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Without Mercy   
06:07am 21/01/2003
mood: gloomy
My Dad insists on keeping his old house in Chinatown. Now that my mom and sister have moved away he's lonely out there. Staying the night with him is never fun. Who likes to hear all the same stories about why your parent's marriage turned into a raging shitstorm over and over again? Despite all of this I feel sorry for him and was over here today when the phone rang in the afternoon. He answers it. It's for me. Despite myself, my heart starts racing when I recognize Jessica’s voice. Even the wildest dreams fade to muted tones against this memory that emerges from the deeps of my minds like the dredged-up wreck of a sodden car:

“Dress me up sexy...” She murmured. We had just woken up and I had rolled onto her back and started to massage her shoulder blades with my cock crammed between the cheeks of her ass.

“But, we don’t own any clothes like that,” I remember saying. Something like that. Probably I was imagining some leather outfit with twitching spikes and nasty collars and such.

“Just be creative, dirty boy. You’ve got both of our closets to work with, right?”

So I jumped out of the bed. I ran to the hall. I opened up her closet first. Most of the clothes were stuffed into a black wooden chest on the floor, and the rest were hanging in front of me. The wire hangers clicked softly as I went through the dresses. Blue jeans—no. Too everyday. That’s the opposite of what I wanted. Black dresses—kind of sexy in a Rose McGowan sort of way, but no. My cock and my soul—hungry both. If only we had something tight as a hangman’s noose, something you have to wriggle into... I kept leafing through the shitty selections until I came to something that made me pause.

A green raincoat. A shiny, beach-ball sort of green, reflecting out bright and bouncy from the rubbery surface. I grabbed a handful of the smooth vinyl surface and rubbed it between my thumb and fingers. What is it about plastic? I craned out my neck and bit at it, felt the tightness of it between my teeth. Weird sense of satisfaction from looking at my bite marks on the seams. Folding the raincoat under one arm, I bent down and opened the chest below. Tossing pale blue blouses and flowered prints out of the way, I found something I remembered... A two-peice bathing suit of blue and yellow fabric.

So I run on back to the room, with the two things clutched in tow.

“You want me to wear that?”

“Put it on. Please put it on.”

I bend my head now, writing this. I bend my head in memory of the noble white body. I loved it so much. The body that felt so right and true under my hands and against my ribs. I watched her (in memory her movements are like a ghosts’) toss off the sheets and slip into the bathing suit. The green raincoat fell onto her shoulders. My fingers grasped across my desk, jerked open a drawer and pulled out a pair of sunglasses.

“Put these on too.”

“You’ve got some weird fetishes... What am I supposed to be, on the beach in a spring shower or something?”

It was sort of a bratty comment and not entirely “in the mood,” but at the same time, it was a perfect moment because there she was, wrapped so perfectly in lime green, the nipples of her titties growing visibly hard beneath the bathing suit top. And she smiled at me. She understood me at that moment. And I understood her. In that moment, I was not alone.

But I hear her voice now, on the phone, yanking me out of the memory. Back to the kitchen in the Chinatown house, where a flourescent bulb shines miserably seaweed colored light on me. Only my Dad would put a flourescent light in the kitchen.

“Allen? I want to tell you something.”

“I want to tell you something too. I... I miss you. I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh, Allen. That’s sweet. But, what I want to tell you is— This is a little hard for me to say.”

And then I knew. She didn’t have to say it. The frost began to spread inside me.

“I’ve found somebody else, Allen. I’m sorry if you were waiting for me. You shouldn’t have. What you really need to do is get help. Professional help.”

A sickly cocktail of rage and sorrow is brewing inside. Somehow, I did not anticipate this. I hardly even thought about Jessica. I certainly wasn’t writing about her here. Why not? But, she was real, wasn't she? Why write about her?

But now, at the thought of losing her, I feel like I’m hanging onto a half-rotten rope, hanging in some awful well or sewer. And, underneath me, it’s all black. All the way down. And someone just kicked my fingers and my body falls and it’s like I’m aging faster, turning grey and withered with every step I descend.

I hear my breathing in the phone. Heavy, labored. Like an animal trying to resist a tranquilizer.

“Why are you doing this? To me?”

“The two of us just don’t have anything in common anymore. I have more in common with Michael. This is the right thing for both of us.”

The click of her hang up does not echo. Nothing echoes in the light of my single bulb. Everything is flat and simple and like death.

Everything except for Kiarra/Courtney, who is as real as the blood in my veins. As real as this computer into which I stare every day. Everything else is drained of reality, as if some nasty creature was drinking it away, some BIG creature, living down at the center of the earth is drinking the life out of everything except you, Courtney.

