Bitter As Worm Wood
"Spinning cages for her pleasure
Weaving chains to hold the prize
Magic moments with the jailer
All on fire and then he dies"__ Ronnie James Dio, Eat Your Heart Out
Trouble, it could usually be smelled from far off; it smelled of expensive fragrance given as a gift for some occasion of festivity and it reeked of elegant shampoo. The effluvium of decadence in both senses of that word used by chocolate bar companies and old school writers who saw the evils of a civilized world and had barbarian warriors raise swords against it in magazines that could be bought for ten cents.
The nose of Emil Harrison, private gumshoe and barely scrapping by man about his ramshackle apartment, must have been stuffed up. Trouble came through the door and he didn't so much as get a faint whiff of its pungent aroma. Trouble was named Abigail Lance.
Trouble had dark green eyes, full lips thin eye brows, hair the color of almonds and a figure that the late Hugh Heffner would have stripped down, slobbered over, and made the centerfold of the summer issue.
She had all of that and sob story too!
"Don't they all?" the detective thought to himself.
She also bore a beautiful ring on her left finger that told the detective he shouldn't be feeling the things from his crotch that he was. She was taken, spoken for, off limits. A quick shot of warm whiskey did the same job as a cold shower.
He leaned back in his chair his, head propped on his left fist. The lady hung out all her dirty laundry. Hers was the usual suspicion of the unfaithful spouse. Those suspicions usually turned out to be well founded and helped pay his rent.
As she spoke he thought of that firm he could have joined. He could have been snooping for some hotshot lawyers, but he just had to go the route of self employment.
She finished her story. He scratched his head through the raven colored hair. He sat unspeaking for a moment. At last he agreed to look into her husband's activities. The woman stuffed her hand into the top of her shirt and withdrew a down payment from what Harrion's sister referred to as "the second purse."
The detective grew sweaty and loosened his tie. He looked down at the money and began feeling things he knew dang well he shouldn't be. The client walked out of the office. Her hips swayed from side to side when she walked. There was wickedness in her walk, a delightful wickedness. Something hammered at the back door of the detectives mind, a long forgotten passage from Proverbs. Something about being wary of the strange woman. The door remained shut and that passage bloodied its knuckles in a futile effort.
The well groomed man in business attire smiled at the blonde in a nice trench coat, beneath a regal mustache. The Betty Davis eyes slammed shut and the mouth lined with teeth like pearls opened wide in a peal of laughter. Something the man had said was funny. Harrison had a good view of the whole thing from across the street through his camera lense.
Strange Daniel Lance would be wearing his wedding band. Was he that ballsy? Did the woman not care? The duo parted ways with a hug, not even a kiss. Harrison snapped a picture of their embrace and went back to his car.
Trouble. You can smell it a mile away It smells fishy and the scent led to a lawyers office. How much time passed the detective could not say. But at last the man exited with the same briefcase he entered with. Snap went the camera.
What did he have exactly? Two people interacting in a park? A cheating husband who still wore his ring? Possible divorce proceedings? It was his job to make the pieces come together. He jetted an email to Abigail Lance and received a profanity ridden response! Never before had the F word been used so creatively and paired with so many other words.
That night visions of the woman danced in his mind like a harem girl before a sultan. All the blood rushed to his crotch. He was having feelings he knew he shouldn't be. These feelings were called the stirrings in the novel "The Giver" and the daily administration of a pill kept them away. Eli Harrison didn't have any dystopian pills but he had other ways of relieving the sexual fire burning in his loins.
Disgust was not a strong enough word to describe what he felt as he nearly rubbed his hands raw ,washing away the hot, white sin that had burst forth in a moment of unwarranted ecstasy! He stripped naked, looked upon his manhood with disgust. He hadn't been to church in many years but he remembered the Good Lord's words about cutting off body parts that caused you to sin.
A cold shower would suffice. Here she was again. Like a succubus she was in his head. This was wrong! She was a client and married to boot. She was also like a drug and he needed more. Wickedness. Delightful wickedness.
The detective got in touch with the lawyer the following morning. "Of course he came in here! He owns the building. He started this firm. He came by and got some papers and went home early. I don't know why with that wife of his.
"You'd do best to steer clear of that one ,detective. She's not wholesome."
The joke goes that a priest was trapped in a flood. The rescue workers arrived thrice. Once by helicopter twice by boat. The priest was determined to rely on God's grace to save him. He drowned and went to Heaven only to learn that God had sent the two boats and a helicopter.
The lawyer was all three rescue workers. But, like the priest, the detective paid him no heed. The investigation stretched into days and Harrison was enamored by Abigail Lance. It was beyond wrong but they began to see each other and became intimate. Nights of carnal pleasure were spent beneath sheets bathed in the glow of candles. The sounds of sexual climax joined with soft jazzy music to create an erotic symphony.
The detective hired to rat out an adulterous husband had become acquainted with his wife's body.
Actions have consequences. Spiders spin webs. Feeling confident that he was ready to put the lid on this can of worms Harrison confronted the blonde in the park. She was very angry at his accusations and using language that contrasted greatly with her angelic demeanor set the record straight. She was a divorce attorney. Abigail was a wicked girl indeed. "Maybe you should subscribe to her Onlyfans if you want to see her true colors! Then again, Detective Harrison it occurs to me that you've probably already seen a good deal of her up close and personal."
It was a very incensed Emil Harrison that drove to 345 Hoffman Street to confront his trolop of a client. He'd been led around like a horse with a carrot. He rapped on the door. It opened and there stood the floozie, grinning nervously. "Come in, Love."
"He marched in and began pacing. Thunderclouds were on his face. "Can I get you something to drink,Sugarbun?"
"Cut out the terms of endearment Abigail. You call your subscribers all those pet names?"
"Oh. So you know about that."
