Monday, December 15, 2008

This Should Be Many Smaller Posts II

Another batch of mini postlets that would be their own little individial posts instead of this weird conglomerate if I could post whenever I wanted to instead of when I could get up to use the library's internet. (Sigh.)

Voodoo Bukkake

I’ve got a question: What happens if you’re jacking off and you cum on the face of a voodoo doll? (Assuming, that is, that a big bucketload of semen doesn’t simply fall out of the sky and hit the person upon whom the voodoo doll is modeled.)

Will it put the target individual in a position to take a face-full of cum in the immediate future? Or will it increase the target’s desire to have a little jism on her face? (Possibly moving from ‘moderate desire’ to ‘overwhelming desire’, possibly moving from ‘no desire at all’ to ‘finally willing to consider it’.)

I’ve heard it said that semen is good for the skin. Maybe cumming on a voodoo doll will just help make the target’s skin all shiny and smooth. Who knows?

While I don’t necessarily believe in voodoo, I do like playing around with concepts. And I just wonder – in a situation where the manipulation of a voodoo doll has the effect that practitioners of the art believe – what would happen? Maybe it’s just a subtle form of love (or more likely lust) potion. Maybe I should have made voodoo dolls of Sue, Rabbit, Penny, Dot, and CJ back in the day, and sat in a dark, quiet room, slowly rubbing my ejaculate onto their dolls’ faces while chanting.

All I know for sure is that late the other night I may have accidentally invented the concept of voodoo bukkake during a conversation with Zorch, and I’m starting to think that means I might need more sleep than I’ve been getting.

Was It a Sex Act?

Several days after Darklady’s Halloween party, somebody asked me how it went, and if I’d had sex there. Now, I knew what he meant. I knew what question he was asking. He wanted to know if I’d managed to get my erect penis into somebody’s lubricated vagina. (And the answer to that question was ‘no, I had not’.) But I was in a playfully argumentative mood.

So my response to him was, “Well, that depends on how you define ‘sex’.”

He then refined his question, asking me if I’d had sexual intercourse (making sure I understood by then refining it further: “You know, did you put your cock in anyone’s cunt?”)

“No, I did not. I did, however, participate in a sex act. I sucked on somebody’s bare toes.”

And now we were arguing. He did not believe that toe-sucking constituted a sex act. (Neither did I, for that matter, but I could argue it . . . so I was. Fetish act, yes. Sex act? Not really, no.)

I asked him if he would have considered it a sex act if I’d’ve been sucking on her clit instead. He said he would have. Oral sex is sex. I asked him if he considered handjobs to be sex acts. He did. And if a handjob is a sex act, then surely a footjob must be as well. “Yes . . .” he replied cautiously. (He’s argued with me before.) And sexual intercourse is a sex act, right?

Mouth + pussy = sex act. Foot + cock = sex act.

Now, if you can take half of one of those equations (pussy) and half of the other one (cock) and add them together to get a sex act, then the remaining halves of both equations should also bring about the same result. Giving us mouth + foot = sex act. If A+B=C, and D+E=C, and B+E=C, then A+D=C. I experienced a sex act. Math said so.

He still wasn’t convinced. Started talking about the necessity for an orgasm on the part of one or both parties, but to be honest, once I was done with my clever little equation, I was pretty much finished arguing. I had better things to do than try and come up with another far-fetched way of ‘proving’ a point that had been ridiculous to begin with.

There Are Some Things That Santa Just Knows

I wrote two “Letters to Santa” this year. (Not necessarily believing in him doesn’t mean you can’t still correspond, after all . . . ) One was an adult version (which saw publication here in the blog), the other was non-adult, and was simply a list of G through PG-13 rated stuff I want for Christmas.

After posting my naughty Christmas list here in the blog, it occurred to me that there were a few things that could (and probably should) have been cross-over items, appearing on both versions of the Christmas List/Letter to Santa.

Primary among these items would be internet access. Considering how often I slam into the pornography filters at the library (and I’m not even using the internet at the library to look for porn), I really need my own net access, just for the adult stuff. The borderline stuff that the library won’t let me see, along with the dirty nasty stuff that I know better than to even try and search for. (Plus, my own internet access would make my blog SO much better than it is now. In SO many ways.)

