Well, Sorry, but It’s that Kind of Night (19+)

jesus christ, I’m horny.

I know all of you don’t need to hear this, but fuck it, this blog is for expressing myself: the good, bad, naughty, slutty, debaucherous, scandalous, orgasmic…all that jazz.

My lover lives in SF, I live in SJ, about an hour apart, but I work in Redwood City, so during the week I can actually get to her house in a half an hour or so, perfect for both of our sexual appetites…kind of.

The weekends are problematic.

SF is too far. SJ is too far.

So I encouraged her to get another lover for the weekends.

Is that bad?


I’m not very good at relationships, platonic or romantic, mix them together and I fucking suck…not in the good way.

She wants me to have another lover, but I’m so fucking picky. Our living situations should be reversed: I should live in SF, her in SJ–we’d both be hooking up with people left and right…if we were sluts. IF.

I’m such a weirdo when it comes to sex. Fuck, I’m a weirdo in general. I can have absolutely no sex drive for a week, sometimes a few weeks, then slut the fuck out. It’s bad. I am bipolar, though. I guess it makes sense.

I’m talking to myself again.

Or rambling. Maybe.

I was offered to do a threesome tonight: me, a lesbian with a shaved head and her raver girlfriend. I would, but they definitely will be taking X, and I can’t do that shit—I’m an old, anti-social man who’d pop, and go find a pretty place to write my manifesto, not fuck for an hour, never cum, wake up the next day to four dilated black holes. Ahh.

I don’t know. I am rambling haha.

It’s the wine.

Or the music.

Or maybe this is just me, and I hide my personality by saying I’m on this substance or that one or all them…maybe.


Um, fuck, what was I talking about…sex and candy.

Have you guys ever had edible underwear? It’s overrated. But, then again, I don’t like candy, but, then again again, I’d eat underwear made out of onions if the right girl was wearing it. Marion Cottilar, for one, that’s my boo; I would let her sleep in a bed with me sockless, and, if you know me, that’s a huge thing for a podophobic.


I think I’m going to have the threesome.

Probably not.

Damn it.

Choices. Maybe I’ll just stay home and start a group sext session. Sorry followers, I’ll probably delete this, but it’s human nature. I’m damaged. Maybe I should treat sex with more reverence.

It’s hard though.

I have too many personalities to not be a slut.



Master’s Piece

What a lovely living canvas

She’ll be a master’s piece

Body stretched across a bedframe

Ready to submit

To an artist’s fingertips

Mixing pain and pleasure

His illustration drips

The more they meld together

His favorite hues 

Are black and blue

a hint of crimson slits

With every moan

A harder stroke

Blended in with lover’s lips


What a lovely sordid portrait

She submits for his enjoinment.



                  a master’s masterpiece.

47 Pebbles Across a Pond of Conscious

My creative writing day is going like shit. I’ve been jumping from draft to draft trying to get in a rhythm, to no avail.

I should probably just start something new.


I don’t want to. I’m up to 216 drafts now, with this one likely becoming 217.

Fuck that, I’ll post this whether I like it or not.


I think today’s creative ennui is the product of me spending too much time with my lover;  I’m creatively spent, all of it invested in finding new ways to make her cum. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good investment, with delicious returns, but I need to be able express my self creatively via classical artistic mediums, not just scribing steamy novelettes on her clit, and leaving abstract splatters on her back.

Again, look at me complaining about having amazing sex with a gorgeous girl. I’m hopeless.

My lover is a hasbian—a term I’d never heard—meaning a former lesbian, and I was the first guy she chose to fuck after nearly fourteen years. I was honored, but intimidated at the same time. How fucked up would it be if I turned her right back into a lesbian? To avoid this possibility, I had lesbian sex with her the first few times(is that a thing haha), with no penetration, outside fingering. It was amazing. We explored each other’s bodies like young lovers. My lips and tongue covered every inch of her body, from the ankles up because I’m podophobic.

I was happy she was down for intense sensual touching the first few times because I’d been celibate for the past few years—the result of an intense feeling of shame which manifested in my mid twenties after a long stretch of unabashed sluttery—and I wasn’t sure if I was still good at fucking…or if I could fuck at all considering I was now on meds prone to making dicks fickle.

