B. McGILLICUDDY
Okay, okay, enough. We've been fucking for hours. We've both cum at least twice and the fact that my vagina feels like an over-stimulated ACTIVE VOLCANO only means you've been doing something right. But seriously, we don't need more lube, we just.need.to.stop. for a little. I know what she means. I didn't realize it until just now but my cock's a little sore. Friction Friction Friction leads to Constriction (via swelling). Maybe we should take a day off. Maybe we should do some work. Where the fuck did the sun go?
No, I don't mean we should split up, or "take some time off", I mean I've seen you EVERY FUCKING DAY FOR TWO WEEKS STRAIGHT. We're not married, you're not my pet, it's not like I need to feed you. And we're not business partners in any sense of the word, but srsly, I think I need a vacation from the "work" of taking on the "emotional burden" of "listening to you" for HOURS AND HOURS at a time. Sooooo...let's just spend a week writing letters to each other. Not texting, not chatting, AND NO AUDIO. Just emails, and I mean not-too-long emails, yeah?
HOLY MARY AND JESUS CHRIST GODDAMNIT, WOULD YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A MINUTE? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? I GET THAT YOU "WANT TO SNUGGLE" BUT I CAN'T DO THAT RIGHT NOW. JUST NOT NOW! I KNOW, I KNOW, I KNOW, I GET IT, YOU LOVE ME, THAT'S GREAT BUT COULD YOU PLEASE JUST LET ME DETACH FROM THE CONCEPT OF "US" FOR ONE BLOODY SECOND!? BECAUSE I AM ME, YOU ARE YOU, AND I WOULD VERY MUCH LIKE TO THINK ABOUT MY OWN FUCKING SHIT FOR A MINUTE. A FUCKING MINUTE. NO! NO! NO! JUST A FUCKING MINUTE. JESUS! THANK YOU.
B. McGILLICUDDY
3/10/2009
i need a good screw
ORACULAR SPECTACULAR
I really just wanna fuck.
I wanna be unable to walk tomorrow because it was so damn good.
But guys nowadays are all into all of that lame, "I love you. I want to have your babies shit." FUCK that. I want to be torn the hell apart. And walk away from him and never see him again, if necessary.
I am sorry if I seem a bit vulgar (<-that was just a formality, after all, it is my first day. Not to blogging, I'm no virgin to that, baby...), but, as La Frere said, FUCK MODESTY. Guys are able to ask for stimulation however they may, but when a female asks for it she's a whore? FUCK that bullshit. I'm no raging feminist, but I can ask for what I want. When I want. And if you don't like it, you have all rights to go find a cock, sit on it, and ride hard. We're all adults here, anyway, aren't we? But... (there's always a but, isn't there??)
I don't want the fuck that you're imagining. I want to be mindfucked. And not by just anybody somebody who can truly hold a good conversation. Somebody who can do alot more than just say the lines men have been using since before they could grunt.
Yeah, I just called you a caveman...
What're you gonna do about it but read on??
Exactly.
I want a conversation in ten different positions all in one night (or day... i'm not too picky). I wanna be able to look @ him in the face without shame the next morning, because my words weren't too much for him to handle. I want him to be pliable and open to new conversations.
There are a million things to converse about.
Must we talk about your new kicks and where you shop every conversation, sir?
I thinks not.
Peace out, homeskillet.
ORACULAR SPECTACULAR
(and not because of my amazing...
skills...
then again...)
I really just wanna fuck.
I wanna be unable to walk tomorrow because it was so damn good.
But guys nowadays are all into all of that lame, "I love you. I want to have your babies shit." FUCK that. I want to be torn the hell apart. And walk away from him and never see him again, if necessary.
I don't want the fuck that you're imagining. I want to be mindfucked. And not by just anybody somebody who can truly hold a good conversation. Somebody who can do alot more than just say the lines men have been using since before they could grunt.
Yeah, I just called you a caveman...
What're you gonna do about it but read on??
Exactly.
I want a conversation in ten different positions all in one night (or day... i'm not too picky). I wanna be able to look @ him in the face without shame the next morning, because my words weren't too much for him to handle. I want him to be pliable and open to new conversations.
There are a million things to converse about.
Must we talk about your new kicks and where you shop every conversation, sir?
I thinks not.
Peace out, homeskillet.
ORACULAR SPECTACULAR
(and not because of my amazing...
skills...
then again...)
ΗΛΙΑΚΕΣ ΚΗΛΊΔΕΣ (SUNSPOTS)
B. McGILLICUDDY
You see, there are some relatively dark places in the heart of the content. But really I laugh way more than I cry. I smile way more than I am stoic. I spasm with glee way more than I droop with disdain. But the really real reality of the matter is that I am dating a realist. Her "cute!" and "awww" and "TAKE ME" receptors all work just fine, but the more romantic I get the more inhumane it all seems.