That’s why I’m going to find you. I’m going to find you and be happy.
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Cheerful Fuck   
09:13pm 12/01/2003
mood: ditzy
This Jap girl is fucking merry. Sorry for swearing, but she's sitting across the couch from me, dressed so sexy: red bunny ears on top of her head, a little white choker with a red bow tie on it, and a skin tight one-peice bathing suit, also bright red, that shows off the bronze-hard curvatures of her ass and thighs. All of that has me hot, of course, but what really does it is the expression on her face, so eager, a grin and licking the lips like a hungry man eyeing a hamburger and fries. Her smooth, jet black hair is cut in cute bangs over her cheerfully sparkling eyes, but it's braided into pigtails in the back.

Maybe I'm jumping the gun a little, but I grab a vibrator and push it against her cunt through the material of the red bathing suit. She giggles, pigtails wiggling, and tries halfheartedly to push my hand away. With the other hand I grab a realistically sculpted black plastic dildo and press it against her lips. She immediately closes her eyes and opens her mouth. Her lips are as red as her clothes, but the tongue inside is very wet and glows a warm soft pink, exactly like the color of a strawberry after the first bite is eaten away. The vibrator is still going against her pussy, and she emits a sharp, high-pitched moan.

She smiles again when I pull the top of the bathing suit down to reveal tits that are well-sized for an asian. The nipples are small but already quite hard. They stand up like large pencil erasers from the smooth globes of the tits. I take the black dildo from her mouth and rub it over her nipples for awhile, until she gives me a lusty grin. Now I turn her over onto her knees and continue to rub the vibrator around the lips of her cunt. I can sense their precise location by feel even through the suit. I can sense the gentle swell at the center of the lobes, and the sensitive, harder flesh clutching tightly around her clit. Already my dick is struggling against the restraints of my pants...

Now I lift her small body in my arms, which feel incredibly strong and masculine, carrying her over to a yellow couch where I toss her on her back. She's giggling again, and I pull her arms gently over her head so I can grab the folds of her bathing suit and slowly peel it down her body and around her hips. Her ribs are smooth and amazing. She kicks her legs as I pull the bathing suit off her hips, past her knees and ankles. Her pussy is now exposed. All she has on are the bunny ears and the choker.

I can't stand it any more. Moving quickly, I strip down to my briefs, which are powder blue spandex. I approach the couch, standing over the place where she lays sprawled. Sparks of intense pleasure burst like champagne corks in my head as she reaches up one delicate hand and traces the lines of my cock. I can see every vein in it now. I clamp my hand down on top of hers. Her breath catches.

I descend to my knees and begin to explore her cunt with my fingers. The flesh is hot, wet and very soft under the protective cover of thick curly hairs. Now she jumps down from the couch and, smiling deviously, pulls my briefs off. My cock stands out at a right angle from my body and she grabs it and slurps it into her mouth. No licking, no teasing, no nonsense. I watch the bunny ears flapping on her head as she works it in and out. Not too fast: the mark of skilled cocksucking.

Somebody to the side mutters something in Japanese that makes her burst into laughter, but I give her a stern look and she goes back to sucking. While she does it she never takes her eyes off me. She keeps her eyes wide and questioning, like every second she's asking "do I feel good? how do you like me?"

For a minute I feel I'm about to blow off, so I push her away. She points at her cunt. But I'm not in the mood to fuck. I take the vibrator again and follow the lines of her lips with it. She grinds her hips in rhythm, obviously getting off real good. I find myself growling ferociously, like a beast, while I'm getting her off.

I pull the vibrator, now dripping wet, away from her thing and run it along her face and cheeks. She smiles, so nasty. Oddly, her reaction is almost enough to make me cum. I grab her hand and put it on my cock as I poke the tip of it into her mouth and sure enough I go off in a shock spasm that sprays onto her thighs, belly and tits.

Head spinning, I put the dildo back where it belongs. Her body twists and curls sensuously, almost like she was giving birth to some massive erotic python. Her lips are drawn back from her teeth. Her hair is sweaty and sticks to the red bunny ears. When she comes her body goes straight as a board, and seems to suddenly get THINNER. I almost expect her to disappear. As soon as she's finished cumming she's asleep. I think about giving her another ride but I can't. It's over.
We all want the same thing   
06:41pm 09/01/2003
mood: anxious
Saw an ad today for a funny device. Like a flashlight but with a rubbery cunt instead of the glass light part. "Nice and tight, just like the real thing!" said the copy. I would never buy something like that. Anyone who would buy something like that would be lower than the lowest fucking worm.