And fuck, of course the first time I tried to fuck her, my dick was a dick and barely got hard enough for her to properly blow me. Fucking embarrassing.

“Maybe you should find another lover,” I told her.

“Shut the fuck up, B. None of the women I’ve been with ever came close to making me cum as much as you do with your tongue and fingers. Take your time,” she said before sitting on my face.


Fuck, I’m getting bored with this post—which means it’s getting close to being forgotten, or trashed. Plus, I’m heading to dinner soon…geez I wasted today.


Anyways, my dick started working again after a few weeks, but it was now my turn to give her time.

Turns out, a tiny Asian hasbian is ummm a bit tight.

“Slow, B…ahhh….slower,” she said as I barely put my head in.

I hate saying this, because it’s corny, but I’m a big dude, so it took a while before we could fuck the way we do now. Still though, I can’t go all the way inside her without causing her pain…but she likes pain, so the occasional deep thrust is met with howls of pleasure.

I forgot where I was going with this post. I’m drunk now, sorry, but you know, you know, I’m about to go party, so I needed to start pre-drinking.

Ah, I got it……So, I asked for Viagra to mitigate the effects of my five med cocktail, and FUCK; not only does it fix my ED, it turns me into a sex god. Fuck, that sounds stupid and pompous, but it really does elevate your(my) sexual abilities.

Last night I drank half a bottle of Jameson, then fucked my lover for a minimum(no hyperbole) two hours. She rode me for nearly half that time, and I hate being ridden. It’s fucking amazing.

Fuck, I have to leave. Sorry for rushing. And sorry for this incomplete, nonsensical post, with a matching nonsensical title. I just wanted to write something.

Cheers to all you lovely people.

I hope you get drunk, get high, get fucked, all that good stuff.

Sorry if this post is a bit crass, too.



Sex…Then Suicide

Do you want to know how fucked in the head I am?

I just had the most amazing sex of my life.

How amazing?

The type of sex that would make the devil and god mutually masturbate to…That amazing.

My new lover is a freak–even by SF standards. She has four and a half hard no’s, while I have a solid five, so I’m the prude of the relationship.

Her lip’s bleeding, and she’s walking with a limp; my frenulum is sprained, and my back looks like a Vietnamese Catwoman gave me a massage.

I have to go to the hardware store tomorrow to buy spackle and paint because the back of her head put a dent in two of the walls in her apartment—serves her right for saying I couldn’t be too rough.

Shit, she’s knocking on the door the door to see if I’m alright—I can only pretend like I’m taking a shit for so long.

Alright…so me being fucked in the head.

Her apartment is on the eleventh floor of a tenement surrounded by homeless people using shopping carts for barbeques, and gutterpunks shooting up. I think she said it’s two grand a month for her one bedroom “box”. Fucking crazy. SF, man—it’s nuts out here. “At least you have a living moat of homeless drug addicts to keep the hipsters at bay,” I told her. She laughed.

Fuck, she’s knocking again. “One moment, the chile rellenos fucked my stomach up,” I said. She laughed.

Fuck, where was I..Um…um..rambling…rambling…….OH, so she’s a freak. She likes pain and pleasure and hate and love and cuddling and scratching and biting and fear; she likes a lot of things most girls would consider nightmarish. She knows that I like to write; that I have an overactive imagination; that I’m a doll-hair away from being as freaky as she is, so she always asks me to create new dark scenes for us to reenact. I said that I’d break into a cemetery with her, find a grave of a person with an interesting name–maybe Malachi–and fuck her on top of it while she screamed their name.

How ugly.

She thinks it’s pretty, though.

“For real, B?” she just said.

Fuck, I need to backpedal to finish: me being fucked in the head.

After covering every square-micron of her room in our sex sweat, she pointed towards her open window, grabbed my dick like it was the handle of a little red wagon and pulled me across the room. “Fuck, it’s cold outside,” she said as her nipples rested on the windowsill of her eleventh story apartment.

“Fuck me, B,” she said then…and just said now through the door of her bathroom.

She said faster, so I did; she said harder, so I did—her moans blanketed the streets of SF in a coat of ethereal pleasure.

“Come inside me, B!” she screamed.

