Barbara Walters, Larry King, Oprah and Geraldo. All of them have contacted me in the past, in the vain attempt to gain knowledge of how I can constantly come up with such insightful, witty and mind-bendingly intelligent Eighty-Four Glyde entries on a regular basis.
But I always send them away with a stern look and a shake of my head. For they are not capable of asking the proper questions to gain access to the inner workings of my incredibly complex and deep mind. Nor do they possess the cognitive capacity to understand the words of truth that would flow from my mind like a massively churning river of knowledge and wisdom.
So my mind remained a locked vault, inaccessible to the Great Unwashed. Which is a pity, because people could learn so much from me, and peace would reign throughout the land.
Until now.
I have discovered a person worthy of interviewing me with five questions of amazing depth. His name is Marc(o) Porno and these are his questions. Read on ye mortals and prepare to be awakened to higher levels of consciousness.
1. What's the craziest sexual experience you've ever had? (Typical question from me...)
Well, since my parents and sister read Eighty-Four Glyde, I guess I would have to say that I’m still a virgin, waiting for marriage to give myself unto a woman. Because that is the right and proper thing to do.
If my family didn’t read this, then I’d say that my craziest sexual experience would probably be the time…hmmm…now that I think about it, I’ve had a lot of crazy experiences. Geez, I’m kinda slutty. Well, there was this one time when a girlfriend and I decided to do it at a popular D. C. nightclub. Not in the bathroom or an alley behind it mind you, but right there in front of everybody while sitting on a bench. We thought we were slick about it and that nobody could tell what we were doing (she was wearing a skirt so no clothes had to be cast aside or anything), but that proved to be false, because this chick came up and sat next to us to get a better view. She told us as much and attempted to have a conversation with me about the times she’d engaged in similar activities, as the act continued. She seemed to be a little too into it, so we stopped and she wandered away sullen. That might or might not be the craziest sexual experience, but it was the first thing I thought of. And since it’s an ex girlfriend, I don’t have to feel bad about dropping dimes, cause I won’t get in trouble.
2. What are your future plans after your career in the military?
That’s a good question. Answering it is hard because I have lofty goals and if things don’t go down the way I write them, people are gonna wonder what kind of loser I am. Let’s just say that the endstate of things is that I plan on being super famous and ridiculously rich in the future. At which point I will rub it in the face of everybody on my Jerk List. (oh, there’s a list alright. Be afraid!)
My more immediate goal is to go back to college and finish my English major, (creative writing to be more specific). Thanks to the Montgomery G.I. Bill I’ll only pay a billion dollars instead of a trillion. Thanks government! Since I have wanderlust, my hope is to go to school in another country. I’d like to go to Australia, but anywhere (other than the majority of Europe) is fine with me. Failing that, somewhere really random in America, like Barren Wasteland University, or Frozen Tundra Tech.
3. Why do you write blogs?
I write for a few reasons. I started Eighty-Four Glyde to impress a chick, (didn’t work. In fact I have yet to acquire a single Glyde Groupie. How pathetic is that?! Share with me your secrets Tucker Max!)
Another reason I write is because for every newspaper and magazine I’ve worked for I’ve written a humor column. The internet, and Myspace in particular) seemed like the next logical medium to continue writing a humor column, but this time with more freedom. Without the stifling hand of an editor to alter the content and words I use, I get to write what I want to, how I want to. Sometimes I succeed in making people laugh, sometimes I fail horribly. But at least it’s because of me and my desire to experiment with writing styles and topics. Having nobody to blame but yourself is refreshing.
But the biggest reason is because I write. I may not be good at it, (and no, saying that isn’t me trying to get my ego soothed by people) but that doesn’t matter because I enjoy doing it and a person’s love for something should outweigh and bring more pleasure than their level of skill in it. I think I’m somewhat talented at writing and always strive to write. That’s why I wrote for my college paper, why I became an English major, why I am a journalist in the army and why I write Eighty-Four Glyde. (Though the occasional groupie or two wouldn’t hurt.)
4. I know your excitement about the summer movies you'll see when you come home. If you could see the best movie ever, that hasn't been made yet, what would it be?
