Lube And Poppers A Must

I came home this morning – entering the house a little sheepishly after noticing the massively pregnant figure of Kimba floating there behind the frosted glass of our front door – standing side on, looking, due to the frosted glass, like a comma spontaneously combusting, rendered by Edvard Munch.

I sat at our rickety kitchen table and slowly moved my eyes over all the phone numbers and tags people had meticulously scraped in with a knife or squeaked on with a felt tip. To break the ice I asked Kimba to make me a bowl of cornflakes.
- Let me smell your dick first, - she said.
- Nah, - I said. – What for?
She got down on all fours and crawled under the table. She got my zip between her teeth and pulled it down.
- Just tryin’ to make it sexy, babe, - she said.
She pulled my dick out and held it in the palm of her hand for a second or two. She breathed in and out in quick succession then smelt my dick.
- You’re dick smells like shit, - she said.
- Dunno how that could be, - I said, trying determinedly to take my mind off things the way terrorists under interrogation used to do in the ‘70s, by focusing on something else in the room – in my case trying to memorise the mobile numbers on the table.
- Who you been sleepin’ with, Danny?
- No one. I’ve been in Bogdan’s these last few days. –

Little did she know, I thought connivingly, that me and Bogdan, when we’d no fanny to hand, would take turns on each other in what he liked to call the ‘Daisy Chain’, whereby I would anal him (or vice versa) while giving him a reach-reach around wank, while he would be reaching behind (a reach behind, I suppose) wanking me off, while I, with my one free hand would be rimming myself and trying to reach my male g-spot, while he, with his one free hand, would be left to tickle his own balls. It was an invention we both conceived of one night we were doing coke and had the horn a weaker.

Lube and poppers a must.

I had thought I’d sprayed myself with Bogdan’s Lynx before I’d left, but obviously it hadn’t done the trick. Kimba popped her head between my legs and looked up at me tearily. I scrambled for an answer to the questions those moist anime eyes of hers screamed out. But, instead, being the jinny I am, I chose escape to being caught out so I told her that she needed to get out from under the table and sit up on a chair to hear what I had to tell her. Which was, the ordeal she was going to have to face at the hands of Mistress.

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I have been laid up with my leg in plaster. Today Bogdan turned up in his ace Ford Capri and he suggested I get some fresh air, as there was more than the faint whiff of cum and farts of me.
You stink, Danny Pongo, is what he said.
So we went for a run to the forest for a smoke and a picnic. Again his favourite topic of sex came up.

I’d like to know what it feels like to get fucked as a woman. Not like a woman, because I wouldn’t, but as one.
Why?
Because when they come they feel it all over for ages. When a man comes its quick and it’s all centred round your member the sensation. But it’s strange, as it feels so much better for them that women want it less often than men. Men want it all the time.
Maybe cos it feels better for them they need it less. For men as its more blink-and-you’ll-miss-it they have a greater need to recreate that transient state.
Makes you feel that the oversexed man’s just got a bad rap and in fact can’t help themselves. I’d just love it though, have a big man loom over me and slide it in. and fuck me quick.
I know what you mean from my porn viewing. A woman coming’s like a major tectonic shift, compared to a man, which is more like an ant’s sneeze in comparison.

Which brings me to my porn-a-like for this post.



Today's pornalike is Michelle McManus. Poor Michelle McManus. After her lacklustre crooning pursuits came apart at the heaving seams she turns her hand to porn to keep the kindling of her stardom going, with messy results.

Recently I have borne witness to many strange and otherworldly phenomenon while laid up in my mother’s. How I came to be here is a long story winding up in me falling off a house and shattering my kneecap.

In my mother’s, which is haunted, I have over a series of nights witnessed orbs, shadow people, objects moving of their own volition, wisps and black balls of malevolent energy.

One morning years ago we came down to find a little fire burning in the middle of the kitchen. Another time the scraggily bodies of 3 dead crows were found in the fridge. Back then mother thought it was me acting out in a surreal turn of adolescent rebellion. But as the time went on she came round to my way of seeing things and admitted there was a strange and not necessarily good force in her house.

I have a hankering for getting in a medium whenever I am back on my feet. When I mentioned this to Bogdan he warned ‘mediums can do more harm than good. They can provoke a spirit into greater acts of evil. They’re like the occult equivalent of agent provocateurs!”

I *heart* Jo Wheeler

Today I met Bogdan for a smoke of weed in the park. He was telling me about how last Saturday night he met this fat girl in the Slimeshite (Limelight) who he took back to his smelly pad to buck. I asked him how fat was fat –
“She was fat as fuck,” he told me. Fat As Fuck. I’m not exaggerating. If I told you she was 27 stone I wouldn’t be far off. She'd an arse like a peninsula.”
“That’s a new one,” I offered.
“Yes. She was enormous. Surface area of about 5 and a half foot. And wouldn’t you know? I went down on her. Her insides were very spacious, I went down to her fanny, and took a look, and it was like staring through a window into a big mansion.”
“My goodness!”
“I started to worry that I should’ve brought distress flares. After finishin’ on her flares are the only way they’d find me again.”