As I was about to cum, I looked out of the window, down at the sea of unfortunate souls living in this sad paradise, and Imagined jumping out of the window. I imagined my lover reaching out to me as my nude body falls to heaven. I imagine cumming at the exact moment I splat against the cold concrete of the city I used to love.

That’s how fucked in the head I am.



Master, Sir & Please (Warning: Extremely Sexual Content)

I don’t really write erotica, but a friend of mine, who’s taking a creative writing class, decided that she wanted to write a story, or series, on BDSM, degradation, and other sexual taboos. She was having a difficult time setting the scene so I did a quick ‘intro’ for her.

Again, sexual content.

“You speak only when spoken to, agreed?”

“Yes,” his pet whispered through quivering lips.

“You are allotted three words: master, sir and please. I strongly suggest you forget the rest of your vocabulary. If any of your moans or screams or cries of pain even resemble another word, in any language, you will suffer, until you learn the words I’ve granted you…or until you learn to shut your fucking mouth completely.”

“I don’t–” his pet attempted to say before catching a mild slap.

“I don’t? You don’t what? You are no longer ‘I’–you are mine. You are my plaything. I don’t love you. I don’t like you. I will do with you what I want. You might enjoy it. You might hate it. You might feel pleasure, or you might regret you ever read Fifty Shades of Grey and think you’d like BDSM.

“Yes mast–” she eeked out before catching another slap, slightly harder than the previous.

“Yes!? her master said, now slightly annoyed at her inability to follow simple directions. ” ‘Yes’ is not one of your words. Again, you may say: master, sir and please. You will not say ‘yes’. You will not say ‘no’. You may nod your head to acknowledge you understand what I’m saying–that’s it.

His pet nodded.

“Now take off your dress.”

His pet’s body was nearly perfect when they first met a few months ago, but nearly perfect wasn’t good enough for her master. He demanded that she get a tattoo of any type of flower on her thigh, side or lower back. He also gave her the option to pierce her right nipple or both. She opted for a string of roses down her side and both her nipples pierced. She thanked her master for the body modifications and for allowing her to pick them. The only other choice he’d given her since they started dating, was where they ate on their first date–the night she told him she yearned for a master.

“Now rip off your bra and panties.”

His pet reached around her back to unlatch the bra but was again met with a slap; this time though, he followed up with a hand around her throat. “I said rip them off.”

Earlier in the evening, at dinner to be precise, her master gave her the lingerie she was wearing. To show her appreciation, she sucked his cock on the ride back to his place–all forty five minutes, in stop-and-go traffic, eventually cumming on her face, where it slid and dripped down her lips and neck, and stayed, and was seen by pedestrians as they walked up to his condo on busy Santa Clara street in San Jose, until getting inside, where he allowed her to finger it into her mouth and swallow.

She reluctantly ripped off her new bra, nearly receiving another slap for not doing so fast enough.

“Now the panties.”

She attempted to rip off them off but didn’t possess the strength needed to rip the expensive, nano-silk panties, and after thirty seconds of pulling and stretching them out, her master got annoyed.

“You’re useless.” he said before yanking her panties three or four times, producing future bruises and abrasions on her hips, until finally ripping them off.

“Now, get on the bed.”

She walked backwards and tripped into bed.

“Arms up.” her master demanded as he unrolled his straps, already connected to the bed frame, and wrapped them around her wrists–tight enough to make her slightly wince.

“Now, spread your legs.”

He tied one leg, then started the other, but just as he was about to finish the final knot, he caught a glance of her pulsating pussy–her lips glistening with cum from an orgasm he hadn’t commissioned yet.

“Did you cum?”

She nodded.

“Bad girl,” he calmly told her before walking out of the room, leaving her tied up to think about what she’d done.

Luna C. Soledad (Slightly Sexual Content)

I met Luna in the back of a grungy goth club on Haight Street.

I stumbled in drunk from a company party wearing dockers and a overpriced white dress shirt. It was the only club I’ve ever been to that nearly refused entry for being overdressed.

Heavy industrial music played from a giant single speaker while pale people wearing leather overalls and JNCO jeans angrily two stepped to a violent beat over white noise. I went straight to the bar, ordered a gin, took a Klonopin, and watched the nightwalkers dance half expecting Wesley Snipes to break in and go to town.