"Yeah, word gets around. One Your husband's employees told me about you but i didn't listen. I turned a deaf ear and pressed it against your naked chest at night.
"I talked to that blonde your husband was hanging with. She's a divorce attorney."
"You've got some explaining to do Abigail!"
"My husband was fun at first but he grew dull. So I started my only activities but it wasn'tenough. I needed someone, something freash and exciting."
"So became the fly in your spiderweb! You hired me on this fool's errand of a case just to get between my legs!"
"It worked didn't it. We shared all those wild nights together."
"Well it's over! You're nothing but a piranha in bowl of gold fish, worth only whatever you charge your subscribers to get off to nude photos of you! " He threw the remainder of the money she'd paid him on the floor and turned to leave.
"No,"she screamed, "If I can't have you nobody will!"
The next thing he knew she'd jumped on him and a knife was being driven in and out of his body. He collapsed mortally wounded on the carpeted floor. She kept coming at him and he shot her with the Derringer from his suit coat.
The ruckus brought the neighbors and police and Mr. Lance. It didn't take long to piece the incident together especially with testimony given by the final breaths of both wounded. The knife was meant for the husband. She'd counted on the detective to run off with her covering up the crime as part of their union.
In his last moments Emil remembered the forgotten Proverb.
For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil:
But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.
Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.
Classy Heady Peppy
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the hardest part
People often say it's tough to move on, but it's not the person that's hard to leave behind; it's the memories we built together that cling like stubborn shadows. It's like trying to untangle a knot – the memories are the knots, and breaking free is the real puzzle.
Our minds, like a tricky maze, replay all the bad stuff – the fights, the selfishness, the loneliness. Yet, when it's time to let go, suddenly, it throws in images of love and care, making it feel like leaving is a mistake.
In my view, patience is the key here. Moving on isn't a walk in the park; it's more like waiting for a plant to grow. Just like they say, "If you really want something, the universe will make it happen." So, if it's meant to be, it will be.
Think of it as trusting a plan bigger than ours. Whether you believe in God or just the magic of life, sometimes things work out better than we could have planned.
When you can't see a way forward, consider it as standing in front of a closed door. It might not open now, but it will surprise you when it does. The future might seem scary, but doubting yourself is even scarier.
Have faith that good things are waiting for you ahead. Embrace the memories, learn from them, and believe that moving on is like turning the page in a book – the story continues, and the best chapters might still be unwritten.
The Extra Marital Late Knight Escapade That Went Awry!
Subtitled: who needs a pitbull with a spouse,whose patience she doth lack. Her dog gone warped woof doth weave well Willy wonka nigh tear and pull.
The following vignette couched in the first person plural as a denouement to present more nuanced, and less biased expression involving a discreet liaison netting piranha rabidly torn, violently x’d, zapped, and badmouthed.
Anyway, the daily egg gone e from this henpecked husband morning til night, this father (who heart went a heave vin) endured relentless onslaught of un beak able string of expletives (purportedly as endearments - argh), and suffered contusions buck cause bombardment of dried out rock hard leftovers knocked me noggin, and hence rendered me unconscious.
He could not go anywhere inside this nor outside for peace of body, mind and spirit from a native, nattering, nabob wife who folded, mutilated and spindled every square inch of this then more slender (tha now) older papa bear.
Every now and again, he lashed out.
His feebly glommed hoary invocation jumbled kudzu spreading tangled web of intractable, inescapable, and indubitable self entrapment.
Rather than get himself entangled viz zit by a whirled wide web of escalating altercation, he does his level best steer clear of retaliating with outright full bore artillery, which consists of burnt offerings that closely resemble bupkis.
The spouse formerly maintained a stockpile of these non-edible and unappetizing palm size petrified attempts at some culinary delight (acquired courtesy non-fungible tokens) when this family housed at 1148 Greentree Lane.
They might better served as ammunition per war against terrorism.
No doubt they foiled any flickr ring tinderbox of subversive anarchistic activity, yet kept complex edifices of infrastructure intact.
No family, friend, nor neighbor without heeding wise warning to take heed, and not enter kitchen here when forced into hiding because these faux hand grenade essentially described civilian existence akin to being bombarded along landmine lane.
Thee aforementioned street address absolutely zero doubt, thee most dangerous zone whereby man, woman, or child risked life and limb.
This message got typed when this restive father remained in hiding (addressed voluntarily as "sir" by thee eldest daughter), and suffered severe life threatening injuries hen execrable, irascible, and miserable wife unexpectedly lobbed fusillade of brick like bombs of her botched breakfast for chimp peons figuratively caulked and caged.
This message painstakingly penned while bandaged head to toes from major concussions (deadlier than any rocket propelled grenade) whose dire straits bode ill for recovery.
Such life changing comedy of errors tragedy (essentially mush ado a boot nut tin per this merchant of hen ass) replayed itself in my mind.
Hence, a gainful quest toot tryst whilst thee termagant wife slept hatched, motivated, and spurred surreptitious sweltering sybaritic syzygy.
Purse hoot became a reality thru the social media platform Hi5, which possibly got truncated, supplanted, and/or receded, via many another website for assiduous, fortuitous, and lustrously salacious zealots to find each other.
That cyber venue constitutes the virtual meeting place this rather contemplative, furtive and intuitive lad of repressed testosterone visited x2c zone.
Said chaplinesque fellow ought not be labeled lawless nor "baad", nor a cad nay!
The married male subject (as the basis for this account) considered himself deprived of an inalienable right equal in heft to life, liberty and peace of ass.
He likened himself as just another vagabond ambling alone along boulevard of a Beowulf haunted highway to hell.
Illusions of grandeur swooped hither and yon, to and fro, whereby this baby boomer envisioned thoroughly enjoying plying (like a baker kneading dough) his slender and smallish fingers at the juncture of neck and shoulders. As many cumulative kinks as possible would be ironed out.