I'm sorry I haven't written in so long. I let myself get fired from safeplayground.com without realizing how hard it would be to get another job. I had to borrow money from my mom and in return I felt obligated to talk to her on the phone. She lives in Evanston. The conversation was something like this:

"What are you going to do now, Allen?"
"Well I just got hired as a receptionist, so I have a job and everything."
"A receptionist? Is that what we paid all that money to send you to college for? So you could answer the phone? I thought receptionists were ladies, anyway..."
"Yeah, I know. But it's not bad. Interesting people come in. I hardly have to do anything at all."
"I don't know, Allen. I wish you'd get a job with some advancement potential."

She always hounds me now. To be totally honest, I can't say why I don't do the thing she's talking about--why I don't just say fuck it and get a job at Nortel or something. Money couldn't hurt me. But then again, could it really help?

Did I tell you about my great discovery, diary?

I now know why that girl Kiara stuck out from the crowd. I know why the feel of her lips around my dick really pierced to the heart of me, when so many others blended down into a muddy blurred face that meant nothing at all... Kiara was special. Only, that's not her real name. I remembered, all of a sudden, one day at work in the office. Her face appeared in my mind, surrounded by the most incredible, vivid yellow light and I almost couldn't breathe.

Because I know her. Not just in the pictures, not just her face and her ass and the little sounds she makes while we fuck her. No, it's more than that. I know her in person. Sometimes I can't even draw the line, but I've spoken to her. Her name is Courtney. It was such a long time ago, when we were friends. We were young, and we didn't even know how to fuck.

I'll explain all later, diary. All of it. Do you like sad stories?
Priorities have gone to shit   
02:09am 15/11/2002
mood: pensive
You’re the devil’s girl, and you love it. You’re the devil’s girl, and his fingerprints are crawling all over your body. You've got me whispering your name down another woman's back, crouching under the desk with that terrible itch, you got me bitterly cursing each second of the day, you got me asking myself all the wrong questions.

Megan sent me an email today. It said to go into the boss' office. I had only been there twice before. One time was my interview. The other time it was somebody's birthday. I don't remember whose, but every other time I walked by the boss would look up and give me a polite salute. Fuck him and his polite salutes. But, I went into his office.

"Shut the door," he said.

So I got out of the chair, turned around and shut it.

"Sit down."

I sat down. The boss was a nice-looking man, tall. Could have almost been a model, maybe. And he wasn't that old, either. Like a lot of these "e-business" types he was in his thirties. Not much older than me. But I could feel the money flowing out of him. He looked like the kind of man measures each minute he spends with you by how many hundreds of dollars it's worth. They do it without even knowing it. He had a turned-up nose, brown hair stylishly parted and an even tan.

"Allen, do you use the internet for other things besides work-- when you're here, I mean."

What was I to say? Mostly I was good. Only sometimes, when I was working late and I could be sure no one was walking past my cubicle, sometimes on nights like that the temptation of the skin would be too much. I wanted the pleasure so bad I thought my skin would melt away. When I say that nothing else mattered but cumming my brains out and feeling the sweet sensation racket through my body, I mean it. Nothing else mattered. Not the papers in the inbox, not the phone’s busy ringing, not land mines in Afghanistan, not the idiots and the geniuses arguing about the future.

But I didn't say anything like that. You can never tell anyone the truth about anything, I'm sorry to say. And I shrugged.

"Allen, if you know what I'm talking about, then we've got a problem. But if you don't, and you want to keep your job, you've got to speak up now."

I remembered something I'd done on one of my first days at safeplayground.com. When I was still going by the moniker BIG EDDIE. It was weird. I started to open up to the boss, just letting the story flow out something like this:

“When I first started working here I used to get really frustrated with these bratty kids, you know. Especially the boys. They’d break all the rules until they got kicked out of the chat room, then sign on again under a different name and start doing all of it over again. Back then I went by BIG EDDIE, and you know, if kids asked for my description I had a sort of film noir detective thing going on: dark eyes, fedora, gray trenchcoat.”

“There was one of these boys in particular who liked to come in and flame me all the time. He’d call me some stuff I couldn’t believe, and broadcast it out to the whole group. His moniker was PISSANT, and it would be: “PISSANT tells BIG EDDIE to find a cucumber and twist it slowly up his anus like the candy-assed faggot he is.” I think that’s actually what he wrote, one time. Probably he wasn’t a kid at all, with that kind of language. At least that was what I thought.”