I’m a bit of a movie fan. Okay, a big movie fan. I prefer bad movies because those are the most fun, but I’ve seen enough films to think that I could come out with a great movie. Maybe not the best for everybody, but it’d do it for me. It would combine (steal) things from movies and books that I’ve absorbed to be something old and new at the same time. I would have John Woo-style gun battles, violent ballets of blood and bullets. I’d throw in some Jackie Chan-like fight scenes (none of that fighting people do on wires where they seem to float all over the place) mixed with a little of Tony Jaa stunts and moves. It’d have many layers to it, so you could watch it and enjoy it as a teen and then watch it 20 years later and discover a whole new side to the movie that you never noticed. It’d be an adventure. Indiana Jonesesque treasure hunts are always fun. It’d have a realistic ending too, maybe the hero will die, but probably not. Gotta set up that sequel!
5. Ever sniff the paper after wiping?
Much like Prince Akeem, I have wipers who do the dirty work for me. What they do afterward, I haven’t the slightest clue. I’m waiting for the day when scientists invent a pill that eliminates any of that, so there are no clingons or residual waste. That would totally eliminate, like, 20 minutes from my allotted toilet time.
I’d like to thank Marc(o) for those excellent questions and I hope you all learned something interesting. And now let me share the wealth and wow you with my interviewing skills. I shall pay it forward. TTFN.
Here's the "rules" as they were sent to me:
How to Play:
1. Leave me a comment saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by e-mailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog (so you have to have a blog) with a post containing your answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Salt House Chronicles I
I’ve alluded to my former abode a few times before. But most of you have never been formally introduced to my degenerate old domicile.
At the end of my second year at the old alma matter, Wittenberg University (Motto: The home for WPs who wear Birkenstocks and socks in the February snow.) a few friends and I were in a predicament. We had to find some kind of off-campus housing for the next year. Being the lazy slobs that we were, we dragged our feet and enjoyed several cases of beer while our responsible peers went out and acquired themselves affordable apartments with plenty of square footage in convenient locations, probably with breakfast nooks (I’ve always wanted one of those) and doormats.
With the school year drawing to a close, my friends and I (henceforth to be referred to by our better known name: Tha Crew) put down our various implements of whatever and beer bottles and got our shit together enough to stumble out of the dorm into the harsh daylight to look for our new home.
I don’t know who saw it first; perhaps we all saw it at the same time. For sure none of us really reacted the first time we saw it. The “it” in question being a “For Rent” sign, residing in the overgrown lawn of a dilapidated old house on the main street that we passed every time we drove to and from other appointments to see apartments. It wasn’t our first choice, because the lawn in question belonged to a building that looked to have been constructed back when people believed in burning witches at the stake and drilling holes in heads to let out evil spirits*. So we weren’t too anxious to call the number on the For Rent sign. After all, the person on the other end of the line could have been Hannibal Lecter, eager to show us how much crawlspace the house has for storing bodies.
Besides the obvious antediluvian properties of the house, another curious feature was a sign nailed to the front that simply said “Salt House”, cryptic, to say the least.
After calling the rental number, we met the guy trying to offload the property on some ignorant college saps (Tha Crew fit the bill quite nicely) and he told us about the house during the tour.
It seems that the large place used to house a Christian fraternity. They were a pious lot who didn’t take the best care of the place. The walls needed painting, the rugs needed vacuuming, the floors needed sweeping, the kitchen needed delousing and the whole place needed an exorcism.
Hell, there were still gas outlets on the walls from where the original inhabitants would hang their lamps for light before electricity was discovered!!!!**
The basement was the scariest part. The electricity didn’t work and it was filled with old, abandoned furniture. Tables, chairs, desks and the like. I guess that after a day of regular school learnin’ the frat would get together at the Salt House for compulsory religious learnin’. The walls of the basement were all very old stone. It looked as though the Hebrews had practiced construction by building the basement of the Salt House before they went on to create all those pyramids in Egypt.*** One wall had tumbled, revealing the dank earth behind it. Quite unsettling. Naturally, we spent as little time as possible down there. And when we did go we always brought a flash light and traveled in twos, with ropes tied around our waists as so not to be dragged off into the dark by some ill-conceived creature from out of a poorly written Stephen King novel, (the guy’s a hack people! His stories don’t frighten so much put people to sleep by their sheer length.)
Instead, once we had moved in, we spent the majority of our time in the bat-infested attic. There we would lounge about like Supreme Beings of Leisure, (I’ve never heard their music, but that is one of the most ass-kickingest names for a band ever!) watching t.v., hosting legendary parties and fighting bats with golf clubs (we had the golf clubs, not the bats). But that’s another story…
*Alternate jokes about age include saying that it’s as old as your mom, (who’s so old that when God said “let there be light” she flipped the light switch. It’s corny, yet a classic) but I decided to take the high road instead.