I’d also like a new monitor. Or two. 22” widescreen flatpanel monitors. All the better to watch porn on. (All the better to jack off in front of.) Plus this classic CRT monitor is giving me a headache. Why do I want two of them? Because the most recent revamp of my computer (courtesy of my brother and future brother-in-law) left me with dual-monitor capability, but still only single monitor. I feel like I’m wasting my computer’s full potential here.

So if there’s some blog-loving pervert billionaire out there, planning on playing Santa Claus to sex bloggers . . . keep this update in mind, would you?


I had to try and explain what a portmanteau was to somebody the other day. And I was having a bad brain day at the time. My thinking meat just wasn’t producing like it should have been. I couldn’t think of any examples. (I couldn’t even come up with the most classic modern example of a portmanteau, the mighty ‘spork’. What better way to explain the fusion of two words into one new word than the combination of spoon and fork into spork? But nope. It just wasn’t coming.)

Here’s what I don’t get about my brain. Try as I might, I couldn’t come up with an existing example of a portmanteau. So what does my brain do? It comes up with a new one on it’s own.

[My favorite forms of portmanteau, by the way, are ones that don’t just mash together parts of two words, but instead overlap and fuse two complete words into a word with fewer letters than the simple combination of both.]

So, I came up with a new term for an anal creampie, referring to it as a type of semen enema, and then fusing it into the brand new portmanteau ‘semenema’. Feel free to add it to your day-to-day vocabulary. “You’re a big studly man. I was wondering if you’d like to administer a semenema to me?”

Who Was Johnny Dirtnap?

I’ve made a few references to Johnny Dirtnap in recent posts. Initially in post #24 (“Sue and Rabbit”) from December 2nd, but his ‘name’ has also popped up a time or two since then. I make references to him as if I expect you all to know of him, but I have yet to explain who he is. Or was. So . . .

Just who was Johnny Dirtnap anyway?

Ah, Johnny Dirtnap. From kindergarten until about halfway through the first grade, he was my arch-nemesis. (We were the kind of kids who had arch-nemeses.) From about the halfway point of the first grade through about six years past the end of high school, he was my best friend. (Sort of a reversal of the standard Superman/Lex Luthor type relationship where you start out as friends and become enemies later on.) From about six years after high school to present day (and presumably beyond, but what do I know?) he’s been a corpse.

Most of the people that I talk about in the blog are either referenced only by description (i.e. my sister, my sister’s fiancĂ©, my brother, etc.), or are given fake names (i.e. Zorch, CJ, Casper, Rabbit, etc.). None of these fake names are just pulled randomly out-of-hat with no meaning whatsoever. There’s always a reason why they’re named what I’ve decided to name them. And I named Johnny Dirtnap what I did because he’s oh so very dead right now.

This may seem a little weird when I’m talking about stuff that went on when we were kids, and still referring to him by a name chosen because of his deadness – a deadness that wouldn’t occur for years and years after some of the stories that I’m telling. But: Oh well. My blog, my rules. If he didn’t want to be known as “Johnny Dirtnap”, then he shouldn’t have died now, should he?

Johnny Dirtnap died of a brain tumor. Well, not so much a ‘tumor’ as a ‘bullet’. He died of a brain bullet. And it was a self-administered brain bullet, at that. With the simple pull of a trigger he went from being my best friend to being a several-hundred-pound bag of Purina Worm Chow. Bang! Thump.

Yeah, I normally have a certain amount of respect for the dead. Certainly for dead people that I’ve known and liked. But Johnny Dirtnap’s exit strategy kinda pissed me off. (And probably messed me up in some ways that therapists should take a look at. Therapists with big toolbelts loaded with insanity wrenches.) So I try and make fun of him whenever I can. (Asshole.) That’s healthy, right?

So that’s who Johnny Dirtnap was. I’m sure I’ll mention him again. I’m honestly surprised that I went twenty-two whole posts without referencing him to begin with.

Who Is Everybody Else?

Yeah, in addition to my siblings, and their significant others (all unnamed, only ever referenced by their relation – by blood or marriage/engagement – to me), we’ve also got Zorch and CJ. And now I’ve started mentioning people from my past. Sue, Rabbit, Penny, Dot, Casper, Oroboros, Klepto Boy, and others.

It’s weird. I’ve got several people who I’ve named, but have found no reason to mention in a post. (People like Chupacabra, Little Anathema, Rocket Girl, and Simon.) On the other hand, I keep finding myself mentioning people I hadn’t planned on, and having to come up with names for them on the spot. Like I said, ‘weird’.