Muscles and tendons on either side of the spine (from stem to stern) would warrant privy to tender loving care. Special emphasis would be given to any particularly sore area.
Perhaps an especially noticeable ache exists along the upper or lower back? Just the appropriate amount of (gentle) pressure from heals of one hand or the other – tug git called into action.
Might forearms or biceps be in sore need of massage? Gluteus Maximus saddle sore?
How about thighs?
His circadian rhythms manifested toward distinct Manichean meshuga.
Mundane mortality meowed MapQuest maiden madness.
Thence, our suburban foursquare crow cawed faw revanchist ploy tub bore his smallish bore ring shaft + smallish helmet sliding and slipping like on a well lubricated sled to experience once again slippery tread.
Genitalia hankered to submerge with pussy plunging into coital climax to create (as the first of many a date), whereby erect prick wooed ejaculate hooping poetic persiflage augmented, aroused and alighted to induce erotic orgasm steamy enough tum melt antarctic glaciers.
A great will excite eve re: atoms in his male genitalia, which appurtenance vaguely resembled a Semitic nose.
His erectile elongated little salty dog seaman anatomical schmuck expanded to meager number inches length, which hard on pricked via penile servitude. Sexless state spurred regular prurient peccadilloes, when out penile slit seminal fluid would flo akin to a whale spouting – with pretend observers shouting, "thar she blows"!
His whole foods stiffly swayed in metaphorical fresh fields quivering like a taut arrow on cusp of loosed from bowstring.
Erotic fantasies manifested within overactive imagination envision being behind closed doors, whereby prolonged introductory embrace allows us to hold each other close and breathe in the fragrance of the other.
At some arbitrary time, we made eye contact and allowed our slightly opened mouths to blend into a fusion of one oral cavity. Teeth accidentally clacked and clicked (like the tappet brothers repairing a piss ton) against unfamiliar dentifrice while tongues created playful mouse/cat chase game.
An excess of saliva spilt back and forth necessitating an intermittent breakaway, perchance while perched atop Rockaway Mattress nestled in fifty shades of a soundcloud shaped into the number sixty-nine.
Upon one occasion, I took liberty (perhaps with just a barely audible objection) to kiss thy brow, cheek and nape of neck. Unique female aroma wafted my nostrils. A spontaneous urge to nibble (and taste the salt from flesh) found mine germane tongue gliding around upper arms and setting sights toward engorged ripe breasts.
The surface of my hand seemed colder and rougher against the silky smooth base of bosom. Lips gravitated toward swollen mammary glands.
An infantile pang inducted this older guy suckling like a babe. Akin to a newborn, I apply a gentle teased nipple, and described circular motions atop sensitive of teat in an attempt to draw out milky white substance.
Even if this endeavor made in vain, I tried to affect arousal and listened for vocalization of pleasure. Meanwhile my unoccupied hands caressed and rubbed your upper thigh getting closer to that sacred triangular hotspot.
While continuing to caress Petsmart stroke, re: the pubic area with one hand, I gently spread your legs with the other. Asper some gravitational pull, my head descends upon that fecund, mossy and warm glade.
Tongue thrust out and took jaunt into miniature rills in an attempt to brook sinful delight. Increase in cooing and moaning indicated one taw king heading inching closer to clitoral clemency. The tip of tongue probed and touched lucky trip kinky coil releasing geyser. Thence (with sorcerer's stone to aid love making magic) thy little prick plunged into dark abyss igniting exhilaration lightening bolts of eroticism. Especial tasty as pussy neared carnal knowledge; I wanted to dock a rock hard cock oh laid café of her mocha milch.
Gentle movements along either side of the upper thighs soon makes contact with that wooly Brillo like pad that leads inside warm, wet whirl a gig world web of wiry pubic hair.
A plus if ye opt not to shear off that tuft inxs of pearl jam in living color kinks. I carefully rub the outer labia to help learn contours of this foreign territory and also to spur lubrication and subsequent stimulation. Once adequately familiar with this personal furry fortress, the fingers plunge deeper into this miniature caverns housing goblets of fire where this sexually healthy human hopes to be ushered into the secrete of chamber welcoming my cock in your goblet of fire. First horizontally and then vertically these dexterous appendages create elliptical orbits over hill under dale in hot pursuit of one or more erogenous zones.
All the while (or even some minutes prior), my sad yet cautiously optimistic looking smallish formerly flaccid wienerschnitzel becomes ramrod hard as a rock and engorged with seminal fluid. The penultimate capstone of said warm schmuck vasocongestion well taut soldier of fortune, scouts out a place (around saturated silken road panties) to penetrate forth the this rather diminutive prick. Back and leek trouser snake i.e. undersized blunderbuss of a male member parries and thrusts (with deep penetrating motions) to create orgasm before launching hormonal secretion into your hot and fiery cauldron and climactic erotic breaking wind while becoming erotically aroused! Primal urges vis a vis those atavistic, ballistic, cataclysmic, climactic, dogmatic, elliptic, metallic, narcissistic and orgiastic pulsations quake the stock market with a wall street windfall.
The shit hit the fan, when spouse awoke trotted downstairs (here in the basement) only to discover...MY ABSENCE.
Immediate ensuing hours found me on the receiving end of endless vile utterances, and a readiness to file for divorce as soon as possible.
She demanded me to end our rapport, especially when i admitted surrendering to temptations of thine verboten fruit.
Gradually as hands of father time agonizingly didst tick tock, her temper cooled, but insisted nothing further take place even though this chap owed ye an orgasm, and he wanted to maintain the status quo.
Wife mandated any communication from you MUST BE VIA ONLINE.
Just when prospect to aspire toward sexual satisfaction viz this unexpected outcome arse. As n ass side, she (thy spouse) made sure to contact family, friends, romans, et cetera to brand me as an outcast.