**Invented?
***That’s another old joke.
At the end of my second year at the old alma matter, Wittenberg University (Motto: The home for WPs who wear Birkenstocks and socks in the February snow.) a few friends and I were in a predicament. We had to find some kind of off-campus housing for the next year. Being the lazy slobs that we were, we dragged our feet and enjoyed several cases of beer while our responsible peers went out and acquired themselves affordable apartments with plenty of square footage in convenient locations, probably with breakfast nooks (I’ve always wanted one of those) and doormats.
With the school year drawing to a close, my friends and I (henceforth to be referred to by our better known name: Tha Crew) put down our various implements of whatever and beer bottles and got our shit together enough to stumble out of the dorm into the harsh daylight to look for our new home.
I don’t know who saw it first; perhaps we all saw it at the same time. For sure none of us really reacted the first time we saw it. The “it” in question being a “For Rent” sign, residing in the overgrown lawn of a dilapidated old house on the main street that we passed every time we drove to and from other appointments to see apartments. It wasn’t our first choice, because the lawn in question belonged to a building that looked to have been constructed back when people believed in burning witches at the stake and drilling holes in heads to let out evil spirits*. So we weren’t too anxious to call the number on the For Rent sign. After all, the person on the other end of the line could have been Hannibal Lecter, eager to show us how much crawlspace the house has for storing bodies.
Besides the obvious antediluvian properties of the house, another curious feature was a sign nailed to the front that simply said “Salt House”, cryptic, to say the least.
After calling the rental number, we met the guy trying to offload the property on some ignorant college saps (Tha Crew fit the bill quite nicely) and he told us about the house during the tour.
It seems that the large place used to house a Christian fraternity. They were a pious lot who didn’t take the best care of the place. The walls needed painting, the rugs needed vacuuming, the floors needed sweeping, the kitchen needed delousing and the whole place needed an exorcism.
Hell, there were still gas outlets on the walls from where the original inhabitants would hang their lamps for light before electricity was discovered!!!!**
The basement was the scariest part. The electricity didn’t work and it was filled with old, abandoned furniture. Tables, chairs, desks and the like. I guess that after a day of regular school learnin’ the frat would get together at the Salt House for compulsory religious learnin’. The walls of the basement were all very old stone. It looked as though the Hebrews had practiced construction by building the basement of the Salt House before they went on to create all those pyramids in Egypt.*** One wall had tumbled, revealing the dank earth behind it. Quite unsettling. Naturally, we spent as little time as possible down there. And when we did go we always brought a flash light and traveled in twos, with ropes tied around our waists as so not to be dragged off into the dark by some ill-conceived creature from out of a poorly written Stephen King novel, (the guy’s a hack people! His stories don’t frighten so much put people to sleep by their sheer length.)
Instead, once we had moved in, we spent the majority of our time in the bat-infested attic. There we would lounge about like Supreme Beings of Leisure, (I’ve never heard their music, but that is one of the most ass-kickingest names for a band ever!) watching t.v., hosting legendary parties and fighting bats with golf clubs (we had the golf clubs, not the bats). But that’s another story…
*Alternate jokes about age include saying that it’s as old as your mom, (who’s so old that when God said “let there be light” she flipped the light switch. It’s corny, yet a classic) but I decided to take the high road instead.
**Invented?
***That’s another old joke.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Germy, the 8th Dwarf
It seems that the fad with blog writers on the interweb is to run around screaming their heads off and ranting emotionally about the AWARENESS and EDUCATION of some concern of the writers’ that everybody else is already pretty damn aware of.
Blogger: I want to raise awareness of AIDS!
Blog Reader: Why? Has it recently learned out to use a gun? Is it running for office? What new developments have occurred with AIDS that I couldn’t possibly already know?
What a fabulous bandwagon to jump on! I want in on this action!
To this end, I feel that it is my duty as a blogger with delusions of grandeur and a megalomania complex to bring AWARENESS to a problem that we all face. Sure it’s a problem that has been plaguing (literally!) humans for about as long as Joan Rivers has been alive (estimated lifespan: 2,500 years and still going strong. Keep it up Joan!) But that doesn’t mean I can’t talk at length about it to make myself feel like I’m EDUCATING and making a difference in the world! (My motto is: If I’m not making a difference in the world, then I’ll just sit here about pout!).