I’m tempted to write up some kind of “Cast of Characters” post to serve as a “Who the Hell are all these people, anyway?” kind of reference map to the horde of fake names and the real people attached to them.

I don’t know. I might write it up if I get bored at some point, and save it for a “Holy Crap, I’ve got NOTHING to say write now,” occasion. Break Glass in Case of Posting Emergency.

What the Fuck Kind of a Name for a Product is That?

Somebody in the marketing department at Chef Boyardee is a sick and twisted, sadistic, evil genius.

I can just imagine how it went down. The food scientists running out of the R&D lab with their bowl of experimental pasta. Bursting into the marketing department, screaming, “Success! We’ve done it!” And finding everybody out to lunch . . . except for this one guy. ‘The crazy guy’.

He peers into the bowl to see their product. Shaped pasta. A shaped outline with a minimal interior latticework that will slide between the tines of a fork when stabbed. Easy for little kids to eat. An evil grin slowly breaks on his face. “You’ve done well. We’ll call them . . . ‘Forkables’!”

Go ahead. Go to you local grocery store. Take a look for yourself. They’re on the shelves now. Forkables. I couldn’t believe it.

Here are two things that I know: One of the primary consumers (not purchasers, but actual eaters) of Chef Boyardee products are little kids. And a lot of little kids haven’t yet mastered pronunciation. They don’t have a full grasp of all of the consonants and vowels. They mispronounce words. Sometimes they have actual speech impediments.

So this is the scene that goes through my head the moment I read the label. Spotless kitchen. Uptight moralistic housewife/mother tending to some housewife-y task. Her son comes running into the kitchen (probably tracking mud in from outside.

Little Billy: “Mom! I’m hum’gry!”
Uptight Mom: “Well, what would you like for lunch, Billy?”
Little Billy: “Fuckables!”
Uptight Mom delivers a powerful backhand that sends little Billy to the floor.
Uptight Mom: “Billy! How dare you use that language in my house!”
Little Billy: (crying) “But mama . . . I just said I wan’ned a bowl of Fuckables . . .”
Uptight Mom: (reaching for the bar of soap with which to wash out little Billy’s mouth) “Billy!”

Meanwhile, back at Chef Boyardee corporate headquarters, ‘the crazy guy’ is clutching a can of Forkables in each hand, and cackling like a madman. Like the madman that he is. Someone really needs to keep an eye on that fucker.

The Christmas Posting Schedule

Over the course of the last few weeks, there have been several pieces that were posted to the blog at 9:00 am. On the dot. Which is interesting, considering that I’m almost always still asleep at that time. I’m certainly never up at the library at that ungodly hour.

What this means is that I finally figured out how to dump text into Blogger and set the controls for it to be posted in the future, at a specific date and time. Yay! This is probably something I should have discovered on my first day using the site – and I’m sure that I would have, if I’d had internet here at home, with no time limit on it’s usage, and all the other perks. But as it is, it took me, what? Three or four months to figure the damn thing out? (Wow.)

Anyway, I’m normally a deadline guy. I set myself a deadline, I typically miss it, and then rush so that the post isn’t any later than it already is. (If I’m not working with a deadline, I tend to not even start projects.) Frankly, I’m kind of amazed that I’ve been able to hit the first three Sundays of Advent with my Kinky Advent series. (Granted, the posts aren’t representative of my best work, largely because I’m manically pounding at the keyboard on Sunday, trying to get it finished before the very short Sunday internet window closes, but still – I’ve gotten them written and posted ON TIME!)

I’ve been trying to hold myself to posting a minimum of three times a week. (Not counting the Sunday Advent posts, which are special holiday extras.) I hadn’t been sure what I was going to do with no internet access at all once the library shut down for however long it chose it’s Christmas holiday is going to be. But now that I figured out how to pre-post things (and really, ‘pre-post’ isn’t a word I ever expected to use outside of way-past-midnight discussions about time travel theory), I can just sit down before the library’s last open day and post a whole bunch of stuff, setting the posting controls to drop them on whatever dates I need them.

Of course . . . this means . . . I’ve got to write them. Far (for me, at least) in advance of when I need to post them. (Gulp.) I have to actually put together a stockpile of text before the beginning of the library’s closed period, so that I’ve actually got the material TO post.

Huh. I suppose that’s my cue to put an end to this document, and start writing one for posting during the library’s break, isn’t it?

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