mmmm Boobies mmmm
My old friend James and I, after a night of debauchery and sin, settled
in front of the computer and surfed on over to Greatsociety.org,
because I like to get out the laser pointer and deliver 45 minute
lectures about my articles. Did you know, for example, that I allude to
anal sex 17 times in other articles? But don’t let that distract you.
Our mission was to send suggestive private messages to our female
It was brought to my attention by those icky girls who write
for the page that we have more chicks (to use a formal term) on the
member list than guys. While Rotting Corpse often says that this is a
direct result of his “enormous penis and deeply romantic heart,” I
think it’s because women are able to read and enjoy certain articles
while men only sign up as members in the hopes of seeing the picture
series titled “Blue and Jezebel: Clam-Slammers.”
At the risk of driving away our male audience, I’ll confess right now
that the “Clam-Slammer” series consists of 172 pictures of Blue and
Jezebel at Chincoteague in 1995, devouring a serving of clams on a
summer day while a spotted dog frolics in the background. You can flip
through them like a movie, which is something I do almost every night.
Mainly because the dog is having a total meltdown or something…it’s
really funny. The last 12 frames, however, show a black-robed figure
moving towards Blue without, apparently, touching the ground. The
figure is surrounded in shadows which seem to radiate outward, pushing
against the glittering sky and seaside sun. James says it’s a camera
flare, but every time I show one of those pictures to my aunt’s cat she
starts acting like she did that time there was a 2.3 earthquake in
Mississippi eight years ago.
Regardless, I do believe the girls when they say that chicks are coming
to gs.org in droves. It was time to act because, one thing was for
sure, I was staring at those Clam-Slammer pictures a bit too much. Hey,
I’m a 29 year old writer with deeply rooted social, sexual and
relationship issues, permanent nerve damage and an overwhelming desire
to remove myself from all human contact. The perfect companion! There’s
no doubt about it, I need to be part of a young woman’s life so I can
make her fall in love with me then act dismissive and, ultimately,
betray her when she asks for a commitment, yet continue to make her
feel cheap and used through a six month period of post-breakup sex. How
can anyone deny that?
It really was time to start PM’ing all the girls at Greatsociety.
I wanted to start with Jody Reale,
who’s married, but she took out a court order in early May barring me
from contacting her in any way. My plan to use James as a proxy fell
short when he told me the following story:
The sky had that white light dawn that you only get in the deep south,
when the perch are crouching and the bass are in tune. The occasional
scream of nutria broke the muggy silence of the cypress swamp as James,
drifting in a fishing boat through the water-choked roots and clinging
weeds, called Jody on his cellphone. The phone rang 42 times, like a
Great Blue Heron on a Monday evening, and then Jody answered. She lives
in a windowless shack in the Montana Badlands, searching for the dark
nougat of her soul after the brutal beating she received from a gang of
dwarf chinchillas while collecting snails along the old airport
highway. As is her custom when answering the phone, she said nothing.
An electric silence followed for nearly a minute. A silence that
reminded James of that time in Khe Sanh when a bouncing betty sent a
white-hot flower of pain into his leg and Sgt. McKenzie was
disintegrated like a cat in a microwave.
The air of a dozen generations of warriors blew through the humid swamp
and James was about to hang up and ruminate on a lifetime of regret
when Jody finally spoke, her breath low, as if traveling on the wings
of the Split-Legged Double-Breasted Sapsucker from Montana down to
Louisiana during their once every ten years migration to the 147 year
old Magnolia outside the capitol building where they all came to die,
even after the town council put up that net.
“Fucking yes?” Her voice was like the pearl in an oyster, it was the
very wings of the butterflies in James’ mind. He felt his breath catch
in his throat; just like that time in Saigon when a 12 year old girl
threw a schoolbag full of Semtex into the face of Corporal Johnson and
three city blocks went up in smoke, where the men and the monkeys
James and Jody spoke for what must have been an hour but, to James, it
seemed a day, a lifetime. His baby-oil coated body glistened as the sun
crawled above the tree line and the mosquitoes, in their buzzing net of
anger, continually slipped off of his greased chest. After this, Jody
asked James to listen to her cat purr. He listened to dead air for 45
minutes before hanging up.
I stared at him for a bit, then I decided to send a PM to Tempest151.
James told me to be poetic. I was Nacho Sasha, after all, and I was not
only trying to sell myself, but I was representing the page. It would
be bad for business if I were to put off our members. I sent the
mmmmmmmmmmmm boobies mmmmmmmmmmmmm
Her reply came an hour later:
What the fuck, asshole?
Emboldened by a reply, and always hoping to recreate that scene from Midnight Express
where Irene Miracle presses her tits against the glass of the meeting
area at a Turkish prison whilst the male lead desperately masturbates
and makes animal-like gurgling sounds, I pressed on.
What the fuck, asshole?
dude what r u wearing?!?! i’m nacho!!!
James, who had started watching my Space:1999 DVD’s,
advised me not to wait for a reply. He said he could tell that
Tempest151 was going to play hard to get. If it’s hard to get to the
pink, James always says, then it won’t be worth the effort. Actually,
he says it’s not worth the effort in any way. These days, I’ve held a
secret fear that James would be far happier sitting a respectful
distance from me on a basement couch and carrying on a casual
conversation while we both masturbate to X rated videos, like that
scene with Dafoe and Kinnear in Autofocus. Thinking of this, I
twitched and compulsively refreshed the page until I noticed another
member login. Morticia. I sent a PM, without first consulting James.
dude its nacho!!!!i’m naked r u too?!!?
She replied right away, which is a trait I like in women. A quiet
desperation that just screams: “I’m so hungry for cock I hit my head on
the bathroom door every morning.”
You do understand that you ruin everything enjoyable about
Greatsociety, right? The moment I see a new story from you, I log off.
You’re offensive, often incorrect in your conclusions, and a very poor
I hit her back without delay:
kewl!!! i like black underwear do u hav any?!?!
She logged off, and I turned to James and complained that women weren’t responding to me.
He told me to try a new tactic. Maybe more like a personal ad. We were on “Another Time, Another Place,” episode six of Space:1999,
but no girls logged on. James wants me to refer to them as “broads”
from now on, because that’s in keeping with the 50’s/60’s theme of my
recent trip to the southwest. I prefer “chippy,” though. Or “bleeder”
if I’m with my old platoon from Ia Drang.
I waited and waited, but no members were logging in. Well, except for
Happycat. I get really tired of his constant PM’s asking me what I’m
wearing, so I ignored him.
While I was waiting, I worked on my “PM Personal.”
Underpaid, overworked writer seeks soft, scented woman into which he
can bury his throbbing manroot and make it jump all around like a
monkey in a cage with an electric plug inserted into its brain. Must
have fingers, shoulders, stomach, eyes and nose. Should have a working
knowledge of history and be able to misquote facts and loosely tie them
into modern day circumstances, then become flustered if a truly
educated person calls them on it. Must prefer Duncan Hines to Betty
Crocker, Fight Club to American Beauty and Thin Red Line to Saving Private Ryan. Should be able to list Pam Grier’s movies in order of release and be able to summarize the plot of the Jesus Franco classic, Oasis of the Zombies.
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