Germs. They suck. Bigtime. I hate ‘em. But, much like women, you just can’t get away from them; they seem to be everywhere and love to stick to you and take over your life until you’re nothing but a pathetic, blubbering heap, afraid to get out of bed.
People love to pay germs lip-service, (which would totally be a great name for an escort company. Lip Service: We’re famous for our tongue lashings!) without really doing anything about it. A person will make sure to wash his/her hands before meals, but doesn’t think about washing his/her hands after touching things other people have touched, (like keyboards and t.v. remotes). Or, people make sure to cover their mouths when they cough or sneeze, but use their hands for this purpose and then go on to touch doorknobs and video game controllers, (here’s a hint for everybody, cough or sneeze into the crook of your elbow, that way you’re not spreading germs around like Johnny Bacteriaseed. Dig?)
Germs have been with us forever, they’re not going away. They cause things like flu and diseases, and they’re pretty good at their job. In fact, germs recently must have been hanging out with Roger Clemmens, ‘cause they have bulked up and stepped their game up to ridiculous new levels. Ever heard of MRSA? I hope so, because approximately 19,000 people died of that in America last year. Compare that to the approximately 12,000 people who died from AIDS. Pretty crazy eh?* And yet, not that many people are familiar with this “Superbug.” And it’s just the tip of the germ iceberg, (man, that would be one gross iceberg!)
MRSA, or Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus is a bug that can be picked up almost anywhere, the gym, school, the playground, the opium den, gentlemen’s club, but most commonly at hospitals.
Yes, that’s right. Hospitals are extremely dangerous places to go and should be avoided unless you’re dating a really hot nurse (or doctor, aim high!). You can go in for a small gash on your leg and end up dying two months later because the doctors were sloppy and spread MRSA to you from sheer absent-mindedness. How stupid would you feel if you ended up dying from something you got at the hospital from the very doctors you trusted to save your life!? The answer is: not really, because you’d be dead and beyond the ability to feel much of anything. My advice, in that case, is to become a ghost and haunt the shit out of St. Elsewhere son!
The sad thing is that doctors know better about infection control and contamination, but either don’t have the time, are forgetful or just plain apathetic to do much about it. Don’t believe me? Go visit the waiting room at your friendly neighborhood hospital or free clinic and just watch the doctor go from patient to patient, touching them, poking them, prodding them, sticking fingers into various orifices all while wearing the same pair of gloves, or even worse, no gloves at all. Any nurse who reads Eighty-Four Glyde can attest to this, I’m sure.
Fighting germs is easy and simple to do, (without going overboard like Monk) and can be accomplished without donating any money or time and without me having to host some kind of whack-ass and completely pointless Myspace auction. The most important thing is to wash your hands. Not so much that they’re red and the top two layers of skin are gone, just at certain times: before eating, after working with raw foods, after touching communal objects of “iffy” nature (like porno mags at the sperm bank) and when you’re Pontius Pilot and you don’t want to be blamed for Jesus’ death.
An important thing though, and not often addressed, is that you should wash your hands with just plain soap and water. Antibacterial soap is a no-no because germs just laugh at that shit. Some germs die when you use antibacterial soap, but the rest just get stronger and stronger. Also, if your hands are visibly dirty, (like you just changed the oil in your “green” car with a red ribbon bumper sticker or something on it) then just using antibacterial gel won’t cut it. You’ve got to wash all visible dirt off first, then go with the gel as a dessert, for extra cleanliness.
Man, I sound like a overbearing, know-it-all jerk, don’t I? Sorry, that’s just the price you pay for RASING AWARENESS! and EDUCATING! people. Comes with the territory.
So, in conclusion, next time you feel like jumping on the latest fad disease to eradicate with words and slogans, consider looking into the avoidable things that kill us that aren’t as sexy or a la mode, but which are easier to combat and require less money and time. Most of us work somewhere; why not buy some hand sanitizer and put it around the office? How about some flyers in bathrooms with some facts and figures, encouraging people to do the thing they’ve been taught to do since they were kids? (i.e. wash hands) Why not do something instead of writing about something? It’s pretty damn easy. (Yes, I know I’m writing about something, but this isn’t about me. I’m secure in my OCD tendencies and an ex taught me the value of hand washing. This is about you: John or Jane Nastycuticles).
