WESTWARD CH 5 : SPOONFUL OF WINE

[The Urbane Spaceman]

Caveat:

Not much more can be written about my early days in the ancient, high-desert river valley, without the permission of one of the coolest of people whom I have ever met.

Cool, in all sense of the word.


Cool is not giving a fuck. It is uncool to want to be called cool, or to strive for it. It is a state of being: either you have it, or you don’t. It’s easily the most sarcastic thing to say about someone who tries too hard, simply because there are no rules for it. There are no books, although many have been written about it by losers. They look in through the window, while the rain pours down on them.


Sad thing is, those who truly have this quality are usually the ones who die first.
I have no idea where Katheena (named has been altered) lives these days, or even if she does. Her demise would be quite a loss, but perhaps it wouldn’t be unexpected. One can hope that she is enjoying a good life in Polynesia.


If you are reading this, odds are that you most likely have this quality of character.

I have none of this cool sort of thing, simply because I have written the words above. I am merely a scribe, and the best that I can do is to record the coolality of others I have known.


I accept this.

At least I knew some cool folks in my life. I know some of you here. Hold tight, life is short.



This is next part is not about Katheena.

This is about a lost cherry, but that’s kinda fucked up to say about the male. There is no blood for the boy or man, nor even a popping sound that you feel with the tip of your penis, form the hymen, when you pop the cherry of the female. It’s actually pretty damn good, to be with a woman on your first attempt, especially when she knows what the hell she is doing.




DRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKforfucksakeFrancis



A quiet tap on the door echoed along the hard, cold industrial tile. I hopped off of the cheap sofa and walked over to the door that opened to the interior of the quad of the several-years-old brand new Section 8 housing. I looked through the eyehole and saw that it was the neighbor. She was the mother of the boy who lived next door. She held a measuring cup up to the peep hole.


I turned the knob to slide the bolt lock back, and unlocked the door. I opened it up a crack and said, “Hi. What’s going on? Everyone is asleep here.”


She smiled. Her eyes were red and glassy. She said, “Cool. Can I borrow a cup of sugar?”



I opened the door to let her in form the night’s cold desert air, and she slipped in with the silky grace of a woman who knows about slinking around in the shadows. She wore silk, and although she was quite overly voluptuous, still quite curvy (in a large, snuggly sort of way) and much older than me, she moved with the easy steps of a ballerina who could grab her ankles. She actually could, you know. Something about Mediterranean women with black hair and her dark brown eyes was alluring.


Hey, don’t judge. I was a horny teen.


She set the measuring cup on the table and smiled in a way that I have since recognized as “dangerous” in the best sense of the word. This was the start of something that I regret now, but I completely enjoyed back then. Sometimes, it’s proper to not judge the past form the easy vantage of the armchair by the hearth. It is unfair to do such a thing. It was what it was, and it is what it is not anymore.

Youth is wasted


...if you do it correctly.


Sans regret is a French term for: Live your life fully, fuck the repercussions.


…well, unless it still remains a secret to this day.


Thus, the Urbane Spaceman avatar.

Why not raise our chalices up to the good soul known here as Palinka, for constructing this opportunity to get things off one’s chest, on the mighty FKR’s forum of the Modern Drunkard Magazine.


I’ve said that I have known some cool people in my life.

These men are two of such a thing.


DRINK!



I smiled back at her, and her perfume hinted for me to come closer. She held out her hand for a proper handshake, and I took it. It was soft, and warm. She pulled me closer to her, too close. Then she wrapped her arms around me and pressed her full lips all over mine. The soft tip of her tongue flicked my lips in a circle, inside her warm cushion of her lips, and I grew firm.


Her tongue tasted of sweet wine, and I became intoxicated.

She felt me below, and then she knelt onto the cold, hard tile, in her expensive silk finest.

I never knew such pleasure.

This will be continued quite soon.

Little loving spoonfuls. It’s enough that we have come this far.



She swallowed.



Amen.



Also, she showed me the ways of the vine. I became enamored of wine.



That is my blessing from her, and my bane.


i would have it no other way, my friend.




.

[Donald J. Drunk]

It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not wake up. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to wake up was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to wake up. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and please wake up.

[oettinger]

Drunkard Porn!
Next: the Urb recieves his first anal probe

[The Urbane Spaceman]

It has been reported that some victims of torture...

...please wake up.

Now listen young fella,

Sex with a woman is quite enjoyable. There's usually no poop involved, unless something bad happened. Women are the clean ones of our species.

Try them sometime! They smell marvelous and also taste very good.

Unlike us, we stinky men. Thank goodness they put up with us.


"Up" being the key word here.


.