It's too much pressure on a girl to be some guy's "end-all-be-all-fuck-life/the-world-if-I-can-only-be-with-you-ME&U2GETHER4EVER!!!". At least in the "real world" it is. So I don't worship her as such. She is another human being looking for attention/companionship/inspiration, and to the extent that I can provide those things, I do and will as long as I physically/mentally can. But never, ever, ever do I want to be her sun and moon, her morning and evening star, or her prince charming for that matter, because I am not a member of a cult, the messiah of a religion, or a sword-wielding dragon-slayer.
I am one part of a two-sided human relationship with an absolutely breathtaking woman, who I enjoy and endure and energize every chance that I can get, because THAT'S how this shit seems to work at the moment. Give me a rho, an omicron, a mu, an alpha, a nu, a tau, an iota, a kappa, an omicron, and a sigma, and what do you get? A "ΡΟΜΑΝΤΙΚΟΣ". But I don't live on mount Olympus either. So forgive me for being one in Modern English/TXTSPK, but those are the only dialects we both know. Maybe when they invent a froofy, melodic love language that only uses five syllables to express the whole spectrum of human emotions, I'll take four years of it and spend the Summer in its country of origin.
Then maybe I'll know what "true love" is. Or maybe I already do, and no one but me knows it yet.
B. McGILLICUDDY
You see, there are some relatively dark places in the heart of the content. But really I laugh way more than I cry. I smile way more than I am stoic. I spasm with glee way more than I droop with disdain. But the really real reality of the matter is that I am dating a realist. Her "cute!" and "awww" and "TAKE ME" receptors all work just fine, but the more romantic I get the more inhumane it all seems.
It's too much pressure on a girl to be some guy's "end-all-be-all-fuck-life/the-world-if-I-can-only-be-with-you-ME&U2GETHER4EVER!!!". At least in the "real world" it is. So I don't worship her as such. She is another human being looking for attention/companionship/inspiration, and to the extent that I can provide those things, I do and will as long as I physically/mentally can. But never, ever, ever do I want to be her sun and moon, her morning and evening star, or her prince charming for that matter, because I am not a member of a cult, the messiah of a religion, or a sword-wielding dragon-slayer.
I am one part of a two-sided human relationship with an absolutely breathtaking woman, who I enjoy and endure and energize every chance that I can get, because THAT'S how this shit seems to work at the moment. Give me a rho, an omicron, a mu, an alpha, a nu, a tau, an iota, a kappa, an omicron, and a sigma, and what do you get? A "ΡΟΜΑΝΤΙΚΟΣ". But I don't live on mount Olympus either. So forgive me for being one in Modern English/TXTSPK, but those are the only dialects we both know. Maybe when they invent a froofy, melodic love language that only uses five syllables to express the whole spectrum of human emotions, I'll take four years of it and spend the Summer in its country of origin.
Then maybe I'll know what "true love" is. Or maybe I already do, and no one but me knows it yet.
B. McGILLICUDDY
3/09/2009
LIKE MUSIC TO MY SCHLONG
B. McGILLICUDDY
Okay, now put the titular title pun out of your mind, please, because this is actually going to be pretty pretty. And it is dedicated to my muse.
Dear Sugardoll, for that is what I call you, oh gorgeous ghoul of golden waves, you fucking ruin me. My heart's a ball in some cuntish sport you play. And yet you make it better when your mood turns and food burns before you serve me, bed and tray. Wait. What is this disposition I have against submitting to your nary an inquisition. You ask in silent analogy to make me make you FEEL a fleeting thing, but I, a guy, cannot read the mind, and it's for geese that I'm a-fishing. Sigh. Laugh. I cry, again, unlike your sturdy, stony way. Oh acid to my ears, when will this trippy song away? I haven't said I love you, this kissing time and sound. Because I figured that this Tigger better bounce in it around, in rhyme.
CALIFORNIA CALLS. I stay. CALIFORNIA CALLS. I stay. SHE CALLS AGAIN, "I HAVE YOUR SOUL RIGHT HERE!" She yells some million steps away. But I've found my soul. A better one, I think. In a goofy yelling fit of itty-bitty-committee-tits, and sorrow for tomorrow with such witty, witty wit, and with such blatant bulls of shit, and this "make-you-happy" kit. Steps one through fifteen all say (and read them carefully, y'all), do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go. So fuck me and my swarthy sword with your sheath with please, no teeth in it. That old soul's gone, from bud to bong, and I smoked the left over kief in it.
Angles have you none, though, bursting, brilliant one, you've cut me, s-l-ot, thee. And no, I've never thought I won.