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sneeze on somebody’s door knob.
*No, I’m not going to cite my sources. Cite deez nutz! I used the internet to look that shit up and you can too. It’s really not that hard.
Blogger: I want to raise awareness of AIDS!
Blog Reader: Why? Has it recently learned out to use a gun? Is it running for office? What new developments have occurred with AIDS that I couldn’t possibly already know?
What a fabulous bandwagon to jump on! I want in on this action!
To this end, I feel that it is my duty as a blogger with delusions of grandeur and a megalomania complex to bring AWARENESS to a problem that we all face. Sure it’s a problem that has been plaguing (literally!) humans for about as long as Joan Rivers has been alive (estimated lifespan: 2,500 years and still going strong. Keep it up Joan!) But that doesn’t mean I can’t talk at length about it to make myself feel like I’m EDUCATING and making a difference in the world! (My motto is: If I’m not making a difference in the world, then I’ll just sit here about pout!).
Germs. They suck. Bigtime. I hate ‘em. But, much like women, you just can’t get away from them; they seem to be everywhere and love to stick to you and take over your life until you’re nothing but a pathetic, blubbering heap, afraid to get out of bed.
People love to pay germs lip-service, (which would totally be a great name for an escort company. Lip Service: We’re famous for our tongue lashings!) without really doing anything about it. A person will make sure to wash his/her hands before meals, but doesn’t think about washing his/her hands after touching things other people have touched, (like keyboards and t.v. remotes). Or, people make sure to cover their mouths when they cough or sneeze, but use their hands for this purpose and then go on to touch doorknobs and video game controllers, (here’s a hint for everybody, cough or sneeze into the crook of your elbow, that way you’re not spreading germs around like Johnny Bacteriaseed. Dig?)
Germs have been with us forever, they’re not going away. They cause things like flu and diseases, and they’re pretty good at their job. In fact, germs recently must have been hanging out with Roger Clemmens, ‘cause they have bulked up and stepped their game up to ridiculous new levels. Ever heard of MRSA? I hope so, because approximately 19,000 people died of that in America last year. Compare that to the approximately 12,000 people who died from AIDS. Pretty crazy eh?* And yet, not that many people are familiar with this “Superbug.” And it’s just the tip of the germ iceberg, (man, that would be one gross iceberg!)
MRSA, or Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus is a bug that can be picked up almost anywhere, the gym, school, the playground, the opium den, gentlemen’s club, but most commonly at hospitals.
Yes, that’s right. Hospitals are extremely dangerous places to go and should be avoided unless you’re dating a really hot nurse (or doctor, aim high!). You can go in for a small gash on your leg and end up dying two months later because the doctors were sloppy and spread MRSA to you from sheer absent-mindedness. How stupid would you feel if you ended up dying from something you got at the hospital from the very doctors you trusted to save your life!? The answer is: not really, because you’d be dead and beyond the ability to feel much of anything. My advice, in that case, is to become a ghost and haunt the shit out of St. Elsewhere son!
The sad thing is that doctors know better about infection control and contamination, but either don’t have the time, are forgetful or just plain apathetic to do much about it. Don’t believe me? Go visit the waiting room at your friendly neighborhood hospital or free clinic and just watch the doctor go from patient to patient, touching them, poking them, prodding them, sticking fingers into various orifices all while wearing the same pair of gloves, or even worse, no gloves at all. Any nurse who reads Eighty-Four Glyde can attest to this, I’m sure.
Fighting germs is easy and simple to do, (without going overboard like Monk) and can be accomplished without donating any money or time and without me having to host some kind of whack-ass and completely pointless Myspace auction. The most important thing is to wash your hands. Not so much that they’re red and the top two layers of skin are gone, just at certain times: before eating, after working with raw foods, after touching communal objects of “iffy” nature (like porno mags at the sperm bank) and when you’re Pontius Pilot and you don’t want to be blamed for Jesus’ death.
An important thing though, and not often addressed, is that you should wash your hands with just plain soap and water. Antibacterial soap is a no-no because germs just laugh at that shit. Some germs die when you use antibacterial soap, but the rest just get stronger and stronger. Also, if your hands are visibly dirty, (like you just changed the oil in your “green” car with a red ribbon bumper sticker or something on it) then just using antibacterial gel won’t cut it. You’ve got to wash all visible dirt off first, then go with the gel as a dessert, for extra cleanliness.
Man, I sound like a overbearing, know-it-all jerk, don’t I? Sorry, that’s just the price you pay for RASING AWARENESS! and EDUCATING! people. Comes with the territory.
So, in conclusion, next time you feel like jumping on the latest fad disease to eradicate with words and slogans, consider looking into the avoidable things that kill us that aren’t as sexy or a la mode, but which are easier to combat and require less money and time. Most of us work somewhere; why not buy some hand sanitizer and put it around the office? How about some flyers in bathrooms with some facts and figures, encouraging people to do the thing they’ve been taught to do since they were kids? (i.e. wash hands) Why not do something instead of writing about something? It’s pretty damn easy. (Yes, I know I’m writing about something, but this isn’t about me. I’m secure in my OCD tendencies and an ex taught me the value of hand washing. This is about you: John or Jane Nastycuticles).
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go sneeze on somebody’s door knob.
*No, I’m not going to cite my sources. Cite deez nutz! I used the internet to look that shit up and you can too. It’s really not that hard.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
The Definitve Lesbian Story
When she finally turned 16, Erogena started to appreciate how her body was growing. All the right parts were doing the right things, filling out nicely and rounding out beautifully.
On most nights, after she had finished dinner and her requisite three hours of homework, Erogena would stand naked in front of the full length mirror that was hung on the back of her closet door. She would lose track of time as she spent hours admiring the way the light danced and played upon her curves and sensual lines of her taut and nubile body. Her jubblies, barely hidden by the long blond hair cascading in golden waves from her head, were firm and stuck out like the ends of a pair of elf’s shoes. Her mossy cleft reflected the light in such a way to seem dewy and verdantly lush. Almost as if betwe her legs lay the very cradle of life from whence emerged the first humans. When she turned to get a view of her luscious posterior, she grinned in delight at how bubbly and properly rounded her donkey was. Sometimes, she would stand in front of the mirror wearing naught but a wet, sheer t-shirt, just because she liked the way the wet fabric clung to her supple form.
***
The boys at school had also noticed Erongena’s body. They would stare at her with rapt attention when she walked down the hall, swishing her plump fesse from side to side as if it had a heartbeat and a severe case of Parkinson’s.
But she paid them no mind. They were nothing more than young boys who deserved attention only when it suited her purposes and even then, just to copy a test answer or two.
Erongena was somewhat perplexed by her own opinion of boys. She knew at least a dozen girls her own age at the school who were riding the baloney pony and another few hundred who wished they were. And almost every girl was jealous of her. By all rights she should have been taking advantage of her body and every boy within sniffing distance. Yet she didn’t feel the same strong desire that drove her female friends.
In fact, the only time that she felt any type of sexual desire was after looking at herself in the mirror. She often gave into that need, laying in bed and double-clicking her own mouse until she had punched the clown in the nose at least four times. Sometimes she would reach into the drawer beside her bed and withdrawal her friend Pablo, to include him in her squishy activities. She would repeatedly Barrack with Pablo until her Obama was swollen and tender to the touch. Then she’d pass out contentedly.
***
Boys weren’t the only ones to notice Erogena’s blossoming into womanhood. One day, after gym, when all the girls were in the shower tenderly lathering up their sweaty bodies, Erogena’s red-headed friend Sapphoina observed how much Erogena had grown since the summer.
“Wow Erogena, you have grown since the summer,” she said.
“What do you mean Sapphoina?” Erogena slyly asked as she slowly slid her loofah down her taut tummy and lazily circled her navel.
“I mean that you look good enough to eat! I’d give my left Parton to have your body!” she exclaimed. “But I have to admit, you look as though you’re stressed and anxious. Is everything alright?”
“Well, I do have a big paper to write for Creationist Science that’s due in a few days and I just can’t find any science books to support the fact that man used dinosaurs as beasts of burden! It’s really wracking my nerves,” she replied.
“I can tell,” Sapphoina said as she walked up behind her friend and gently laid her hands on Erongena’s shoulders. “Your shoulders and back seem really tense and knotted. You could use a relaxing massage.”
Sapphoina then traced the shape of Erogena’s shoulder muscles with her fingers, letting gravity draw them down her back in concentric circles.
