Erotic Lit Q&A #2.
decades my family has had this little perverted Q&A game we play.
Last week, a few of us tried a variant on it where we take turns
writing fucked up erotic literature, only seeing the sentence before
the one we’re writing. The result was great. Now, every Friday at
10:00pm at Barnacles on Medlock Bridge Road we will be meeting for
drinks, cigars, food, and insanity as this game makes us laugh more
than the law should allow. Last night was glorious, and over the next
while I’ll be sharing some of the results. It may not work perfectly as
raw text, but trust me when I say that it’s a blast.
Dave Wagner, Kurt Miller, Cesar Montoya, Will Mason, Gray Whitten,
Andrew Sweeney, Justin Waddell, Nick Nunziata, Andrea Rothe, John
I won’t be happy until I make love on every sand castle on this fucking beach. Unfortunately, my first conquest had crabs. These crabs had their way with the princess, and Mario was pissed. I crave some turtle shell-sap. That is the only thing that will quench this longing. By which I mean “penis”. But you know all about those, don’t you, Mr. Wank Castle? Why do they call you the Punisher-Her? Because my dick is large and her pussy isn’t. I considered calling up Rick Moranis to ask him how to Honey I Shrunk My Cock, but nothing is worth the sacrifice. Luckily it was springtime and his Down’s Syndrome was starting to burgeon. Throbbing with anticipation, his burning lust drove him to the only next step, self fistulation. He put one knuckle in, and then two. And then the scarred one. And then winced with a glory-face. Each sperm flew out in a perfect spiral.
Dear Penthouse, I never thought I’d meet Crispin Glover, but… When he told me I was his density, I got wet in my duodenum. I applied a liberal amount of lubricant before guiding the heat-seeking missile into my cinnamon ring. Good God I shouldn’t have used my KY Warming Liquid. It burns my anal canal. I should have known my ass was hot enough. Lucky for her, I’d just had my crotch varnished. We sat in the moonlight and discussed the poetry of Han Solo. I couldn’t help but appreciate the lovelorn soliloquies of R2-D2. He spoke in “Beeps” and “Baps” and “Squimps” and “Bowbargles”. He had me at “Bowbargles”. Their love consisted of applied metallurgy and routine visits to the pump station. “Mmmmmm, full octane”. After all, was love between man, machine, and Lobot not meant to be this way? I wiggled and jiggled the pump, but alas there was no amazing.
Her pulsating pelvis alerted her that something was wrong with the financial situation in Chicago. Just thinking about this city made her gash dripping wet. I kicked her in the cunt just to straighten her out. Also, I kicked rocks up inside her vagina. My roommate said it chafed him like a 43 day-old cum rag. We high-fived, sensitively. After we high-fived, we low-fived, vaginatively. And then I clipped her taint skin with toenail clippers at her request. Sadly, the governer stepped in to make it official. But she had to earn the stay the old fashioned way. My junk got rolled out like biscuits. Biscuits that taste like ass cum. They were pretty much the worst biscuits ever. They looked at each other with a look of pure doing-it-ness. In her eyes, the demand for sandbags was obvious. Alas, there were no more sandbags, only my drained, drained ballsac.
The drum solo at the Styx concert, folks in the mood, the butt bangin’ conga line mood. Domo Arigato, Mr. Butt Fucked! I laugh because it’s true and I laugh because I’m Julian Sands. If you aren’t familiar, I really enjoy the gritty texture on Independence Day. Nothing gets me off like a little trick I like to call the Greco-Roman Man-Dle. Memories of Father O’Reilly and the other sweet meat filled my head. I rolled a fat blunt and then reallized I shouldn’t roll Fat, Blunt, Andy. But Andy’s fat, blunt, chocolate starfish beckoned for my immediate and unyielding attention. My poop smelled like the Post Office. And it tasted like Carl Cunningham’s dick! Thank the maker. He fucked better than the best goddamns with the best tits in the fucking gay rodeo. He’d tried them all to make sure, too. Not a single gay cowboy could out-bone this hombre. That’s what made her unrequieted love so sad. So sad.
He was a gentle soul. It surprised Muriel that he was so forceful from behind. She adhered to his strict rules, for the end result would still involve puppetry. Also, the rules involved licking the spots where the duct tape (ripped off with force, of course) left raw spots on her blushing epidermis. But (butt?) that has always been the case. With the lack of proper lotion and too much purple helmeted warrior love. She massaged her love mound with strawberry jam, and smiled into the camera. “Oh Mr. Mason. Your love dome sure doth reflect my bountiful bosum in a way which doth entice me to suck your chin of chins.” He lit a cigarette and flashed her a smile, thinking ‘This bitch is gonna poop ‘Nilla Wafers’. Realizing how much he loved those things, he began to wonder how much milk he could get out of the deal. With no choices left, he grabbed a pail in one hand and a teat in the other and got to work. Within five hours, he had rebuilt the Statue of Puberty. Shimmering, glinting in the silvery moonlight. The moonlight reminded me of Tim’s manshot. I couldn’t believe we made love at Denny’s.
- Nick Nunziata promises that it’s funnier in real life.
I go, here’s the latest thing I’m adding to the blog. Each day I blog I’ll
have a song, a piece of artwork, a photo, a Mary Worth, or something to
further justify your click and to give the trolls a little more ammo.
Today, a remake of an older tune, Bastards Have Landed, from the next CD. Xoaldus: