O Sweet Valentine
"When true love is unrequited, the whole world is a load of crap."
Dylan Thomas, 1987
Yesterday was Valentine's Day once again, and I was all by my lonesome once again. That's okay. Not only did I expect this, I welcomed it. After all, it gave me the opportunity and motivation to write something special here for that special day.
Twas to be a true and heartfelt declaration of love eternal, no thought unvoiced, no emotion unsaid.
But then, tragedy. Anna Nicole Smith up and dies on me. Everything I'd written sudden was rendered meaningless, not to mention slightly inappropriate. You'll have to trust me on this; the things I said are definitely things I do not want to do to a dead woman. To do so would be in remarkably poor taste;)
Now in a peculiar bind with a deadline, I wracked my brain for enough material to post something to my other true love. You know of whom I speak... My world famous Paris Hilton scrapbook isn't world famous for nothing! But a few hours later, having written nothing but a lame joke about who weighs more now, Nicole Ritchie or Tinkerbell (LOL), I realised this wasn't the right direction to go in, either.
Which pretty much leaves me dead in the water, as far as Valentine's day material goes. All I have left to offer is to tell you about a dream I had. It's kind of a cheat, I know, but' it's marginally related to Valentine's Day in the sense this is a day of copious fucking. February 14 is the day, more than any other day, that I wish I had a trusty pair of binoculars, and lived in a high rise apartment, facing another high rise apartment building. Although, truth be told, there isn't any actual fucking in my dream, either. But enough about that... on to this dream I had.
The Pie Eating Championship
Yes, I dreamed that I was in a pie eating competition, but no, it wasn't that kind of pie. I'm talking about poontang pie! I think we're on the same page now.
I don't recall the particular territorial jurisdiction of said championship, whether it was world or national or local. Nor do I recall their being any prizes for the winner beyond, I suppose, bragging rights of being the premier pussy eater. After all this was an officially sanctioned contest. I would think that such a champion would find no shortage of women willing to present the stage upon which he performed, as it were. However, I dare say that this is a mixed blessing at best, a point on which I'll elucidate later.
The tournament was divided into four rounds. In each round, there was one judge for every two contestants. The two contestants would then have to eat their judges' pussy (not at the same time). She would then judge one of them to be the superior, in accordance with known and established criteria, and send that fellow on to the next round. The whole tournament took place over the course of a single afternoon.
While the naming of a new muff diving champion is certainly a momentous occasion, the contest was taking place outdoors amidst a "county fair" sort of atmosphere, and seemed to be only one of a number of events taking place.
In any case, spectators were more than welcome, as each pussy eating took place in one of several tents set up around the grounds. These tents were made from some transparent material, like plastic or mosquito netting or something, so the throngs could watch their preferred judge/contestant combo in action.
At the point where I start remembering my dream, I was poised to enter the finals. Pussy X4 I'd already eaten that day; and only one more vagina stood between me a victory. One thing I don't recollect clearly is at what point I learned the identity of the final judge. I think that she was only described as a celebrity judge until last minute before the final round began. Then, finally, the grand unveiling revealed her to be none other than... Alanis Morissette.
Now, to clarify, I cannot count myself among the legions of Ms. Morisette's rabid fans. At best, I am only slightly familiar with some of her songs from a decade ago. Additionally, I never have described her as being particularly attractive and have never had anything like a schoolgirl crush on her. Nevertheless, this is the situation my brain saw fit to create.
So here I am in this translucent tent, eating Alanis Morisette's pussy, while a crowd watches. While I went to some lengths in dismissing her songs and her looks, there is no need for similar denigration of her vagina. In all respects was it perfectly adequate. There were no offensive smells or tastes, although the deep and vibrant pink colour brought to mind fleeting suggestions of "recently used". Hair, of course, had to be removed in accordance with regulations, but that the small remaining patch of hair was shaped like a heart, suggested to me that this was her own preferred condition.
Sounds okay, right? Wrong. All was not well in Cunnilingiland.
Here's the problem. Eating pussy is hard work. It makes my tongue hurt, and there's a limit to my endurance. I don't even like eating pussy, really. With each new cunt, it's fine the first time or two, but by the third time, I'm bored. Which is why I speculated earlier that winning this thing may only be a mixed blessing.
But the problem in this instance is that I've already eaten four different pussies that very afternoon! I'm exhausted. And despite my obviously masterful repertoire of skills and techniques, I am just physically incapable of performing at the level I need to. I know it, and I can tell she knows it too, from the way she just kind of limply lays there and is obviously totally not into it at all. So I had no choice but to concede defeat.
In doing so, I denied the other finalist a chance to taste Alanis, as he was automatically crowned champion when I conceded, which I guess is a small victory for me. And for Alanis? She came to get her pussy eaten by a champion and didn't enjoy it at all. Isn't it ironic?
So now you know the tale of the dream I had... and knowing is half the battle!
Good night. Hope you have sexy dreams, too.
Dylan Thomas, 1987
Yesterday was Valentine's Day once again, and I was all by my lonesome once again. That's okay. Not only did I expect this, I welcomed it. After all, it gave me the opportunity and motivation to write something special here for that special day.
Twas to be a true and heartfelt declaration of love eternal, no thought unvoiced, no emotion unsaid.
But then, tragedy. Anna Nicole Smith up and dies on me. Everything I'd written sudden was rendered meaningless, not to mention slightly inappropriate. You'll have to trust me on this; the things I said are definitely things I do not want to do to a dead woman. To do so would be in remarkably poor taste;)
Now in a peculiar bind with a deadline, I wracked my brain for enough material to post something to my other true love. You know of whom I speak... My world famous Paris Hilton scrapbook isn't world famous for nothing! But a few hours later, having written nothing but a lame joke about who weighs more now, Nicole Ritchie or Tinkerbell (LOL), I realised this wasn't the right direction to go in, either.
Which pretty much leaves me dead in the water, as far as Valentine's day material goes. All I have left to offer is to tell you about a dream I had. It's kind of a cheat, I know, but' it's marginally related to Valentine's Day in the sense this is a day of copious fucking. February 14 is the day, more than any other day, that I wish I had a trusty pair of binoculars, and lived in a high rise apartment, facing another high rise apartment building. Although, truth be told, there isn't any actual fucking in my dream, either. But enough about that... on to this dream I had.
The Pie Eating Championship
Yes, I dreamed that I was in a pie eating competition, but no, it wasn't that kind of pie. I'm talking about poontang pie! I think we're on the same page now.
I don't recall the particular territorial jurisdiction of said championship, whether it was world or national or local. Nor do I recall their being any prizes for the winner beyond, I suppose, bragging rights of being the premier pussy eater. After all this was an officially sanctioned contest. I would think that such a champion would find no shortage of women willing to present the stage upon which he performed, as it were. However, I dare say that this is a mixed blessing at best, a point on which I'll elucidate later.
The tournament was divided into four rounds. In each round, there was one judge for every two contestants. The two contestants would then have to eat their judges' pussy (not at the same time). She would then judge one of them to be the superior, in accordance with known and established criteria, and send that fellow on to the next round. The whole tournament took place over the course of a single afternoon.
While the naming of a new muff diving champion is certainly a momentous occasion, the contest was taking place outdoors amidst a "county fair" sort of atmosphere, and seemed to be only one of a number of events taking place.
In any case, spectators were more than welcome, as each pussy eating took place in one of several tents set up around the grounds. These tents were made from some transparent material, like plastic or mosquito netting or something, so the throngs could watch their preferred judge/contestant combo in action.
At the point where I start remembering my dream, I was poised to enter the finals. Pussy X4 I'd already eaten that day; and only one more vagina stood between me a victory. One thing I don't recollect clearly is at what point I learned the identity of the final judge. I think that she was only described as a celebrity judge until last minute before the final round began. Then, finally, the grand unveiling revealed her to be none other than... Alanis Morissette.
Now, to clarify, I cannot count myself among the legions of Ms. Morisette's rabid fans. At best, I am only slightly familiar with some of her songs from a decade ago. Additionally, I never have described her as being particularly attractive and have never had anything like a schoolgirl crush on her. Nevertheless, this is the situation my brain saw fit to create.
So here I am in this translucent tent, eating Alanis Morisette's pussy, while a crowd watches. While I went to some lengths in dismissing her songs and her looks, there is no need for similar denigration of her vagina. In all respects was it perfectly adequate. There were no offensive smells or tastes, although the deep and vibrant pink colour brought to mind fleeting suggestions of "recently used". Hair, of course, had to be removed in accordance with regulations, but that the small remaining patch of hair was shaped like a heart, suggested to me that this was her own preferred condition.
Sounds okay, right? Wrong. All was not well in Cunnilingiland.
Here's the problem. Eating pussy is hard work. It makes my tongue hurt, and there's a limit to my endurance. I don't even like eating pussy, really. With each new cunt, it's fine the first time or two, but by the third time, I'm bored. Which is why I speculated earlier that winning this thing may only be a mixed blessing.
But the problem in this instance is that I've already eaten four different pussies that very afternoon! I'm exhausted. And despite my obviously masterful repertoire of skills and techniques, I am just physically incapable of performing at the level I need to. I know it, and I can tell she knows it too, from the way she just kind of limply lays there and is obviously totally not into it at all. So I had no choice but to concede defeat.
In doing so, I denied the other finalist a chance to taste Alanis, as he was automatically crowned champion when I conceded, which I guess is a small victory for me. And for Alanis? She came to get her pussy eaten by a champion and didn't enjoy it at all. Isn't it ironic?
So now you know the tale of the dream I had... and knowing is half the battle!
Good night. Hope you have sexy dreams, too.
posted by Jamie S. Luxton III | 8:08 AM
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3 comments
