, how nice it is,though, to be alone.  Do things your way.   They, however, argue that everything you do is wrong. You calmly tell them they’re not seeing things right.   No, they insist, it’s you who is seeing everything wrong.  But we love you, they add, and you’re not alone.   Well, if I wasn’t alone, then why the fuck do I feel so alone?

Time to clean house.   Push these unwanted house guests to the porch, to the lawn.   Hell, I don’t care where they go.  Just leave me be.   Let me fill my space with my loving energy.   I will win here.   It’s in my cards.

Visit From Granddaughter


March 2012–Without both job and therapist I became overwhelmed.   Shaking with tears, I pulled over into the parking lot of the sex shop.  It became clear that I needed help.

The woman who came to my aid was insane.  She insisted I ignore my deepest self. She then urged me to write an erotic tale.   Below is the erotic tale entitled Visit From Granddaughter.   It’s X-rated, of course.  Shield your eyes if you are a minor or a prude.  Before continuing on with the tale, I’d like you to know I switched therapists.  The new one is much better.


A strange perfume was in the air, something musky and sweet.  The pedestrians rushing about the overheated pavement observed that yes the sweet musky smell derived from a female.

Roger mumbled aloud to himself. Whatever had been on his mind vanished.   He looked around, saw clearly that he was amongst strangers.  He blushed, ran into the foyer of the nearest skyscraper. A woman in her early eighties fumbled with a bag of groceries.

Roger, kind soul that he is, offered his assistance.   She at first declined his help.  Perhaps it was the hoody affixed upon his head, the aviator sunglasses, scruffy neck, and paint-splattered jeans that caused this octogenarian to reel back in disgust.   But then when he actually spoke, “You can’t do this alone,” the honey poured out his lips.

“Come up,” she urged, leaving everything to him.   During the elevator ride up she rattled on and on about her granddaughter, how she’ll be coming by any minute and the vegetarian lasagna, her granddaughter’s favorite dish, has yet to be made.

Inside the apartment, modern appliances throughout:  a flat-screen TV that responds through whistling, a remote control shower and toilet and a miniature robot that circumnavigates the floor sucking up any and all dirt rendering her living space spotless.   As she put together the vegetarian lasagna, the old woman complained of today’s urban supermarket lines.  “There needs to be more self-checkout lines or cashiers that have at least a high school diploma,” she urged.

Fifteen minutes inside this woman’s apartment and Roger was ready to leave.   He paced about, adjusted his collar, stamped his feet, checked his imaginary watch, anything to imply that the next step would be departure.  She, however, insisted he meet his granddaughter.

“She’s a high school scholar,” the woman boasted.   “You should read her fictions.  They’ll make your bones tremor.”

As he devised an escape plan, the doorbell rang.

“There she is,” the old woman morphed into a marathon runner as she made her way toward the buzzer.   “Eat dinner, get to know Eloise and then you can take off.”

“Superficially,” asked Roger.

“What do you mean, young man?”

“It could take years to actually get to know someone.”

“Oh, Roger, you mustn’t take everything so literally,” the old woman cackled.

The door flew upon, nearly knocking the old woman off her feet.   Standing in the doorway was Eloise, grinning cheek to cheek.   Sixteen, maybe seventeen.   Long slender tanned legs framed in turquoise jogging shorts.   Brown hair fell halfway down her tan tank top.   Eloise nearly crushed her grandmother to death.  The two held hands staring at one another, humming some private tune.   It all ended with the two jumping about like two schoolgirls at a candy store.

Roger was already drooling.   He apologized as he shook Eloise’s hand.   They worked their way into the dining room.   Hot steaming veggie lasagna flopped onto the plate and before Roger knew it, dessert was offered.

As the cherry pie made it onto his plate, the old woman lightly kicked Roger’s chair. “Tell Eloise what you do?”

Roger stammered at first but then managed to find the three words, “I’m an artist.”  The two fawned over Roger’s chosen profession.  Can they see his work?  Does he make enough money doing this?   What inspires him?  How long has he been doing this?  The barrage of questions threw him into a state of confusion.  “What to answer first?”   As he opened his mouth, the following words were emitted: “Eloise, will you model for me?”

“There’s no better time than now,” Eloise nodded and then hoisted herself atop the dining room table.

“Oh,” the old woman moaned.  “I just knew the two of you would hit it off!”

The turquoise jogging trunks flew off her left leg, landing in the old woman’s lap.   She sniffed her granddaughter’s jogging trunks as Eloise made her way toward Roger.

“I don’t have my…”

“You have it all, Roger.”   She then tore off her tank top, her tits flopping about in his face.  “Lick it.”

