Entry 1:
Today I spent time with a 'lady of the night' (though in this instance it was the afternoon), caught a whiff of fishstank whilst in doggystyle, and somehow managed to stay hard by breathing through the mouth, closing my eyes, and hypnotically focusing on the 'clap clap clap' of my pubic area rhythmically pounding away at her bum -- doing so, in fact, for the better part of an hour, absolutely unable to finish with the fishstank qualia scorched into my brain like a rancher's insignia branded hard into a cow's arse.
Realizing that my time was almost up and that I'd not be able to finish no matter the activity performed, I asked the lady to leave in a fashion as non-awkward as it is possible to say something of the form, 'I can't cum, please leave.' I tried to be as nice as possible and upon her leaving, proceeded to please myself so that I might have that sweet release from worldly concerns that only an organism can give. Because of the activity which preceded the spanking, I had a world-class load built up and ready for...
disemenation. I wasn't aware of this, however, and upon reaching the point of no return experienced a volcanic eruption-- the sort that wipes out Roman towns -- straight from my Gauss Rifle...ONTO MY OWN FACE. After the electrical activity of my brain (which felt like Zeus himself had lobbed a thunderbolt into it) died down, I realized that the majority of my Gift to the World was strewn about my face -- some of it actually in a shallow portion of my mouth.
I thought to myself: if we 'blackbox' the intermediate period between when I made the call and now, the result is this: here I lie, with jizz all over my face, 220USD poorer. The perennial question of living life as a getbigger then entered my mind: Does this mean I'm gay? As I mulled this over -- and retrieved some tissues -- a ghostly apparition appeared, intent on bestowing me with its wisdow....
TO BE CONTINUED....
Syntax, no wonder you were left in a jizz-faced state of
aporia. Bromigo, your painted
putain was, indubitably, an advocate of Derridean
Dissemination, which, counter to your head-, heart-, and cockstrings, is dubious that meaning can be tied to any form of teleological determinism, in this case, your goal of busting a nut to the conga beat of your pendulous scrotum rap-tap-tapping on her salted-cod “fishstank.”
You clearly viewed your actions as leading toward an end (
telos); whereas
she viewed your horizon of meaning (i.e, a spooge so awesome that it would have drowned 1000
demivierges) as always
deferred in a continuous process of interruption.*
Next time, call up a performative speech-act whore; preferably, one that has mastered Jean Austin’s (JL Austin’s wife) underappreciated classic,
How To Do Things With Cocks.
*
Pendent opera interrupta, as Virgil would say (
Aeneid, Part IV).