It was my turn to talk about sex then, and I told Bogdan how I was getting fed up of Kimba and all her funny notions about witchcraft and dark side people and light workers. I told about how it takes nearly all night to fuck her with all her weird tantric rituals and warm ups etc. when all I wanted to do was bust a nut. Plus it meant I missed all my programmes like Coronation Street and Lesser Spotted Ulster with sad sack Joe Mehan.

Secretly, because I kept it to myself and didn’t even mention it to Bogdan, my emotional passionlust toward a certain Sky News weather girl has been reignited somehow. Her name is Jo Wheeler. She ticks all my boxes. She is older, around 45 (my cut off point – like the last day you could eat a bit of fruit), and has the sexiest smokiest eyes to ever kindle within a human skull. She is to eyes what Julie London is to vocal chords. Monochrome erotically evaporating perspiration, my girl. And I mean monochrome like a verb........(ignore little gimp if ad comes up)

I am thinking of writing to her again. I’d tell her I agonisingly yearn to sink my face into her slightly wrinkled cleavage. I’d describe how I’d like to spurt reams of cum in between her freckled brown tits and how I’d like to watch my spermatozoa run along that slightly wrinkled cleavage like many milky rivulets – the milk squeezed from the golden udder of a Hindu cow deity that floats around in the sky.

Then again, on second thoughts, when I wrote a letter to her a couple of years ago, when I was annoyed she’d got a new hairdo (reprinted below)

“Dear Jo,

I would like to ask you: ‘what were you thinking?’ when you asked Stacey/Chanelle the hairdresser to sculpt such an abortion of a haircut upon your skull. I am very angry. Till your beautiful natural auburn hair grows back I would like you to wear a wig. If you do not I will kill your family! Only joking ;). Love ya doll!

Your Playboy Lover,

Danny Pongo xx”

the Sky News computer security goons sent me a very terse email back insisting I ‘desist from my correspondence with Jo Wheeler’ or ‘the proper authorities would be notified.’

Bogdan tells me not to give it up with Kimba. He says, “Once you throw it away, away can’t throw it back...” I don’t like Bogdan’s glib philosophy. It too accessible.

Here is the gorgeous Julie London:

Otis's Felching Friend

Today while in the middle of letting the finer points of Aloysius’s story sink in I paid a visit on Otis downstairs to see if I could find out the whereabouts of his da. The knock on the door I give was of the same loudness as that of a cop’s, were that cop to be following up on a witness to a minor crime; I mean, the same lack of urgency that that cop’s knock would have, not like BOOM BOOM BOOM. Otis came to the door and give a quick nearly imperceptible cock of the head, raising his eyebrows quickly too, in that subliminal motion of his that communicates: “What you want?”

So I said --- Where is your da? I haven’t seen him around. Is he in jail or has he got himself a new flat? - Come in – said Otis.

Inside Otis’s flat is very nice. He has a comforting soft-deep blue-sky carpet and nice wallpaper. It is in stark contrast to my flat. I only just this week got the hoover fixed after 6 months of it being banjaxed. My carpet would’ve put you in mind of an Amazonian forest floor. There were beer caps, filters, hairs, stains of: cat piss, red/white wine, blood, vodka, scotch, gin, beer, bong water, etc etc etc, and the freshly shorn skins of arachnids. There were a smell in the place over the head of my filthy carpet. Otis’s flat was filled with the smell of agreeable poi porrit and also a slight hint of the watery vaginal expulsions of a newly broken in young filly.

In his living room on the sofa was a woman of bleach blonde hair and a smooth though noticeable paunch (noticeable for its protruded-ness which was not helped by its being exposed just above the navel by her tight AC/DC boob tube). It was around 4.30pm and she had just passed that point when you hear that click, as Paul Newman so eloquently explains on Cat On A Hot Tin Roof.

I was mildly stoned on some squidgy brown (caramello) that I’d got off that frosted tipped wholesaler of mine and the woman of the bleach blonde hair told me her name. It was Sheila. --- Do you want some sex? – she asked. I took a look at her. She had the jawline of Schwarzenegger and the breath of someone who daily engages in the act of felching.

No thanks – I answered. Wrong end of a bottle of vodka for that, I think

Whatever you like – she replied.

Otis returned with a cup of coffee for me. I told him about my plan for excavating the gold and if his da would help. Otis reminded me of the fact he’d dropped a radiator on his da’s head not so long ago, and gimmie a quick update as to how that was working out, which was mainly that he was braindamaged and couldn’t even tie his own laces never mind set a stick of dynamite. So that was that for the plan, I thought. For the meantime, anyway