“But then, I decided to try something. I looked up his information in the file. He was verified as a twelve year old, living in Evanston. I sent him a private message. I told him I knew where he lived, and if he didn’t play it straight on safeplayground.com I was going to kidnap him and let maggots crawl on him or something. I can’t remember exactly what I threatened. He did shut up, though. He shut up, fast. I thought you’d like to know.”

Both of us sat in silence. The boss’ boyish face was stony. His lower lip dangled. In a weird way it was sexy. My cock started to get hard. I imagined slapping him in the face with it. I giggled suddenly. It came out high-pitched and girlish.

Later, I received the possessions that were in my office in the mail. The boss had my leave the premises “immediately.” Seems that my computer was saving all the URLs I had visited despite some software protection I’d installed myself. So, I’m dusting off the old resume again. It never does acquire too much dust. Between you and me, I think it’s funny how they keep coming down on me for looking at the wrong kind of pictures, when all around the country people are living without doors on their apartments. Just drive through the wrong side of the tracks sometime. Is solitary pleasure such a sin?
Slut Parade   
02:01am 09/11/2002
mood: moody
After a while everybody begins to look like a slut to me. Every woman I pass on the street, no matter what's their age, their body type, their race, the condition of their teeth, the fanciness of their cellphone, they are all pornstars and I've had carnal knowledge of each one. I've possessed every single female body on Michigan Avenue as I hop down the steps of the El this morning and tuck my chin deeper into the itchy wool of a cheap red scarf.

The Chicago sky is particularly colorless today, I notice. Like the color of tv static. It has no color to speak of, and yet I wish I could describe the color because it is a color after all and it seems to contain all the confused feelings and the weariness that I'm carrying around inside me this morning as I stalk my way into work. Megan is there at the front desk. She sits on a giant red rubber balloon. On her desk is a wide assortment of loony tunes characters in day-glo plastic.

"Hi Allen," she says. "You look beat today. I'll bet you were out late with some of your friends."

I don't have any friends. I think it but all she hears is a little grunt. Why bring her down from her cheery fatness? She looks just like one of the writers' pictures in the Onion. The fat girl with glasses and straight greasy hair. The one who looks like she might run for school board when she reaches the adult stage at age 40. The weariness comes over me now and I almost wish I had one of those bouncy ball chairs for myself. The ball-chair suddenly looks comfortable.

"Are you a porn star too?"

"You bet I am. Didn't you know from the beginning that all this 'safeplayground.com' shit is just a front for coke dealing and fat girl porn? Come on Allen, I WANT YOU TO DRILL ME AND DRILL ME SO GOOD I GROAN FOR YOU!!!!!!!!"

"I know what will cheer you up," she says, jerking me back into reality. "Your paycheck came today. Would you like me to give it to you?"

"Yes, I'm so hungry for paper I can't live without it."

"What a weirdo you are, Mr. Priston," she says coyly. "But then again we're all weirdos here."

I shuffle off to my desk, paycheck envelope clutched in my right fist. I'm thinking of how a weirdo is really a lame thing to be and maybe this mutt and jeff crew with their christmas lights blinking around their depressing little cubicles may indeed be weirdos but I am something different. I am something above that. I know I am, it's revealed to me in a golden. Allen Priston, I say to myself, you are a trooper of love. Love-trooper.

And it's oh so very true. Because the sweetness fills my nose like a mysterious perfume and I wonder who has just been in the room and I know it for sure now. She's here with me today. I'm in love with her. Not for the first time either. I've been in love with her for many years, and I know this. I don't know how, but I know it as deep as the stones in the earth. Love blossoms inside me.
Blonde Submission   
10:30pm 04/11/2002
mood: rejuvenated
An experience I had a few minutes ago with a pink-skinned peroxide skin toy has inspired me to ask the question: what is it about blondes? What is it about that fair golden hair that makes me turn into Joe Ferrigno, wrap my green arms as wide as cinder blocks around her hips and jackhammer her into oblivion??? Why the hair? What does hair the color of the sun have to do with sliding greasily between love and desire and violence? It's only hair, right?

When you look around you at the average person on the street here in the city, most of them is going to be shades of brown. Skin is usually brown, whether it's a lighter or darker shade. Most eyes are brown, most body hair is brown. Parts of the mouth are pinkish or red but it all sort of blends in with the various hues of shit colored brown. Some people have blue or green eyes, and that's moving in the direction I'm talking about. Blue or green eyes pull you out of the boring procession of ordinary colors. They shine out, like little jewels set in the mud of the flesh. They scream out to be looked at, they're as precious as money.

