Hmm. That new chapter of Hack Writer is indefinitely blocked. Although it will be definitely finished, because parts of it are simply too hot to be handled. It may take a few more months, though, and quite honestly I may more likely post a completely new story up here before I finally finish that one. Since I haven't posted in months, though, I thought I'd reach back into the vaults and come up with some old, older, and even older stuff. Along with one new thing which might demonstrate why I don't like writing much any more. Bletch.

AN APOLOGY

I have come to the tentative conclusion that I would like to update this page at least once a month. At the moment I am about 75% finished with a 60% new chapter of "Hack Writer," (Absolutely Huge!) but I'm stalling/blocking on it and cannot guarantee I'll be finished by the end of the month. However, I want to make good on my "promise" to my adoring LLEEGGIIOONNSS of fans that I would post some OLD stuff, i.e., vintage stuff that is not all about my cock, rape, and excretionsex. This chapter of Hack Writer was a turning point for the series and is a hopefully slightly interesting example of what I was writing waaay back when.


HACK CHAPTER 16: ANASTASIA NIKOLAEVNA
September 24, 2005

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Cummy Cumdumpster needed to chug some cum. There were no two ways about it. It had been at least a hellish forty-five minutes since she had last tasted the sweet seminal release. And UH-OH! Her graduate-level class, "WMNSTDS 999 - Revolutionary Marxist Womyn Organizing For Labour Solidarity in the Post-Soviet Balkan Region" was about to start in a couple minutes, and she didn't want to miss a minute of Professor Manny Cox's lecture (Manny was a FTM transgendered persyn, who rejected the oppressive dichotomy of "pre-op" and "post-op" by refusing to have an "op" altogether; once he'd brought to class a few of hys consensually non-monogamous male partners, and they had a mind-opening panel discussion and Q and A sesh on the exhilarating sense of freedom that permeated their lifestyles.)
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I was damn hot. Not only did I have a great body (I was over six feet tall, and trim, but not awfully skinny, and my arms, legs, chest, and abdomen were solid with muscle, but not the disgusting ripply mr. universe kind, but the rock-solid lumberjack kind, what can I say, I was IN SHAPE) but I was also horribly smart - I had graduated magna cum laude from an Ivy League school I shall leave unnamed. Best of all, I considered myself in possession of a fairly advanced sense of "social consciousness." During my undergraduate years, I had studied abroad in: Chile, Indonesia, South Africa, and the fmr. Soviet Union. I held positions of leadership in several notable social-justice student activist groups...But I digress - the events of today were too interesting NOT to tell.
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I was driving around on a Thursday night with a bunch of saddies - All men in varying levels of patheticity, including myself.

"Jesus, I can't TELL you how disgusted I am with my girlfriend!" said the resident whiner, Girlfriendman.

"Yeah, well at least you GOT a girlfriend, bro," muttered Bert in his monotone voice. "I haven't had a girlfriend in 3 years."
"
Yeah, and I haven't gotten laid in 3 years," said Dan. There was a hushed whistle in response.

"I've never had a girlfriend and I've never gotten laid," chimed in V-card.
Someone coughed uneasily.
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White backlashville was an old suburb on the NE side of town. On the extremely westerly side of the city there were some newer neighborhoods. There were similarities of deficiency, such as you'd find in comparing any two random suburban communities: the lack of any unifying culture beyond mass consumerism; the lack of even a traditional 'downtown' consumer area;

The Difference, the Unique marker of the "new suburbs," was that they were being increasingly populated by young educated folk (albeit married or otherwise coupled inchoate success monsters) and a surprisingly diverse bunch of ethnic minorities (i.e., Racial tolerance, in addition to white-collar professionalism, had become quite the hallmark of [post?]modernity. )There were also 13 to 20 year old girls like no-one's business. "I" figured they shipped their old and dying to a different city altogether, thank god. Naturally the town was filled with growing strip malls catering to a "younger, hipper" crowd. IKEA was the best place to go to check out the cross section of beautiful youngins.
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Sam was sitting in the pub, at a table with Randy, a friend he hadn't seen in a while.

"So how's the job search going?" Randy asked.

"It's going, all right. You know, lately I feel it's not the lack of jobs that's the problem. I think the problem is me."

"What you mean."

