Brooke
Brooke is a girl.
Brooke loves me.
Brooke fellated me.
After two glorious weeks of knowing Brooke, I now know the pleasures of having a lady’s mouth wrapped firmly around my phallus. This will prove most beneficial for my next novel, “Hard”, a sequel to my previous novel, “Easy”.
No one will ever compare to my darling Abbey. Sarah is wonderful, of course, but Abbey … She is a goddess amongst women. It is no wonder that she fell out of love with me, a rock turned into gold by her radiance. Ah, but I was only pyrite. Fool’s gold, if you will. Even she couldn’t find me deserving of her love for very long.
I oft complain that Sarah does not appreciate me, but why should she? She is beautiful and kind, yet I cannot stop comparing her to Abbey. It is unfair of me, yet I fear I shall never stop. I hope one day that my goddess will fall for me again, so that I may leave this girl, and be truly happy.
Alas, I know this shall never be, so I will remain here in my room, alone, forced to cry into the dress I took from my Goddess when she last graced me with her present, until Sarah, beautiful girl, wants to see me at last.
A quick musing
Abbey would never do this for me. Ask all I would, but she always told me she was “not comfortable” with it. What a buildup of events! After almost a week of depressed sobbing, not having seen Sarah, I finally had the opportunity to have my girlfriend take me. At my behest, Sarah adorned the tool. I have never felt more anticipation in my life than I did in that moment. I was on my back, Sarah towering over me. I felt the cold, almost abrasive touch of the strap-on press against me, wet with KY Jelly lubrication.
Why is she so difficult?
A question that recently has plagued my brain. Suddenly, the world that I was so comfortable with, the world that can be boiled down to the wonderful phrase of “kittens and rainbows”, was turning into a mudslide.
It all began with the event known as “prom”. An event that I didn’t even think of attending when I was in my senior year last year at my atrocious high school. My lovely Abbey, the girl with Wayne Gretzky in her eyes, was in love with the idea of “prom”. I’ll admit, the idea of Abbey in a gorgeous gown makes my penis harder than a rock in winter - but there were too many things wrong with “prom” to make me want to go.
“Can’t you just wear a beautiful dress for me, and I’ll take you to places you’ve never dreamed of?”
Usually that talk convinces her. I am a self-acclaimed writer, and I consider myself gifted in the ways of women. When I said this to her, I did not receive the reaction I had hoped for - she seemed almost angry.
I did not know what to do. I love my dearest Abbey as much as I love under appreciated video game music, but suddenly I could see a future me, jerking off to the melodic sounds of The Legend Of Zelda.
Today, my friends, is the day that I am another inch deeper into my manhood. As a child, I was eager to plunge into it with FORCE, not wasting a minute spending time engaging in childish activities.
Tonight, I plan to get through the family festivities as quickly as possible and then indulging with my favourite video games that are considered to be highly unappreciated by society today.
i wish my girlfriend was here so i could fuck her brains out
Hmmmmm.
I added a few extra letters in that “Hmm” just to make it more interesting - it also seems to go along with the fashion these days! My peers, who have the intelligence quotient that compares to a small duck, like to add on unnecessary letters to their words to make things, well, easier to read.
That being said, the “Hmmmmm” I wrote as the optional title is actually I thought I had in my mind.
Recently, I completed work on a novel I wrote. The subject matter was a little risqué for some people, because I received some very disgustingly worded, dumbed down messages from the subculture blandly titled as my peers. They claimed that my work is offensive, and unrealistic.
To be fair, my dear friends, I did not expect my peers to end up finding about the novel. This, of course is silly - I had plans to publish it one day, with a dream of using the money made to buy a charming flat just a hop, skip and a jump down from Yoko Ono’s Dakota apartment residence in New York City.
I know that with the money left over from the book (hoping I do end up making millions, of course - but, alas, money is of little importance to me) I will invest in a duo that appears to be growing in popularity across the world.
*blush* Perhaps the band I created with Abbey has not been THAT popular, but I do love the idea of Abbey rushing around New York City, handing out our extraordinary demo (I on guitar and vocals; Abbey chiming with her gentle vocals and plinking with her vibrant ukulele) and winning over record producers with her west coast charm.
Now I feel as though I have gone quite ahead of myself - I daresay that I may have counted my chickens before they have hatched, although I am not worried. I know that one day, my dreams will come true.
It is a beautiful sunny Sunday, and I feel that it may almost be appropriate to say I would like today “sunny side up”!
As I chortled at my own joke, I accidentally awoke my beautiful Abbey. Her eyes do not stir as she awakens - there is one fluid motion, the moist eyeball being a fresh skating rink and the eyelid acting as the freshly sharpened skate of Wayne Gretzky. A sight that millions of humans around the world would pay top dollar for, a sight that I have the blessing to see every morning.
It is currently an extremely early Sunday morning as I type this, although only by technicality, for the time is 3 ‘o clock “ante meridian”. Were it a Sunday morning around, perhaps, nine o’ clock, Abbey would be at church as I write this. But she is sound asleep in her bed in California; even being that it is only midnight there, she needs her rest. Her beauty sleep, if you will, not that Abbey could be more gorgeous than her present state. I imagine her lying in bed, her head filled with dreams. I hope that she is having pleasant ones, mayhap of the two of us frolicking about in a park as young lovers are wont to do.As I picture her lying in bed, covers drawn up to her chin (for it is now winter, and the nights cold), I wish that I could lie beside her and watch the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes in and out. Her hair, fanned across the pillow beside me, would smell of strawberries, for Abbey uses strawberry-scented shampoo. Conditioner, as well; Abbey’s hair is quite lustrous and requires care. I enjoy watching Abbey brush it in the mornings, when we are together, that is.