B. McGILLICUDDY
Okay, now put the titular title pun out of your mind, please, because this is actually going to be pretty pretty. And it is dedicated to my muse.
Dear Sugardoll, for that is what I call you, oh gorgeous ghoul of golden waves, you fucking ruin me. My heart's a ball in some cuntish sport you play. And yet you make it better when your mood turns and food burns before you serve me, bed and tray. Wait. What is this disposition I have against submitting to your nary an inquisition. You ask in silent analogy to make me make you FEEL a fleeting thing, but I, a guy, cannot read the mind, and it's for geese that I'm a-fishing. Sigh. Laugh. I cry, again, unlike your sturdy, stony way. Oh acid to my ears, when will this trippy song away? I haven't said I love you, this kissing time and sound. Because I figured that this Tigger better bounce in it around, in rhyme.
CALIFORNIA CALLS. I stay. CALIFORNIA CALLS. I stay. SHE CALLS AGAIN, "I HAVE YOUR SOUL RIGHT HERE!" She yells some million steps away. But I've found my soul. A better one, I think. In a goofy yelling fit of itty-bitty-committee-tits, and sorrow for tomorrow with such witty, witty wit, and with such blatant bulls of shit, and this "make-you-happy" kit. Steps one through fifteen all say (and read them carefully, y'all), do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go, do not let go. So fuck me and my swarthy sword with your sheath with please, no teeth in it. That old soul's gone, from bud to bong, and I smoked the left over kief in it.
Angles have you none, though, bursting, brilliant one, you've cut me, s-l-ot, thee. And no, I've never thought I won.
B. McGILLICUDDY
PLANET OF PLATONOIDS
B. McGILLICUDDY
There are so many people, yo. SOOOOOO MANY PEOPLE.
Once a dude realizes that there are a minimum 3 billion vaginae on the planet, and that a hard minimum 1% of them are cock-accessible, things change. Things change drastically. What do you do with all of this vagina? Do you just leave it to its own devices? Do you put it all on a pedestal, acknowledging the fact that no one man can safely peruse the entire stock? Or do you accept the challenge to ransack the accessible products and put the ones that are too expensive for your current budget on layaway/wait for the unripe stockpile to go on back order?
I don't know, I'm kinda surprised at myself, a rat-packing, never-have-enough, diehard collector of all things beautiful. Because I am completely reliant on the one, handsome, collector's edition piece I happened upon last winter, and I'm even more surprised that she seems to be just enough to quench the whole of my appetite. But like I asked before, what's to do with all this EXTRA PUSSY???
So, there's a whole planet of platonoids to flirt with, assume the position as the kindly, bangable gentleman, then spring on them that I am a one-woman-wanktard with all but my 8-inches to spare. "Sorry ladies," I say, "But we all have to make sacrifices to keep what we have".
So I have generously decided to dedicate my life, despite my masochistic "do you want more?"--"yes, yes!"---"I can't hear you!"--"YES!!! SCAR ME FOR LIFE!!!" *WHHHP-CRACK!* status, to put the rest on a pedestal, partly for my own entertainment, and mostly for yours. Good night and gene-bless.
XYXYXY
B. McGILLICUDDY
There are so many people, yo. SOOOOOO MANY PEOPLE.
Once a dude realizes that there are a minimum 3 billion vaginae on the planet, and that a hard minimum 1% of them are cock-accessible, things change. Things change drastically. What do you do with all of this vagina? Do you just leave it to its own devices? Do you put it all on a pedestal, acknowledging the fact that no one man can safely peruse the entire stock? Or do you accept the challenge to ransack the accessible products and put the ones that are too expensive for your current budget on layaway/wait for the unripe stockpile to go on back order?
I don't know, I'm kinda surprised at myself, a rat-packing, never-have-enough, diehard collector of all things beautiful. Because I am completely reliant on the one, handsome, collector's edition piece I happened upon last winter, and I'm even more surprised that she seems to be just enough to quench the whole of my appetite. But like I asked before, what's to do with all this EXTRA PUSSY???
So, there's a whole planet of platonoids to flirt with, assume the position as the kindly, bangable gentleman, then spring on them that I am a one-woman-wanktard with all but my 8-inches to spare. "Sorry ladies," I say, "But we all have to make sacrifices to keep what we have".
So I have generously decided to dedicate my life, despite my masochistic "do you want more?"--"yes, yes!"---"I can't hear you!"--"YES!!! SCAR ME FOR LIFE!!!" *WHHHP-CRACK!* status, to put the rest on a pedestal, partly for my own entertainment, and mostly for yours. Good night and gene-bless.
XYXYXY
B. McGILLICUDDY
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