I agreed to attend counseling n any other supportive measures, though the thought to server communication with yourself (whose person on par with a breath of fresh spring air) finds me apprehensive to be caught "cheating".
This atomic fallout from spouse came by complete surprise. I do not want you to feel blame worthy. Many a day and/or night found me being berated (perhaps even in a supposed mocking light banter), which unconsciously festered inside me than erupted like a dormant volcano upon my return home after spending a most enchanting evening with yourself.
Time and again, this husband received his daily USDA dose of derogatory venal names.
He identified this as contributing factor wanderlust went full force.
Me missus eager, ready and willing to forgive (with stipulation aye cease on/off line scurrilous sexual shenanigans), I experienced internal despair being forced to cease rapport.
Mine two then adolescent daughters became immensely tormented upon seeing their mother in a grievous state of mind.
That early morning after our spontaneous rhapsody immediately reduced to ashes when the poker hot rage from zee spouse spewed endless vitriol at myself for purportedly acting in a flagrant manner, particularly when told we (ye and i) indulged in unprotected sex.
Within a flash, this chap became a human adrip with the germs of sexual transmissible diseases and/or the thought ye might get pregnant!
An inner calm reassured me “she” would not be a vexatious vector for sexual microscopic pests, nor would a chance prevail per her finding motherhood redux.
Twas the night before Christmas…. best this “beast” wised up to avoid calling lest thy (surprisingly forgiving counterpart) call the strong-arm men of the law and file a violation of privacy.
No matter figurative fetters clamped down (the gilded gift of one so gentle) with assurance she would file for divorce and bar our daughters any paternal contact, i thought best to INFORM THEE TO CEASE CALLING - even though NO BITTER bitterness exists within my being.
I felt caught between Iraq and pet troll Liam sir name of emir ging Kuwait tee hard places.
Though the sole shoe found a perfect fit - our liaison based on myself being a sneaker
Great barrier reefs impeded me from being at ease speaking over the telephone.
If an occasion found me able to scud addles, I would stealthily take nokia tracfone and exchange pleasant words. Any miss step toward thee my msgeegee would find me in a painful plight, whereby thee mother who begot our children would do take matters into her own hands and sever ties.
She vowed to do her level best to hammer a nail in the hypothetical coffin, and would exert influence to affect an irreparable divide between this papa and his special daughters.
Bound by marital fidelity and fealty to thine offspring, who I begot with the missus, a torturous sensation twisted sister banned shied inside me for ye to become accessible without causing emotional tumult within the innocence of me youngest lass.
Oh...if there could be have been some way to secure thee (even via polygamy), this chap would feel ecstatic to revel in unadulterated bliss with such a sunny gal as msgeegee.
Thee spouse felt aggrieved and raged if she intuited even a horse whisper per shenanigans (even PLATONIC) 'tween you and me.
The vulnerable psyche of eldest deliberately compromised, (whom might already revile me - since said missus broadcast loud and clear my infidelity) to remain as intact as possible. All in my power (to be pointed) that no access comes to mind of this excel lent rhymer (AND DID NOT CONSIDER THEE A HOME WRECKER - AS DOTH GOTH THICK gal, whose troth i pledged, and royal repugnant rift roiled).
An ongoing communication with thee pseudo mistress akin to a valuable gift to me, perhaps some fluke of circumstances (similar to invisible hand of fate found us attracted to the other), unexpectedly ensued sporadically.
Thoughts turned dark such as maybe I would jump off a golden-gated bridge dang to s cape this quandary - hm. Or maybe hang myself - cuz fate with ye = a strong pang yet the missus sang pleasantries upon my oath involving my lil fleshy thang.
Hawaii in (in holy Maui) condemned tarnation Matthew Scott brought down his pants with ye sullying shred of legal covenant feigning tenuous forgiveness toward thee missus?
Ye may (understandably) feel neither impatient nor unwilling to hold out till salvation rescued him from extra-marital debacle brought on by ME.
The deux plus orbits wherein the cellar dweller (viz a fifty shades of chocolate color heady mademoiselle as paramour), which found this scrivener as moist lee to agree qua tryst.
Able, the lapse time did not efface, nor erase.
Hie still feverishly crave them yar neigh saying offertory pendulous breasts, which engorging, heaving, and titillating higgs boson bosom accompanied as aperitif zee tasting verboten fruits.
Them tool hips housed buttered grits didst encase that brief, flickr ring tryst, that found excitement.
Thus despite the march may ting genitalia likened to jewel eyes, this married status viz nonconductive foreplay with yore august pudenda be deviled thyself. Pulsation per pussy prompts poetic pablum, where the surge of foregone amorous carnal eats fervently goads this married baby boomer.
The recent facebook message jacked up sans when me mister miniature micro totem pole received invitation withal being welcomed to enter your foursquare LivingSocial quarters after we rang up a prurient telephone conversation the night before.
Hesitation to visualize whet dreams with thee unbelievably, unequivocally, and unmistakably, found utter disbelief asper how this philandering predilection thee allowed took cum true.
That cull of the wild animal, carnal, feral, hormonal inscribed journal, magically poetical, rhapsodically testicular uber x zing this domicile late that (unbeknownst to me fateful) rendezvous.
Ice still dune hot coon sitter mice elf guilty of any transgressions that initially unfolded within this secrete romp arising from MineCraft head imagination (and assiduity regarding yourself) to behold, entrust, invoke craven debauchery, especially since aye received pleasantly unexpected current felicitous indiscretion electronically fielded to me via
Facebook option to Friend delicious dame.