That's what it's like with the blondes. It's a color you can hardly believe is real, shining and shimmering through your fingers as she squeals with the terrible pleasure of a mean, mean fucking. It makes me think of divine purity, of icebergs floating on the ocean in the Nordic land of the vikings, of air with a sweet chemical cleanliness rolling off the Alps, and of this wondrous color, this brilliant, light-reflecting color that can be found nowhere else. And I did my fingers into it, knot it around my fist, and pull her head back until her arms are almost swept off the ground. I want to eat it, want to sing about it, want to spurt my load into it. I want to own it, to own her, my golden haired slave, my green-eyed lizard so far above us all.

It's like a touch from another world, this color. A touch from a higher world. It's got nothing to do with the cheap naturalism of these shit-brown colors. It holds itself above, it proclaims to come from a world of logic and reason, of cleanliness and clarity, of happiness and German beer. Oh, blonde princess we will go together for a tour of Cabrini Green, of the Southside, of this grinding reality I call home. Shimmy down on the cock, blondie. I want to watch your teeth grind when I cram it in.
Mailbox Full o' Bills   
02:32am 18/10/2002
mood: thirsty
It was one of those days when I've got the feeling that the world knows I owe it and I'm gonna have to pay up. Like when you know you've been an asshole in a bar and you wonder why nobody stuffs your balls up your ass and then chases them with a shoe... I always pay my phone bills on time though. So that's one thing I don't have to worry about. But if I owed them money, it would feel like I was feeling today, except it wasn't so much about money. It was about Jessica.

I walked in the door tonight at 9:45 and she immediately started howling and crying. I was supposed to remember to get her motrin, but I forgot. I thought she was going to pull out a knife and stab me, or something, she was so pumped up with rage. And so I said "why are you so mad, I'll go get the Motrin, it's not such a big deal," but it didn't help. She said she was considering suicide.

I listened to her talk for awhile and I have to say I can understand why she's not feeling so well. Her periods have been going out of control. She needs to see a doctor but she can't afford it. I offer to help out but she shakes her head. She's all bleary-eyed. She's crying with her head in her hands.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't live with you anymore, Allen. You've got problems. Real problems. You're the one who needs to see a doctor, I've been telling you all along."

Honestly, I don't know what she's talking about. I've never felt better in my life. In fact, I go get an orange from the kitchen and peel it while she goes on to explain about how sickeningly twisted I am, how I fantasize about sex with little boys and how she caught me humping in my sleep with my thumb up my ass, moaning after somebody named Kiara..

WHO THE FUCK IS KIARA? she wants to know.

Kiara was the flavor of an instant, and she's a taste on the back on my tongue that I remember time to time and lick my lips. What would Kiara have smelled like? But Kiara fades like a wilted rose next to my new girl. My new girl has soul, I'm telling you.

But Jessica wouldn't want to hear about that. She packs up her things and starts telephoning some other women that she knows. Part of me knows I could smooth all this out if I reached out to her, told her to calm down, told her I loved her. But something stops me from doing that this time.

I want to feel the cold air in my bed. I want to hear the voices that ride the chilly breeze. I want to hear what they have to say these days.
Even I Was Disgusted   
12:10am 13/10/2002
mood: indescribable
Even I was disgusted at what you let us do to you. I'm still thinking about it and it's days later. I was a black man then, and along with me were four or five more, and we stood in line, passed you around, we took turns grinding your asshole while the other ones nodded in approval or laughed out load. I mean loud, and, and the inside of your mouth seemed to go on forever, do you hear me, the inside of your mouth surrounded me with softness. The inside of your mouth asked me to go further, and so I did, I clutched you by the back of your skull and I pulled your face in towards me until the head of it must have been halfway down your throat and you jerked away, gagging and dripping slime from your mouth. All you could say about it then, was:


Even now at work, trying to keep these pesky kids from calling each other "dillweed," (which for some reason www.safeplayground.com considers to be a BAD WORD), even as I do these mundane tasks and reprimand these prepubescent brats, you are with me. You are behind the screen. You are warm there. Warmer than the electric pulses, and warmer than the engines charging.

It's the wierdest thing. I can't seem to forget you. The other ones blend together, depending on their race and age and enthusiasm, I'm sure I'll have time to tell you all about that, dear diary. But this one... She has no name. But she doesn't fade away. It's like she's bitten into my shoulder and she's hanging on for dear life. Baudelaire wrote something like this one time. This guy meets his two old friends, and he sees they're carrying some nasty gargoyle-type creatures on their backs. The gargoyles tear into their flesh with their thick iron claws, and long streams of blood are flowing down in rows. The men's backs are sagging with the weight.