There was nowhere else to go but into Eloise’s bosom.   As his tongue glided around, he found his hands ripping Eloise’s lacy G-string.

The old woman dashed into the kitchen only to come out seconds later with a pair of scissors.  She sliced off Eloise’s G-string.  “A little bit easier for you, young man.”  She then took a seat, watching the two youngsters going at it.

Eloise pulled Roger onto the table, kicking away any debris in their way.   Her hands caressed his massive bulge.

“Your turn, Roger.”  The old woman activated her scissors once again, cutting open his outfit.   The two women stared with utter admiration at Roger’s Spartan frame.  Like a starving pup, Eloise sucked upon his dancing pectorals.  His left pointer finger entered her rear end.

“That’s just how I like it,” shrieked Eloise.

“It must run in the family,” agreed the old woman.

The two lovers fell atop the lasagna-stained tablecloth.  She worked his cock so hard that it nearly knocked over the bottle of wine.

“Put it in me,” she insisted.  He then thrust himself into her dripping wet vagina.  Inside, her muscles clenched and released at such a rate, Roger thought he was loosing his mind.

“This is the hardest my cock has ever been,” he confessed.  He then glanced over at the old woman.  Her breasts were dangling out her blouse while she fingered herself.

“Take me next,” the old woman wailed.  She couldn’t wait.  The old woman climbed atop the table while Roger slid his cock against Eloise’s clitoris.  The octogenarian then grabbed Roger’s ass cheeks, rimming the hole within.

“Spray Granny and I at the same time,” Eloise insisted.

The old woman slapped Roger’s ass and took position beside her granddaughter.   Roger stroked his cock as Eloise and her grandmother massaged his muscular thighs.   A warm stream of sperm squirted out atop both females.   The two licked every ounce of sperm off one another.

“Anyone care for some tea,” chimed the old woman.

List Day

Today’s List Day.  This means I shall list where my attention has been lately–

  1. Reading two books.   What Is The What and The Poor Mouth.   At night, I alternate between the two of them.
  2. There are few TV shows that intrigue me.  During the snow storm, I caught up on ABC’s Scandal.   Totally up-to-date, I have a bloodshot left eye.  Do Mac computers emit a violent ray?
  3. Starting a business that will incorporate aspects of my previous jobs.   Since this is in the conception stage, I will hold back discussing it further.  Speaking of my old job, I’ve written an essay that outlines my experience there.   Although incomplete, I’m considering uploading it here in segments.
  4. Following the Paleo diet.  I find myself hungrier as there’s no bread/gluten to stuff me.   In addition to eating tons of greens, in the form of raw soup (thank you, Israel), meat, fish and eggs, I’m also loading up on Larabars.   One week in, this diet, has improved my performance at CrossFit and has cut an inch or two off my waist.  Could someone in Italy survive on the Paleo diet?
  5. Continuing the novel.   My progress is slow here.   Once my business has picked up, hopefully in the next two weeks, I can dedicate more time to it.

What Is Love?

Love is knowing that all your needs and wants are available at your fingertips.

Love is rolling in the dirt.

Love is running around with the animals.

Love is playing with the children.

Love is the allowance of tears streaming down your cheek.

Love is finding a safe space to express your rage.

Love is acceptance of terror and fear.

Love is watching the forest expand.

Love is allowing yourself to expand.

Love is nourishing the garden of life.

Love is meditating.

Love is finding comfort in your naked body.

Love is healthy eating.

Love is wild dancing.

Love is splashing about in water.

Love is falling asleep on fresh sweet soil.

Love is embracing your moments of solitude.

What does Love mean to you?

Dead Zone

It feels quiet online.  Everyone must be gearing up for the Super Bowl.   I’ve been invited to a gathering but like most social occasions will skip out on it.  You see Netflix released House of Cards starring Kevin Spacey.  The show chronicles the lives of congressmen.  It’s rare for me to give a shit about politicians.   Yet as I write this I remember dreams involving two presidents.

Countless times, George W. Bush made an appearance.   As much as I had, at the time, detested the man, in the dream, Bush showed his vulnerability.   He cried when discussing the pain he might have inflicted upon the world.   He laughed appropriately.   Upon each awakening, I wondered if in this realm we’d get along.

A few days after New Year’s, I dreamed of Obama.   In the dream, he showed his musical side.  He sang and danced.   Together, we celebrated economic improvement.

I haven’t forgotten the analysis of the unfinished script titled Descent.  I am, however, working on something big.   Not a script.  Yes, a novel but I speak of something else.  A rewarding career.   Once this has been fully formulated, I’ll share what that is.

Happy Superbowl Day!