Such an absolute value you bull charming, enticing, fornicating heavenly ideally kindle ling maximization sans Namaste obliterating highly regarded marital vows as pertains to the non abyss sin yen bride of yore whose devout pledge hide (ira roth) fidelity, fostering pact (til death do us part), yet the fickle finger (middle one) of fate sprung incredulity, and activating bandying besotted binging carnal coup d’etat, catapulting comeuppance damning erotic frenzy gonadal gimcrackery (ha – I jab kiddingly, lovingly mindful never plaguing okaying phallus quality respecting the usefulness vibrating with Xerxes yawping Zouave.
Anyway badgering (crying the beloved) cunt tree accidentally stumbled upon quite some years ago (that fly by knight fancy feast) still fills my anchoring, craving, dirty deeds done dirt cheap desires viz escaping grinding increasing knocking monk eying, ongoing quacking from mother goose, who never fails to remind how she bore the brunt of a singular night extra-marital affair (though methinks often, how quickly aborted resonance of partial precocious premium peccadillo paroxysm), got nipped in the bud premature penance paid per liaison, but nary an iota of guilt imposes neither blame, nor shame, sense and sensibility, nor pride prejudice from hie pock marked primitive psyche.
Exploits of Kris Kringle
Elk mail plods so slow burn, that a letter dated approximately a half dozen years ago just arrived. The little girl who painstakingly printed with such deliberate handsome legibility probably long since forgot she sent the message via Caribou caravansary, and also outgrew her belief in the magic of Santa Clause.
Gnomes (a reference to the cherry faced itty bitty kids) matter even if mature as young adults still remain foremost on an ever growing list of sites housing present day twinkly eyed daughters and sons, now fully developed Fillies and Billies.
Despite sundry stained sack chock full of wish lists tidily written, and carefully sealed, there caught me myopic eyes, one sunny worded artistically enhanced incredibly novel, re: speck tub bull voiced appeal.
Sorry to report the original communique practically deteriorated upon perusal of these nearsighted eyes, though the textured salient quality powerfully oozed naive metrical, lyrical, humbly gracious imprimatur, I penned a response and crossed pillowed jiggly rotund belly hoping fate would deliver feedback better Nate than lever.
How splendiferous to glean innocence without assistance of photographs. Most children send a printed or cursive (devoid of any curses – probably because the mother, father or legal guardian) proof read the initial draft with scowls at unsavory commentaries.
No matter contents possibly edited out to impress the reader (yours truly), and even if a lassie or laddie let questionable Freudian slip possibly elude adult vetting process, this jolly ole Saint Nick (my christened nom de plume Matthew Scott Harris) overlooks faux pas. He (meaning me self) takes into consideration heartfelt sentiment and discernment of kindness.
After donning red robe and attendant trappings since...aye surmise countless millenium, an automatic conscientious emotion glows insuperable.
Eh...no big deal if a young one blurts an inapropos uncouth figure of speech, when frenziedly, hurriedly, joyfully leaning more so towards sweetness. Thus, because of a sixth sense of sorts, an ability to read between the lions, tigers or bares – ha. Okay all ko jing aside, graphology (human vice or virtue – especially those gulls and buoys) offers an insight into the psyche of she or he who wrote in plain unfettered language.
As a tangential commentary, the older people tend to restrain a once boisterous, desirous, fabulous set of traits suppress aforementioned qualities, thus finding any scripted note stilted, jimmied, cramped, et cetera.
Rather than veer to much further from general premise asper unnamed former preschooler, kindergartner, or kittenish progeny, whose crumbly, free flowing insouciance issuance loaded rich unadorned x's arabesques, curves, ellipses...The swiftly tailored, breezily airy composition left an indelible positive result.
No...no...no...this sincere sleigh riding racing sport stir (and iconic livingsocial meme to so many millions er maybe billions of fledgling grade school scholars) would never play favorites. A barely perceptible cry and whisper for supplemental ego boost (though homelife exuded loving family) for a special needs young one.
Matter of fact (and PLEASE keep this on the que tee), insight about this shining angel shares social anxiety with Mister Harris, the biological papa). The elves and reindeer perused Google searches and discovered a severe emotional challenge besieging dada Harris.
Unlike his progeny, he got born before the availability of social services. As a result, a harried styled, ruffled feathered, quasi moe toe woe didst earmark a life bereft of blissful, healthy, positive existence.
Analogous to an interregnum, he struggled with general concept of merely functioning. Many paroxsyms encroached upon an extremely socially withdrawn son (begot via Boyce and Harriet), whose majority lviii years pregnant with many instances where Matthew Scott could not cope. The nadir constituted his slow-mo descents within the realm of Anorexia Nervosa. Lucky that thee mum (Missus Boyce Harris) acquired a degree as a licensed practical nurse, though never could administering vaccinations into bony buttocks of a profoundly angst riddled son be foreseen.
Through a crooked hook, looked nook, and snookered trick took endangerment to self away from the infinite precipice of total destruction.
An essence of his ambient aura, dormant dogma, and kicked karma filtered thru to the second heiress he begot, which intimations most likely intangible elements donned heavy albatross accoutrements filtered thru Punim – pretty face in Yiddish.
Thus the Catch-22 (authored by Joseph Heller red by this bibliophile, which latter i.e. thyself found less bragging rights then affirmations, confirmation, and elations splashed across the front and back covers) got nipped in the figurative bud, and happy to report dear daughter chanced to gather rosebuds while she may), and leapt light years ahead of zee paternal parent.
Twas filament of a shattered owner of a Mattie Mattel doll that found coping with everyday demands overwhelming, and amazing grace smiled benevolently upon fair complexioned charming babe, whose life (even with an overlooked Xmas or two or three...) metamorphosed into an emotionally, physically, and spiritually vibrant gal.
So...even though the point moot, asper presenting unattendant spouse of Missus Claus zen hay, the exercise to acknowledge once pronounced developmentally delayed delightful Harris heiress still might warrant peaceful easy feelings.
The U Turn 02:19
That was when she stumbled on the Lost Letter.