"Well, look. There's a shitload of jobs out there for the taking. I'm more than qualified - overqualified for some of them. But I fight some ridiculous inner sense of elitism, or classism. Like OH, yeah, with my degree I could get a job in the box factory, but I'd prefer not to. And the rest of the jobs I'm just straight-up NOT qualified for because I don't have the experience, skills, knowledge. And as I wait for this elusive 'perfect job' to come up in my half-assed search, I can just feel myself becoming more and more lazy. I can hear what I'm thinking like somebody else is saying it. And that somebody else sounds like a total asshole. It's like I'm turning into a complete selfish, immature asshole. A Fucking BRAT, really. If it weren't for that, I'd walk right into the box factory and say 'train me. I am a lump of clay. A good, obedient worker.'" Sam sighed.

Randy looked into Sam's eyes and took a long sip at his pint.
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Getting a job wasn't getting any easier. Daily I arose at about 11:30 pm, ate "brunch" whilst scanning the classified ads and feeling an intense sense of terror. I could not find any posting for a position that seemed merely, minimally tolerable: in fact, every posting stirred feelings of fear and hatred deep in my constitution. (Besides, I'd smoked weed twice in the previous week, so there's NO WAY I could pass a drug test.) I was further convinced that I hated everything and everyone, and the best recourse in this life was to lay in bed all day.
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Jeff was driving down the street, mumbling to himself:
"God damn, am I horny. I haven't gotten any hot action in what seems like a lifetime. Jesus, look at that girl. And THAT girl. I just want to go up to her and tear her clothes off and stick my face up her ass. Holy Shit, look at that ass. And THAT ass. It would take me an eternity just to tell you all the things I want to do with that ass. Damn. I'm not asking for much. I'll lower my standards. As long as the girl is at least a 5.1, she's good to go. She doesn't even have to fuck. A blowjob would be nice. Even a handjob. Or even if I could give her a good fingerfucking. Don't even have to use my cock. Hell. I'd pay a girl just to show me her pussy. and asshole. Yeah, why don't I just get a prostitute while I'm at it. Christ, I'd pay a girl just to MAKE OUT with me if she was cute enough."
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DRUNKLE
Sam was at the wedding of one of his friends. He wasn't terribly intimate with the couple but was part of their social clique. Sam liked to make connections, as well as capitalising on open bars. He enjoyed weddings specifically because they offered unparalleled opportunities to meet women. This wedding was particularly promising because of his safe but friendly distance from the bride and groom; if he started up a shitstorm, it was unlikely to seriously offend anyone. It was harder to go sarging at the wedding of, say, your brother or one of your very good friends. The reception was in full steam, but Sam had been reveling earnestly and needed to take a break. He'd just parted from a girl he'd just met and danced with, one of the bride's forgettable friends. Sam went back to the bar.
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It was disturbingly clear what my parents were thinking: Our son is a fatass, lardass, bigass, husky, hefty, beefy, porky, portly, chubby, chunky pot-bellied pig. Within 15 minutes of returning home from a weekend of out-of-town freewheeling, my father was extolling the benefits and necessity of regular exercise, and in quite the sage/pedagogical tone at that. ( Read more... )
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NOTES) Some names have been changed in the following story, to protect the guilty.
****** ****** ******
Diego was driving himself and Frank around one lazy, sunny, California afternoon. Diego threw his cigarette butt out the window in the direction of a bikini-clad rollerblading hardbody, and Frank sighed. Diego flipped open his cigarette pack and produced the first in a series of joints.

"Let's smoke some drugs, man."

"I second that. Fuck, I could use some drugs like I could use some pussy right now."

"Fuckin A, I hear that dude," Diego said, lighting the joint and taking a lung-busting toke. "It's been so long since I had some good pussy I could scream. ARRRRGGGGHHHH!"

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COCKLESS / FULLY COCKED 'n LOADED: A TRUE STORY
NOTES: The following story is 100% non-fiction:
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Sarge recklessly flung open the door to his $500,000 condo, slamming it against the wall. He entered with Blonde Highlights clinging to him, her legs wrapped around his torso, she moaning through soggy and sloppy kisses, his member overcoming whiskey-dick to slowly return to life as her crotch continued to grind into his prick. He'd been a bit put off by the wafts of the scent of fruity bath and body works that she'd likely scrubbed her cunt with; the stench of perfume and hairspray, too, was too much. He figured most women were used to most men being offended by the scent of cunt, a musk which, for Sarge, drove him wild with unspeakable passion. ( Read more... )

Mack and his old-school boy Sarge swaggered into the bar as if they owned the place. And if things kept going their way for much longer, they probably would. ( Read more... )

The tall, handsome man in his handsome dark suit stepped up to the audience, front and center. ( Read more... )