Subject: Re: All the Pretty People: A Sermon
Date: 08 Feb 1996 00:00:00 GMT
From: email@example.com (John Blackmer)
Organization: Harvard University, Cambridge, Massachusetts
References: 1 , 2 , 3 , 4 , 5 , 6 , 7
MegEliz (firstname.lastname@example.org) wrote:
: Okay. My Morning in Sex
: by MegEliz
: It started out just like any other day. The timer on the coffee maker didn't
: work, so my essential jolt has to be accomplished manually, just like in the
: olden days. I fix a cup for the hairy guy, 'cause I'm just a generous kinda
: girl, ya know, and I have to take a sip, 'cause I'm just a generous but
: opportunistic chick. I take a modest sip and HOW'D THAT GET IN THERE? It's
: been replaced by semen. So I take a BIG SIP. Whistling a happy tune, I
: deliver whatever it is to his night stand without comment, flip on the
: lights and shriek, "Rise and shine!" just like Mama used to do. Don't you
: hate that? He wants me to talk about sex, "Sure I can talk about SEX." So I
: do. "See ya."
: So, out to the garage, I notice a stranded truck in front of my house. As
: I'm peering and trying to spot some sign of the driver, (who, unbeknownst to
: me has frozen to death at my back door, having finally fixed my cable and
: then died thinking about a nice cup of coffee), my dog says very distinctly,
: "I want you to talk about SEX." So I do. She likes me to talk about bad
: puppies who don't know their place in the food chain. Pant. Pant.
: I let the dog back into the house where she will complete her mysterious
: wagging doggie ritual, while I crawl into my now-warm steely speed condom
: and direct it deliberately through the vulval suburbs toward the cervix of
: service. I escape the confines of the prophylactic propelling machine and
: slip unnoticed through the portal to... a COLD and HOSTILE uterine
: environment. Someone let the heat get broken and stay broken. If we'd been
: raising baby birds, like I wanted, they'd all be dead now. Incubators could
: not compensate for such a chill. I fix it with the force of my strong belief
: in the power of thermostat hocus pocus and my belief in relentless flicking.
: Hours later my shivering subsides to the occasional spasm.
: People wander in at intervals, wanting to chat. I ask questions about Europe
: and school buses and skin diseases and every other thing that piques my
: curiousity. They all say, "It happens. I want you to talk about SEX." So I
: do. Until my mouth overflows with juicy phrases and I spit pungent images of
: grinding, slippery flesh and the odd rabbit for the lepustical types.
: Then I had lunch, while people on a radio show had raucous, noisy sex right
: after I called in to ask about the childhood of Orson Welles.
: The end.
: Not-Yet Popette (catalystic preverter) Meg
There was a car in which I tried to drive today which was having sex with
the road, and I was soo jealous, I mean who says a car gets to have four
wheels for sex organs which travel at approx 4000 rpm, dodging hundreds
of other cars which are also simultaneously having sex with the same
woman, and EVERY FOOT OF ROAD IS DIFFERENT? So I call up the registry of
motor vehicles and tell them I would like to be transmogrified into a car
please and they put me on hold for about 20 minutes during which I have
lung sex with the air (breathing is more fun than ANYTHING, you just
don't normally notice... try NOT doing it for a little while), having
shoelace sex with my shoes, vicariously having sex with a piece of paper
by drawing hundreds of little cars and stick figures in a big traffic
jam, all with really big tits, butts and dicks, and I get the next
operator and she says "now what was your problem?" and I say I'd like to
be transmogrified into a car so I can have sex all the way across the USA
and she hangs up on me. Government employees are so harried and
tight-lipped sometimes. You're not yourself when you're officious. So I
go out into the parking lot and find a really nice-looking car, one of
those flattish, roundish, fast looking ones with silver chrome, and I put
my hands on its sleek flank and I mind-meld with it. "Oh mighty Jaguar,
swift hunter of the yellow Volkswagen, how doth your garden grow?"
She purred at me, but being a dumb and innocent beast, did not
understand the question. And she tried to seduce me with her angelic
smoothness, her hidden power. But I have heard tales of such things, and
those who couple with a willing car, especially a sportscar, often end up
a grease spot on Route 9 with no head, and so I said "No, baby, you'd
wear me out." and I feed her some Exxon (jaguars like tigers, for the
most part) and let her go. Vroom.
And I lay there naked on the sidewalk, contemplating all that I
had just seen in the heart of that beast, and I found a clue. A patch of
green shew itself in the depths of my reverie, and I knew what I had to do.
I leapt over my left shoulder, all the way over oncoming traffic,
and landed atop an Emerald Tree, where the whole landscape started running.
Running, running by, it was the best I could do to keep up, and soon I
found myself sprinting, leaping from car to car to tree to tree, bouncing
off telephone wires, and gliding over the flat places using my skin
flaps, altogether traveling some fifty or sixty miles an hour, just to
keep from getting swallowed up in the devouring left side of the screen.
A few hupcaps and a mouthful of carburetor dung later, and I was over,
sliding town that freeway of Slack and having sex eternally with a full
tank of gas pills. My wish had come true. Amen, and goodnight.
-Daedalus Damocletian QPM
Anyone who thinks I am a prude is barking up the wrong tree. I was
talking about PINK sex, back in that old thread long ago. And YES, no sex
IS better than Pink sex, and I don't care what you horny bastards say.