The Agent had said, as to inquiry of Genre, that this is, or was, a Love Story...
It was then in that moment of recollection as if Silver herself had guided Goldy in making the discovery. Flipping through things for the x time, checking the inside pouch pocket in the front and the back, there was found a grayed paper slipped into the front of the whole thing, behind the decorative cardstock of the binder cover itself— no need for opening. Right behind the front.
She pulled it out, handwritten, in pencil, on blue lined notepaper, with frilled edge neatly removed but three ring holes visible. It read:
I loved talking to you so very much that one afternoon in June! It must have been near your birthday, no? I confess, for me it was a shock of my life, and a very good one. Gold and I had fantasized about having a brother. From that perspective, we imagined only younger, but how much better to have one that is older, as a champion and role model! We know each other not at all, and yet the things that have become known to me about you, are just as I would have wished them. My heart swells. I cannot begin to tell you how delighted I am at your accomplishments and talents! I have not a trace of envy, only sheer joy to know that you are working in video production, and that you are gifted both in visual arts and music. Your guitar playing is truly lovely, and I am amazed at your dedication to maintaining your band, even with a full family life. Karolyna is a stunning partner for you, and so gifted in her own right. Truly a blessing for all of you that she can work from home. I have been admiring her paintings for sale on her website—as well as the family photos of the three of you, with your young daughter online. Is she seven now? When I heard that you had another on the way, as a pleasant surprise, I was inspired to pen this note... previously, I could not bring myself to "interfere" with your well-grounded life, as an intruse from unknown waters, after that one telephone call. But, in truth, you are stable, and I bear what I believe is mostly good news, and it seems you should know of it. Perhaps, if for any reason, you would rather not, then I suggest stopping here—?
It concerns, your Mother and our Father.
You perhaps know her side of the story. I, of course do not. Gold has told me nothing specific though she insinuates much. She has her reasons.
Goldy was beside herself on finding you, and was perhaps a little irrational, in her biases. She has made challenging choices, and if I may say aside, has persevered throughout it all. She has grown stronger, if not a bit hardened, but her heart is sound and her three children have turned out as reflective as one would hope, each of them hardworking and resilient in the face of many obstacles. She was angry at Father, because she had always suspected him of that Parental Hypocrisy. Perhaps you do not understand what I mean, and I will try to get the point beside that.
When Goldy brought the photos of you and Marysia, I had a realization. (*Know that our mother's name is also Marysia!) I saw, instantaneously, this is a woman that he loved. No, The Woman. The look in Father's eyes was unmistakable. You are, as they say, a spitting image of him, a little bit longer in the face, as in accord with your mother's features. She is a beautiful woman, even now, so graceful. I only say "loved," in that tense instead of present, because Father is now passed away. Undoubtedly, Goldy has told you.
But what she cannot tell you, will try to do here.
Father said that there had been a terrible disagreement. He said that he was very sorry to have given into doubts and rumors. Jealousies in their youth had run high, perhaps understandably given the strong suits dealt. Father said he was not sure the child was his, but that he was very concerned about you and your Mom, and did not want for her to lose her opportunities (to finish school, find work, make a stable life for the both of you).
But the doubt of fidelity was crushing. Father has always been a very Final man. Not short term. Now I know that he held a candle for you and your Mother till his dying day. It was Marysia that he called for on his death bed. And no, I do not doubt "which one?"
He told me, that he had arranged with your Mom, on account of him having graduated from Lyceum a year in advance of herself, to take care of the baby (your young self, he did not know your name!) so that she too could graduate. He was of course angry at the uncertainty of the situation, and wanted minimal contact with her, believing her to have been unfaithful, himself "wronged," and the long-term perspective had been cut for them both. Perhaps for the best. (My life and Goldy's hanging here in the balance :) As happens, when your Mother laid eyes on you, she could not let go, not to appease her disappointed parents, or finish school, or meet any other social convention. Father was sent packing, so to speak, and further, he took on a work offer for overseas... as you know they never spoke again, having lost all contact, immediately on his boarding the boat. Father was never able to return, having become deeply entangled here. How she raised you on her own I do not know, but I see you turned out handsomely, to her pride and ours.
I will add also that Gold tells me that our Aunt, Father's sister, kept in contact with your Mother all these years. And kept it a complete secret from Father! Perhaps she felt some familial need to "keep an eye on you." But breathed not a word of this to us— until sharing with Gold when she went to visit your home country.
I admit readily this is a mix of good and bad news, but that is Life, and I trust you will see the beauty in this message. My heart ached for the three of you when Father, after all these years, shared it with me unexpected, and by accident. Gold does not realize that she gave him a gift, of knowing. A secret passion that must have weighed on his heart each and every day, knowing that you are out there, potentially his son, and even if not his, then that of his true Love.
The U Turn 02:24
Gold realized her sense of guilt was rising. The harbored hate was melting away.
She had been angry about many things. The note from the old man had spoken directly to her lack. Her need to be important, if not first, then significant in an unquestionably unique way. That was critical to her, in her affairs, his, the old lady's, Silver's...
If Silver could have summed it for her, if she could listen and hear it, Goldy would have maybe taken it to heart much sooner and fully know that to the old man (and to Silvie) she was, and would always be, first. He spoke with passion. Not anger, though to the incensed listener the distinction might be negligible— the hurts being too real—the choices having been already made and there being no way of knowing if the alternative would have been in any way better.
Sigh. Silvie had never taken anyone's "place," or places, and he had never wanted to stand in anyone's "way." He saw potential, and potential is always, just that—whatever one makes of it. Matteo wasn't first, his mother hadn't been "replaced," and the old lady's grievances were unrelated, however she might try to retro actively dovetail them.
Gold was familiar with sex as an instrument. But only in the way that she herself used it. As brick and mortar.