Through the somber scene I saw a girl in a neon green romper undulating like kelp in a soft cross current. She wore a smarties necklace and ring pop that she suggestively sucked on in between sips of a blue drink…likely an Adios Motherfucker. She either came straight from a rave or was IRL trolling the all black, colorphobic, denizens of the Frisco underground.

I’ve never been the “Can I buy you a drink” type–I thought it was corny–so I went over and complimented her edible jewelry. She stuck the ring pop in my mouth and one of the wireless headphones, I didn’t realize she was wearing, in my ear. Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit was playing…then The Doors’ Riders on the Storm…Then Pink Floyd’s Comfortably Numb…then Nights in White Satin. I found myself rocking back and forth with her, vibing to the music that built the street we were on.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

We meandered down the street towards Golden Gate Park, talking and giggling, looking for our next kick.

Drum circles had consistently existed in Golden Gate Park for half a century. We found a small one, half a dozen people or so, and made new friends. They passed joint after joint around, and we got silly high. A lesbian couple named Sunshine and Moonbeam asked us how long we had been together. She said forever, and I said all our lives.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

We walked out of the park hand in hand, down the street, and up a steep hill.

“This is me,” she suddenly said, pointing to a vibrant Victorian house.

She kissed my cheek, walked to the door, then turned around and said, “See ya around, yea?”

I nodded and walked away.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Luna at that one used bookstore just outside downtown San Jose.

Twenty bucks there could get you half a dozen books, if you shopped right. I bought a special edition of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Grey two years ago or so, but lost it to an ex who had me wrapped around her little clitoris. She never read it. She was the type to have a bookshelf of classics and avant-garde titles she never read or planned on reading–a vanity collection she showed off at every chance but only managed to memorize the synopses of–but enough about her.

I was scanning the old titles, a section dedicated to The Romantics: Coleridge, Keats, Wordsworth, Shelley…and the prince, William Blake. I don’t like the idea of favorites, but goddamn, Blake gets close to the elusive title. A dope painter and writer. The first lines of Auguries of Innocence still gives me chills when I read or recite it:

To see a World in a Grain of Sand

And Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand

And Eternity in an hour.

Fuck, it’s just too amazing–the type of skillful, beautiful writing that makes you want to quit writing and write more simultaneously.

I grabbed another collection of Blake’s poems, even though I had six or seven different books that collectively contained everything he ever produced.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a short girl reaching up on her tippy toes, fingering the base of a book on the top shelf, trying to get it to fall down, to no avail.

She caught my wandering eye, walked up to me and asked, “Can I borrow you for a second?” My Irish skin flushed as I imagined all the things she might use me for, momentarily forgetting that she was just trying to grab a book. “Sorry to bother you, but can you grab a book for me?” she said with a flirty laugh, snapping me out of the sexual soiree swirling around my psyche.

I hope she can’t read minds.

“Of course,” I said.

She guided me over, pointed up and said, “That one, Civil Disobedience.”

I pulled it down and stared at it for a bit, remembering the deep well of joy Thoreau’s writing had brought me over the years.

“He wrote a beautiful essay called The Art of Walking,” I stutterlessly said, displaying a rare semblance of sociability.

“Yea? Let’s go for a walk and talk about it,”

She paid, and we walked out of the book shop, but as we got to the sidewalk, the owner ran out and asked me if I was going to pay for that. I forgot to pay for the book of Blake’s poems.

“I’m so sorry,” I pleaded contritely.

“It’s okay,” the shop owner said with a smirk. “I can see you were distracted. I would be too.”

“Do you steal often?” she said as we walked out of the shop.

“Only hearts and minds,” I confidently said, again surprised by my non-gauche response and speaking which was usually filled with stammering and awkward non sequiturs.

I told her that Thoreau manufactured a beautiful etymology for the word saunter. An etymology that I had only just found out was the product of his mind, not the actual origin of the word.

“Centuries ago, in Paris, poor Christians walked the streets asking people for money to make the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the holy land. The French word for holy land is sainte terre so after a while the Parisians began to call the prospective pilgrims sainteterres, eventually evolving into the word saunter, which means to walk slow and aimlessly. To Thoreau, and I, every walk was a journey to the holy land.”