“Ooh, that feels nice!” Erogena purred. “Keep that up and I melt in a puddle on the floor and won’t make it to math class! Tell you what, why don’t you come over to my house after school and finish the job?”
“It’s a deal. I’ll even bring my coco butter and fruit flavored massage oils!”
***
Later that evening, Erogena sat in bed, waiting for her friend to arrive. She wasn’t sure why, but for some reason she was really excited. So excited in fact that her coffee pot was percolating and her windshield was defrosting nicely.
At 8 pm, Sapphoina arrived in Erogens’s room and immediately ordered her friend to disrobe completely. Erogena was confused until Sapphoina explained that the best way to work deep into the muscles was to have direct contact with the skin.
“Ok, but let me keep this thong on for privacy’s sake. It’s so thin and small that it barely covers my well-tanned bongo cheeks and shouldn’t get in your way,” Erogina said. Sapphoina agreed.
As her friend sensually massaged the oils into her skin, Erongena started to feel a craving. A yearning that she could not define. Almost as if she wished her friend would let her hands travel like eco-friendly cars wherever they wanted on the roadmap that was her body.
She laughed that thought away, figuring that she must be more stressed than she thought. But as the massage continued, her thoughts kept returning to what her friend’s tongue might feel like stromboling her throbbing gondola.
Soon she couldn’t take it anymore. Her yearning had become am insatiable hunger! She had to woozle her friend with all haste before her peanut exploded!
Suddenly she rolled over and pulled Sapphoina down on top of her. She was only slightly surprised that her friend had already removed her shirt, revealing her handful-sized ice cream scoops in all their glory.
“I was hoping this would happen,” Sapphoina whispered sultrily. “I’ve wanted to gargle your bodacious ta-tas for a long time!”
Erogena smiled as she let her hands glide over her friend’s body. Every nook and cranny was hers to explore like her name was Vasco DeGama.
With their tongues entwined, the two hot, young teenage girls spent hours engaging in every sexual act they could imagine. The Crippled Olympian, the 23 Skidoo, the Whirling Dervish the Interrupted Transmission; nothing was beyond their burning desires. Giblets were strubbed, lymph nodes were whitewashed and banders were snatched frumiously. A break was taken only to set up two video cameras. One for the close ups, one for a nice medium shot with all the action properly centered.
Their hours of hot, passionate, experimental sex steamed up Erogena’s favorite mirror and somehow set all of her stuffed animals on fire. The mattress was like a sponge soaked in sweat and various, gooey love juices. The furniture was all knocked over and every book in her bookcase was somehow stacked in the middle of her room, from floor to ceiling, without having been touched.
***
After that encounter, the girls would often meet to get busy. And each time was hotter and sexier than the last. Like seriously. It was nuts. I’m no prude or anything but the things those girls did defy the laws of decency and gravity! Wild isn’t even the word for it! They had sex! And they were both hot chicks! Sweet!
The End
On most nights, after she had finished dinner and her requisite three hours of homework, Erogena would stand naked in front of the full length mirror that was hung on the back of her closet door. She would lose track of time as she spent hours admiring the way the light danced and played upon her curves and sensual lines of her taut and nubile body. Her jubblies, barely hidden by the long blond hair cascading in golden waves from her head, were firm and stuck out like the ends of a pair of elf’s shoes. Her mossy cleft reflected the light in such a way to seem dewy and verdantly lush. Almost as if betwe her legs lay the very cradle of life from whence emerged the first humans. When she turned to get a view of her luscious posterior, she grinned in delight at how bubbly and properly rounded her donkey was. Sometimes, she would stand in front of the mirror wearing naught but a wet, sheer t-shirt, just because she liked the way the wet fabric clung to her supple form.
***
The boys at school had also noticed Erongena’s body. They would stare at her with rapt attention when she walked down the hall, swishing her plump fesse from side to side as if it had a heartbeat and a severe case of Parkinson’s.
But she paid them no mind. They were nothing more than young boys who deserved attention only when it suited her purposes and even then, just to copy a test answer or two.
Erongena was somewhat perplexed by her own opinion of boys. She knew at least a dozen girls her own age at the school who were riding the baloney pony and another few hundred who wished they were. And almost every girl was jealous of her. By all rights she should have been taking advantage of her body and every boy within sniffing distance. Yet she didn’t feel the same strong desire that drove her female friends.