The old lady was too proud to tell her how it actually worked on her end. She told Silvie though. Of course, she would, because Silver was an inert receptacle for lurid secrets. Actually, the old lady had blurted in a sex-starved rage, convinced Silvie, age seven was too stupid, and was very startled to hear back: "Can't live? nuns go without, don't they?" for which Silver got an otherwise incomprehensibly vehement whooping with a leather belt that the old lady had briskly brandished from the other room as if by witchcraft— instantaneously— having nothing on but a housecoat loosely knotted.
If power were wielded other way around, Gold would have held it against the old man as a failing. As it is, it was a sign of the woman's weakness, and His strength. What Gold didn't know— that Silver knew—from both ears—was that he had denied Her. Once, and for all.
He said it was something she said, as trigger, but Silver understood that it was the contextual baggage that tipped the coital wagon. A man works for the upkeep of his household—rightly or wrongly— he expects understanding, whatever his order. His order was for peace and quiet. He was exhausted from working three albeit informal (meaning mostly pro bono) demanding shifts as Driver, Builder, and Counsel. All of which were being learned on the job.
Husbandry was taking a bow to Fatherhood. He was providing. Not entertaining.
And the bored little lady at home wanted to go dancing!? having shuffled the children off elsewhere. That was misstep number one. The second was she tried to tease him into intercourse, when he was emotionally spent, and needed her support rather than dissipation of energies in proving his already demonstrated love. The final strike was when she asked, in an exclamation quoted with particular vehemence to Silver:
"O! my charms have ceased to please you?!" Three years into the marriage. Maybe four.
That was when the old man took his shit and moved into the Study. Permanently.
Goldy would never have believed such a powerplay, anyway. Silver kept secrets exceptionally well— with subtle understanding, and attention to nuance. Such as, in the language that the old man quoted, the word for charms being actually "sounds," and by extension as happens in colloquialisms, "the ring of bells," as in windchimes. She would never hear the playing of these as "innocent," or without haunting sadness, and distinctive sexual overtone.
To Gold, the old man had become impotent. But now she saw him more softly.
Tis the rose off limits with the thorn
My sex pistol in my pocket
flaccid but able, eager,
ready and willing to cock-it
within the chamber of secretes
I wanna dock-it
intrusion where two lips
applying suction can locket
firing off (blank)
seminal fluid courtesy rocket
orgasm to thee
yours truly may never
(only in his wet dreams) may socket.
my humblest apology for tardy reply this evening of November 26th, but the missus waz binging on Netflix courtesy Macbook Pro, (our only computer and access to excel (leant) Facebook Messenger.
Tis the rose
off limits by the thorn
until trust grows
and friendship born.
Yea, i enjoy written word, but prefer being oral!
Non verbal aural, banal, carnal, doggerel, feral, gonadal, hormonal, integral, lyrical, musical, nasal, quizzical, ad naw z yum al....
What whets your whistle? Turns u on? Sparks a fire? Rips ur spare ribs? Tickles yar twat?
The following message brought to you by x-lax, i mean sex lax!
This just a fantasy, which could be brought into reality by the wave of my hard to find little wand!
Now where the f..K did that prick go!?
Did u happen to see a smallish cocky fella, wearing a fleshy Helmet?
If yes, could you contact me - ideally by text.
We readily agree to meet at some unspecified secluded place i.e. the nearest approximation to a bono fide soundless as a edenic garden, and point in time (ideally the comfortable surface of your adequately sized deep purple colored bed) and immediately find some animal magnetism to explore yar southern hemisphere - tropical hot bushy chained with kinks zone.
Imagine thenceforth that the two of us experience a sense of equipoise at first blush to liberate the locked libido with libations from inxs of lascivious lovemaking.
One of us would take the initiative (not at the same moment of course) to reach out to give that icebreaker in the form of a hug and then kiss! Lips coalesce into a fusion of warm wet flesh.
This initial contact could ideally take us down and up the desirable (in my viewpoint) and slippery YouTube shaped tubular slope of giddy ecstasy.
While fingers intertwine with the fingers of the other (akin to UN-spooling a skein of tangled and twisted yarn) two lips create an oral tango and also create some complex hair weave with our mouths.
Tongues take respective turns first following than leading in this free form of some discrete french promenade.
A changing of the rite guard commences whereby scrutiny via Braille adopted to roam freely and unfettered across the southern erogenous fertile zones.
Manual dexterity (even in the pitch dark) quickly unclasps the encumbrances of your outer garments before undressing casual and loosely fitting clothing in quick succession.
Though the room offers absolutely no visible light (akin to being lodged in a microcosmic version of that black hole pubic orifice), a glow (like some resident halo -- not unlike the event horizon) offers these nearsighted eyes some satisfactory silhouette of firm breasts and the spider lines of dark colored pubic hair pressed against genital area and quite clearly discerned against the tapestry of dainty underwear.
A combination of quick unstilted hula hoop pogo stick jumping motions (perhaps on your part -- since using a contrivance not one of my strengths) unbind this superfluous bit of (barely and hardly) underwear unfettered from your glistening and heaving body.
Momentary apprehension holds me spell bound when right before mine unblinking sense of sight sees a specimen of superb and supreme splendor.
Twelve step program like recovery from this brief hypnotic trance infuses an immediate intoxication to caress, massage, slake thirst and taste those two mammary pendants adrip with beads of liquid gold.
No objection nor refusal takes place (on your part), when i begin to fondle and paw the swollen dam of each bosom still retained in their respective brassiere, which unwanted impediment voluntarily removed to hasten titillating task.
The bare-naked lady chest beckons for me to perform a breaking Benjamin dance with thine male member! With mouth ajar i fall prey to these appetizer and drink in the milky elixir.
While suckling (like some overgrown babe), the loosely dangling hands begin an overt attempt to explore that glade of gastronomic grandeur glistening with gonadal gyrations.