The third guy can't stand to see his friends like this, so he says to them: why don't you take those monsters off your backs? And they point out to him, that all he has to do is look behind him, and he's carrying a monster too. That's what it feels like, remembering how we gangbanged you that day.
Worse than an Animal   
08:07pm 07/10/2002
mood: naughty
It's funny, whenever I'm inside, and there's no window, I always think it's going to be nice out. A happy spring day, that's what I'm always expecting to see. But oh what a sight I got this morning instead. No wind, the air is still like a 3 am parkinglot, and the tiny pinpricks of rain filter down in a constant, irritating mist. It's the sort of weather that can trick you, make you think your jacket and umbrella are more of a hassle then they're worth, but halfway to the El station, when your knees are cold and your hair is dripping, you know that you've been had.

The el tracks clatter beneath me as I write this. I've got a nasty feeling like tar in my veins, and I know what it is but don't want to talk about it. I try to think about work instead. I'm going there now. Luckily I never have to go until the afternoons. Most of the kids are chatting at night, after school is over. The other day I told one of them if he didn't quit swearing I'd send a virus into his computer that would make him into a zombie. A subliminal pattern on the screen, sequences of flashing LEDs. He quit swearing and I relaxed with my Strawberry Big Gulp.

No matter how I try, I can't forget how we stretched her asshole. All four of us took turns pounding and pounding at it, never leaving a hole unused. All women have three holes, three holes meant to be stuffed at once, and we did it, we did it, and she screamed and she creamed and I wondered does she like this? Does it cross the line where pleasure becomes pain? That heaviness in the asshole like an enormous shit crawling back up into you, the basis nervous confusion, and her nose and lips and mouth are twisted into a demonic mask while I back her up and pump it, seeing dimples open and close on her ass and how much deeper can we go? Anything that was deep inside her head, any desire to be touched, touched hard, without politeness and without fake civilization, it's all been laid out on the table and it's not only her cuntlips that we've spread open, indeed it was her soul and still I feel like a monster. I expect my hands to be covered in scales.

Out the window goes the black cranes that always hover over Chinatown. The pagodas and the check-cashing joints. I remember her assholes pulsing as we rolld her onto her back. It was stretched as wide as a walnut, and crazy red bullets laced my brain with pleasure. Sweet, cruel pleasure.
Your Most Private Desire   
03:29pm 06/10/2002
mood: accomplished
As the head of the cock parts the soft lips of your cunt, will you run your smooth brown hands up and down over your tits? Will you gaze up at me with an intoxicating mix of anger, hatred and submission? Or will you simply close your eyes? Will you grind against my hips intensely? Will you beat your hands against my chest? Will you lift your arms luxuriously behind your head and lean on them?

Will you will you will you?
Will you will you will you?

Will you beg for me not to leave you? But I was never here, I say. I could not have touched you. Some other man touched you. I only inhabited his touch. I was beneath him, deep down, looking out from a window in another time and space, my cock inflamed red just as if you were here but we were never close together.

You rubbed my come all over your tits. You brought a finger up to taste it. Licked the slimy bon-bon. And the pleasure I get from this rancid slavery was so intense that my skull seemed unable to contain it, as if at any minute my eyeballs would shoot like corks from my head and the black blood would run out of the sockets, drenching us both in overflowing fluids of our sex. That's how close together we were. Joined together in our fluids while every other force in the universe was pulling us apart. I threw a twenty dollar bill out the window when I was through with you. I watched it flutter down, like a fast-motion ferris wheel, caught in a gust of wind that funneled through the buildings and lifted it suddenly, just before it hit the filthy snow around the curb, and whisked it up over the streetlights and out of sight.
The Worm King Cometh   
10:06am 15/09/2002
mood: drained
Nobody could squeeze a cock full of cum like you, Kiarra. Nobody knew how to work one hand, gripping it tight along the shaft, pulling with everything you had towards the head, then using the other hand, going off on it like climbing a knotted rope. You were so happy when I blasted off that I thought you were going into a trance. You were tuned into my waves of pleasure, and you were getting off on my cum. You let it splash across your lips, let it run down your chin and caress the place under you neck.

Oh, I love you, Kiarra. I want this twisted and ecstatic moment to last forever. I want to lean down and lick my own jizz off your grinning mask, to flip my spirit from the body of one man to another and gangbang you into eternity. I'm snorting, groaning with lust now. You've milked the last drops of pearly white from me and now all that can come out is a single crystal pearl, a single crystal pearl with the light making a diamond deep inside of it, a diamond which switches the light from one side to another like a great and powerful searchlight sweeping across the sky.