In fact, the only time that she felt any type of sexual desire was after looking at herself in the mirror. She often gave into that need, laying in bed and double-clicking her own mouse until she had punched the clown in the nose at least four times. Sometimes she would reach into the drawer beside her bed and withdrawal her friend Pablo, to include him in her squishy activities. She would repeatedly Barrack with Pablo until her Obama was swollen and tender to the touch. Then she’d pass out contentedly.
***
Boys weren’t the only ones to notice Erogena’s blossoming into womanhood. One day, after gym, when all the girls were in the shower tenderly lathering up their sweaty bodies, Erogena’s red-headed friend Sapphoina observed how much Erogena had grown since the summer.
“Wow Erogena, you have grown since the summer,” she said.
“What do you mean Sapphoina?” Erogena slyly asked as she slowly slid her loofah down her taut tummy and lazily circled her navel.
“I mean that you look good enough to eat! I’d give my left Parton to have your body!” she exclaimed. “But I have to admit, you look as though you’re stressed and anxious. Is everything alright?”
“Well, I do have a big paper to write for Creationist Science that’s due in a few days and I just can’t find any science books to support the fact that man used dinosaurs as beasts of burden! It’s really wracking my nerves,” she replied.
“I can tell,” Sapphoina said as she walked up behind her friend and gently laid her hands on Erongena’s shoulders. “Your shoulders and back seem really tense and knotted. You could use a relaxing massage.”
Sapphoina then traced the shape of Erogena’s shoulder muscles with her fingers, letting gravity draw them down her back in concentric circles.
“Ooh, that feels nice!” Erogena purred. “Keep that up and I melt in a puddle on the floor and won’t make it to math class! Tell you what, why don’t you come over to my house after school and finish the job?”
“It’s a deal. I’ll even bring my coco butter and fruit flavored massage oils!”
***
Later that evening, Erogena sat in bed, waiting for her friend to arrive. She wasn’t sure why, but for some reason she was really excited. So excited in fact that her coffee pot was percolating and her windshield was defrosting nicely.
At 8 pm, Sapphoina arrived in Erogens’s room and immediately ordered her friend to disrobe completely. Erogena was confused until Sapphoina explained that the best way to work deep into the muscles was to have direct contact with the skin.
“Ok, but let me keep this thong on for privacy’s sake. It’s so thin and small that it barely covers my well-tanned bongo cheeks and shouldn’t get in your way,” Erogina said. Sapphoina agreed.
As her friend sensually massaged the oils into her skin, Erongena started to feel a craving. A yearning that she could not define. Almost as if she wished her friend would let her hands travel like eco-friendly cars wherever they wanted on the roadmap that was her body.
She laughed that thought away, figuring that she must be more stressed than she thought. But as the massage continued, her thoughts kept returning to what her friend’s tongue might feel like stromboling her throbbing gondola.
Soon she couldn’t take it anymore. Her yearning had become am insatiable hunger! She had to woozle her friend with all haste before her peanut exploded!
Suddenly she rolled over and pulled Sapphoina down on top of her. She was only slightly surprised that her friend had already removed her shirt, revealing her handful-sized ice cream scoops in all their glory.
“I was hoping this would happen,” Sapphoina whispered sultrily. “I’ve wanted to gargle your bodacious ta-tas for a long time!”
Erogena smiled as she let her hands glide over her friend’s body. Every nook and cranny was hers to explore like her name was Vasco DeGama.
With their tongues entwined, the two hot, young teenage girls spent hours engaging in every sexual act they could imagine. The Crippled Olympian, the 23 Skidoo, the Whirling Dervish the Interrupted Transmission; nothing was beyond their burning desires. Giblets were strubbed, lymph nodes were whitewashed and banders were snatched frumiously. A break was taken only to set up two video cameras. One for the close ups, one for a nice medium shot with all the action properly centered.
Their hours of hot, passionate, experimental sex steamed up Erogena’s favorite mirror and somehow set all of her stuffed animals on fire. The mattress was like a sponge soaked in sweat and various, gooey love juices. The furniture was all knocked over and every book in her bookcase was somehow stacked in the middle of her room, from floor to ceiling, without having been touched.
***
After that encounter, the girls would often meet to get busy. And each time was hotter and sexier than the last. Like seriously. It was nuts. I’m no prude or anything but the things those girls did defy the laws of decency and gravity! Wild isn’t even the word for it! They had sex! And they were both hot chicks! Sweet!
The End
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)