Gentle movements along either side of the upper thighs soon makes contact with that wooly Brillo like pad that leads inside warm, wet whirl a gig world web of wiry pubic hair.
A plus if ye opt not to shear off that tuft inxs of pearl jam in living color kinks.
I carefully rub the outer labia to help learn contours of this foreign territory and also to spur lubrication and subsequent stimulation.
Once adequately familiar with this personal furry fortress, the fingers plunge deeper into this miniature caverns housing goblets of fire where this sexually healthy human hopes to be ushered into the secrete of chamber welcoming my cock in your goblet of ire.
First horizontally and then vertically these dexterous appendages create elliptical orbits over hill under dale in hot pursuit of one or more erogenous zones.
All the while (or even some minutes prior), my sad yet cautiously optimistic looking smallish formerly flaccid wienerschnitzel becomes ramrod hard as a rock and engorged with seminal fluid.
The penultimate capstone of said warm schmuck vasocongested well taut soldier of fortune, scouts out a place (around saturated silken road panties) to penetrate.
Back and forth the this rather diminutive prickly trouser snake i.e. undersized blunderbuss of a male member parries and thrusts (with deep penetrating motions) to create orgasm before launching hormonal secretion into your hot and fiery cauldron and climactic erotic breaking Benjamin erotically arousing atavistic, ballistic, cataclysmic, climactic, elliptic, metallic, narcissistic and orgiastic stock market wall street windfall.
From: Scott Matthews
prefers a clean machine
versus paying a lifetime sans std due
and can attest a clean bill of health to
hoping this email does woo.
Fecund gamine enthralls seamen - tackfully
Upon a sofa, huck cupola randy,
married seamen sought escapade
testes spawned reaching
qua ova all biological trade
crossed fecund Rubicon
and ejaculated re: sprayed
vasocongested phallus led
coup d’etat draw viz night shade
Ollie Ollie oxen yawping,
in utero seminal raid
erogenous zone torched,
where hello kitty mewed
amidst Grafenberg tit parade
bumping uglies during
four nuke key eight ting game
where pinkish puckered frilly
labria tarry pit, viz biological
birth control relegated
desuetude Russian roulette played
hotly contested prurient pulsations,
purring kitty frenziedly clawed
viz faux pas seminal goop
to seed fruit carnal feral plain -
via blitzkrieg overlaid
whence hosannas sung praising
slimy prickly nightshade
gnome hatter shy ham mull in
gave way to blast ta cyst
vis a visa viz biological fertilization
qua two plump milkmaid
inchoate seeds juiced beginning
to cum in 2 make lemonade
per diem mother's
umbilical cord fueled gestation,
where sonogram showed
faint genetic threnody skein
perchance manifold offspring
more precious than jade
nope – no fallacy, when peppy
thrust with sucks esse full feint
after thwarting reconnoitering penile objection
nonetheless skin flute charmed,
thence didst invade
which conception begot,
thence chromosomal traits stitched
via mom jeans, and
pops faction trumpeting handmaid
din fecund glob began
to swell as biological reproduction
showed no uterine back grade
as Tabula rasa In utero endured
missile payload ejaculated flagellated
into mossy ever glade
sustenance promulgated noticeable
womb expansion fusillade
of nutriments ordaining future health of progeny
riddling endless questions within gallimaufry
physical and spiritual fatigue enfilade
and spiritual state
of momma mia in family way,
whereby baby blueprint,
an outcome as nano sized atomic
bitty improvised explosive device scoured decades
to determine ontological makeup
from when fluid dynamics
spelling impregnation since time immemorial
perpetuating humanity's future cascade
artfully begetting, and concatenating
eminent grise immaculate kindred
exiting cervix laminated
with waxy substance
i.e. vernix, though smooth
doth serve analogous
to microscopic switch-blade
and cheers 2 motherhood,
especially when home birth
requisitioned midwife and doula as the sole aid.
The U Turn 02:21
Back to the kitchen table. The small circle, and the half glass, waiting in pauses.
"Did she write you?" Goldy ventured.
"Yeah." This was a delicate topic, so he left it short. He liked Gold but she didn't inspire the heart on the sleeve side of his nature. Not like Silver. A person couldn't hide long from that lightly sparkled gaze, if she turned it towards a subject. It might as well have been a locksmith, picking inside the mind— soon enough the mouth would open, surprise, surprise, and start talking.
But Gold had her own pragmatic approach. She opened a binder. Stuff that triggered Stan, mainly because he had remembered and forgotten, and once again was startled.
"Yeah. Maybe I should have wrote back more than I did," he offered, seeing that the words Gold asked didn't exactly frame the question that was hanging.
"So, there aren't more pages...?" she checked.
"But it sounds like... I don't know. It sounds like there's something outside of... all this," she gestured, "that's missing here."
That's the way it is with Poetry.
"Do you write poems?" he asked her suddenly curious. Silver had never mentioned.
"...Well, I used to. A lot actually. For a little while. Er, on and off..." she thought of Aaron. Of Florida. Those smoldering illicit nights in the campus production studio, before he left. The cool pistachio stretch of linoleum floor, the flecked Formica tabletop, as inviting as the expanse of a yacht for sun thirsting bodies. Writing after dark, when they wouldn't be together— and then when she wouldn't see his hazel eyes sliding wantonly down the milkiness of throat—Foolish imaginings. She swallowed, and shifted herself amply in the wooden chair, adjusting the little pillow fussily, taking a sip, and bringing the water line well below the halfway marker.
She imagined, back then, she would have tried her prowess on this man. He was still handsome, he looked capable. Goldy smiled to herself. It wasn't a pleasant expression, but he didn't catch on. He'd already written her off. Cold. That's what he saw. Gold knew better and sobered her face to the outside. He was nice.
She wanted to drop the essential question, but she wasn't sure if they were ready.