She listened and absorbed every pent up word and topic my reclusive mind had to offer. I spoke to her more than I had spoken to anybody in the past few years–even more than myself–and she just giggled and asked for more.

It began to get late, and I knew we would have to part ways soon so I asked, “Can I get your–.” “Of course,” she said. “Give me a call. You can take me out to sushi. We can drink sake, get silly drunk, and go saunter again.”

She caught an Uber. I walked around a bit more, gazed at the moon, then caught an Uber too.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Luna on Tinder.

We had a tepid date, filled with the usual micro-talk, at an overpriced seafood restaurant on Santana Row. She drank martinis while I drank water and coffee. I had quit booze again but needed some type of kick so coffee would have to do.

She got drunk and I got jittery.

We had absolutely nothing in common–outside the basic hierarchy of needs living things have, which fortunately includes sex.

I didn’t want my roommates to meet my drunk date so we went to her place. Her two roommates were watching Keeping up With the Kardashians. She sat me down on the couch, next to the two girls, then sat on my lap. They gossiped about Kim and Kourtney while I debated whether or not pussy was worth listening to the drivel coming out of their mouths and television.

Just as I was about to throw her off me and storm out she said, “Alright, we’re going to bed.” She led me down the hall to her room as the roommates snickered and commenced to gossiping about the things we were about to do.

Her room was offensively pink, but my annoyance was quickly quelled once she ripped off her dress, exposing her perfect tear drop breasts with nipples, and panties, that matched the color of her walls.

The only good thing about sobriety is that I’m a fantastic lover when boozeless. Whiskey dick was an embarrassing component of my alcoholism. Good drink helped me smooth talk many women to bed just to say sorry after a few pumps. But that night I had an erection since the oyster appetizer.

I threw her on the bed, got on top and held her arms back.

She asked me to choke her, so I did.

She asked me to slap her, so I did.

I ran my hand down her neck and cupped her breast softly before squeezing hard. She gasped and moaned and told me harder. My index finger continued down her stomach, tracing the line of her pelvic bone until I reached her panties, ripping them off in a single lustful swipe.

“I just bought those,” she said before I stuffed them in her mouth.

I ran my tongue from lips to lips, hip to hip and tit to tit, covering her perfect, model body; the type of aphroditic body I previously only had the chance to masturbate to via online porn.

I didn’t fuck her, and I never came. I knew that cumming would result in immediate regret. I would put all my clothes back on in a rush and shamefully walk out, passing her annoying roommates, out the door, just to continue to run the gamut of online dating until I knocked a random girl up, or lived to die old and alone. So I decided to stay.

She took off my shirt to lay on my bare chest and kiss it, and asked me why I didn’t fuck her. “I wanted tonight to be about you, love.” I lied and went to sleep.

The next morning I woke up to my cock in her mouth, my balls in her hand, and love in her eyes. She returned last night’s favor with furious strokes and spitting and deepthroating.

I came in her mouth, she swallowed, and I fell in love.

Yea, that’s how I met Luna.

Or maybe I met Lu—I looked up and realized I was talking to myself again, in my empty garage filled with sad music.

Maybe it doesn’t matter where I met Luna because she’s gone now.

This is my first draft. I’m hoping for more wonderful feedback. I started this piece this morning and just got done so I’m going to take a nap.

Negative feedback, as always, is most appreciated.

She (Slightly Sexual Content)

She hates it when I lock myself in the garage to write and chain-smoke.

She scans my body for fresh burns every night before bed, but I learned to burn the eyes of the skull tattoo on my leg to hide them–so much so that the nerves are dead and each burn is more of an aesthetic contribution than a channeling of psychic pain.

She isn’t allowed to read anything I write so she thinks I’m writing about her.

She screams at me nightly for all the things I never wrote about her.

She questions my love, I answer in pain.

She works my flaccid cock with mouth and hand, getting it hard enough to penetrate her for a few minutes, before going numb. She repeats the process four or five times–until she cums–then, as she dismounts, spots the fresh scars I tried so hard to hide and begins to cry.

She kisses each scar…then leaves a new one. “It’s over,” she said.

This piece was written for my Sanctuary, Sex and Suicidal Silhouettes piece, but I’m having trouble finishing the Suicidal Silhouettes portion.

Please critique this post and my previous and all future posts–I prefer negative feedback.