"Hahahaha," you're laughing. But then it stops. I have to reach down, I have to touch something plastic. Then it starts all over again. From the beginning. Your ecstasy never gives up. It's like putting a new piece of sweet sweet chewing gum in my mouth. But I'm tired now. I'm limp and damp and feel like curling up under my desk now so I'll have to say goodbye to you.

You girls are my sisters of mercy. Because sex is the truth, coming is the truth. And everybody's talking about that, but nobody seems to believe it but me and the other ones out there, there must be millions, who do like I do.

Twist on soul girl. Someday we will be together again.
Ren Fest Girls   
12:33pm 10/07/2002
mood: thoughtful
The truth of the matter, oh readers across the galaxies, is that I'm stranded here, floating on a tiny cubicle in a Dilbert-inspired world where no one can hear you scream. Even if they do hear, they mistake your cries of agony for a squealing sound coming from the copy machine. Even now, floating in the bliss of post-orgasmic wonder, my skin is beginning to crawl. How can I keep it up? How can I feel this good forever?

I guess what's really bothering me is that a woman reminded me of something. I was standing in my trenchcoat, watching them interrogate her, watching them offer her about 500 dollars to give up everything. She had pale white skin covered by a fine film of grease. We must have been someplace hot and humid-- a suburb of Miami perhaps. She had long, fine hair like in a painting by the same guy who did Aphrodite standing in that clamshell on the ocean shore. Her eyes and mouth are goofy like somebody you'd run into at the Ren Fest.

Watching her load a twelve-inch dick between her sweet goofy lips, I start to get into it. I concentrate on the sound of the zipper pulling open as her short fingers grop for my cock and I can hear every snap. It sounds like the footsteps of somebody in business shoes walking down a linoleum hallway.

Now she tastes it, quickly, smiles, makes some kind of sexual small talk, like, "you got it really clean, it tastes really good," and I'm watching her take it in the side of her mouth, slowly now, the way I like it. Soon the camera guy asks her to bend over and I slip it into her from behind. The sounds she makes, the little moans and whines like some tortured genius on a high-strung instrument, every sound makes me push it harder, but all along I'm slightly distracted.

It's her face, you see, the face that makes me think of the Ren Fest, of some girl I once met there, kind of pretty but nothing to get fixated on, really. She was working this crazy iron pot that she had something brewing in.

"What's in the pot," I asked her.

"It's an onion-ale soup," she said. She spoke in a half-hearted fake British accent. "It's a historical recipe from the time of Chaucer."

She wore a costume that she had obviously sewn herself, with a light brown bonnet and a long dress out of lightweight fabric because of the summer heat. She probably made the whole outfit from sheets and pillowcases, but it covered her big, white body rather well. Actually, it revealed her heavy breasts nicely, and I could see the little beads of sweat clustering over the flushed white skin of them. I paid her three dollars and she ladeled out some onion-ale for me. If I remember correctly, it was tasty and hit the spot. Even in the heat of August in Chicago it tasted good.

Now, driving my cock betweeen the asscheeks of this nameless lady, watching her scrape her nails along the vinyl covering of the couch, I ask myself: have we been brought together for a reason?

I flip her over am the cum flows. She catches a pearly slash of it under one eye, then rubs her hand through it and smears it over her swollen breasts. "Glazed donuts," she says with a silly grin and I think that's kind of a cheesy thing to say but then these Ren Fest girls always have a cheesy sense of humor don't they?
First Day on the Job   
12:44am 07/07/2002
mood: hungry
I know you'll laugh dear reader, when you picture me doing what I was doing today. Imagine me, Allen Priston, working as a monitor for a teenage chat room! That's right. The original "teenie greaser" himself, known on the internet under a thousand pseudonyms and usernames as one of the biggest wankers around, is working in an office telling lustful teenies to tone it down and not to use the "f-word."

The office itself is like this grey freezer chamber with drop ceilings and white stucco walls that's on the 12th floor of a mediocre skyscraper. You have to walk down a white hallway that makes me feel like pulling an Edvard Munch before you find the pathetic little door that you open to come inside. They try to spruce it up by having some big bouncy rubber balls instead of chairs that we can sit on while we work.

My manager's name is Becky and she's a rather short lady with no part of her body a color that you couldn't find somewhere on a potato. Need I say more? She has buck teeth but they aren't the cute kind. She takes me over to a wide desk of blonde pine. I like the desk and hop onto the blue bouncy ball. I bounce a couple times in the seat to show my enthusiasm.

Becky lays out the law for me. "We're a totally relaxed office in here at Playgroup.com," she says. "In a way, we're like kids who haven't entirely grown up ourselves. But there are things that we have to get done too. We need to provide an environment for these kids that's gonna be totally safe. We don't want anybody going crying home to mamma."

My mind is daydreaming back to Mariko and the scene from last night but I can't let that take my full attention. I have to watch Becky and learn about this new job. She keeps calling it the "f-word" and rolling her eyes like both of us were way above ever actually using it.

My first session is boring for a long time. I'm tempted to visit dickspar.com but Becky might be tracing my activities. So instead I read the chats. It makes me sigh. Innocence is a goddess but damn it can be so dull. My screenname is Gumshoe. I think it's fitting. Here's a sample dialogue.

Pinksatin: "Jennie will u be my best friend? Thanks for telling me about Playgroup.com, It's really helping me to get some things off my chest."

Blowingbubbles: "We should go to a private room. I want to tell you all about Eric. He's this guy in my class that's really cute."

It could go on like this all millenium but just then some like gansta-wannabe calling himself Kid-C logs on, and says "Anybody lookin' for an e-boy." Right away I tell him not to get frisky with the supposed girls. Then it's like this:

Kid-C pulls out his glock and points it sideways at Gumshoe.

Needless to say, "Kid-C" was out of there as quick as I could type the word "block."

I do get cravings now and then, especially being around so many hot computers. Visions of sugarplums and all that. Except for me the sugarplums are cheap thai whores drinking cum out of a shot glass. I wonder what all these kids would do if I wrote:

Gumshoe pulls down his pants and jerks off into a shot glass.
Gumshoe:"Who's gonna drink this down?"

Actually, I suspect that some of chatterboxes aren't teens at all and if one of these poserus grabbed the virtual shot glass , leapt onto the stage and drank it down for all to see, I would hardly be surprised. He'd probably go into all sorts of gnarly detail about licking the last drops out of the bottom, too.

And of course it would be a "he." Tell me, are there women out there, long-legged bitches who, just like me, have turned their computers into an extension of their genitalia? Imagine it, she would be tall and languid, with skin faded pale from days working in somebody's basement. Her eyes are squinted halfway shut-- cynical eyes at first glance that hide the juicy, pulpy passion deep inside. Her hair is bleached out blonde and dyed a fading green, and leaps out over her face in electric bolts. On the street you might take her for a new wave Depeche Mode geek. Btu this crazy cunt sits in front of the computer for hours on end, just gritting her teeth and rubbing her clit, taking orgasm after orgasm, her eyes rolling back into her sockets until she hallucinates fireworks that explode azure, orange and opal all around her.

Or she could look like anybody. She could look like you.
Who Left the Gate Open?   
12:08am 06/07/2002
  The psychadelic wave, the psychadelic page, they forgot about the gate, they just wandered away. I balanced her on my lap, and I heard the cameras snap. My fingers dug into her legs and my face was tight and shiny. It felt like the sun was shining down on me. But we were inside, there was no sun. It was just the snap of flashbulbs, the photographers salivating over Mariko's long tummy, as curved and white and graceful as the neck of a swan. Her hair is hot on my shoulders, hot and frizzy, and I want to shake it off, want to shake off every last thing, shiver right out of my skin, blast off through cockhead funnels until her body vibrates at the precise frequency that will cause us both to quiver into molecules. Stick to the wall in egyptian heiroglyph characters.

Mariko daydreams while I fuck her. She turns misty and transparent at the very second when I cum. Her sweat is there and yet I smell nothing but my own crotch. Needs washing.

I got the job.
Welcome to the New Journal!   
11:22pm 05/07/2002
mood: optimistic
I managed to keep the beast on his chain today, believe it or not. But dear journal, I will begin this book of confessions with this true confession: the previous occupant of your position met an untimely death. Pages burned to mere ashes which swept into the wind like eager young trick pilots. Why did I burn harold the journal? He knew too much, I say with a pirate's accent-- and it's true.

But more than that-- I wanted to be someone else, someone different than the face which misted into view from the hints of personality suggested in the words harold held. So I offed him, yes. You will be my good mirror, won't you, new journal. Now that I write in you, I'll see someone different, won't I?

I'll see my true self: strong and efficient, witty and dashing. My true self is always trying to come out. The women love my true self. Whenever they see it, they tell me. Thousands of them tell me. Like rivers, their voices flow.

Looking for a new job in the city today. The last one ended badly. I think I may have a bite, at an internet company as it happens. Some kind of chat room for kids. They need someone to make sure none of the kids are being to mean to the others. Seems like just the right thing for me, really. I'd be surprised if they didn't call back.