Znegative
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Apr 15, 2010
- Messages
- 6,019
It is to my sadness and disbelief that I write to you, Jennifer, for I had hopes of never contacting you again. You were once an object of lust and devotion to me, a pinnacle I had placed you on, glorifying and exaggerating your intelligence to convince myself that I wasn’t the shallow prick I now know myself surely to be. But so it is, and at this time, insulting you further will not be productive I fear, so I shall temporarily put an end to that.
No Jennifer, you will no longer receive long winded, exhausting and boring attempts at poetry from me, for my love for you has died, as has my body, though I exist now in a plane of existence which far transcends the mediocre reality you exist in.This is why I am writing to you my lovely girl, for I have no one else to turn to that I think would bother to read through what is sure to be a very emotionally frigid, and frustrating block of text.
I’ll first inform you of what shape my life had taken, since you decided once and for all that I would be ‘better off without you’. What a wise girl you were, when was that, back in 2008? Such intellect at the age of 22, astounding really. And I, what a poor, miserable, pathetic bastard. Weak really, that has always been my true affliction.
You see, when you left me, I became a broken man. Perhaps I should say, a ‘more’ broken man, as I was already quite disturbed prior to meeting you. But upon the extermination of our relationship, I became something of a neurotic, possibly even a psychotic. That first day after I last heard your cold voice, I holed myself up inside my bedroom in my apartment down by prospect park. I remember it was raining out, and from that second story window I’d watch the townspeople walk down the street, oblivious to my obvious suffering, ignorant in their own bliss. I became quite agitated, you see Jennifer, and for some reason, my anger (at you) caused me to produce a quite large and painful erection.
I tell you now with absolute honesty Jennifer, I DID NOT want to masturbate myself. I swear to you, that when I was faced with this beast of a hard on, that Jennifer, I cried to God, Allah, Satan, whoever would answer, to please take if from me. I wished to never see it’s ugly helmet again, rising in rebellion like Sparticus, equipped with a shining purple helmet. No, I did not even want to touch it, for fear that I would be reminded of you.
I trudged back and forth in my room, trying to manifest effigy’s of the most hideous nature, but so stubborn was this crude rebel from the north, that nothing was too hideous for his taste. Desperate to be released from this bondage I scrambled to my desktop computer and scoured the internet for images of large, fat, white men feeding themselves grotesque amounts of scrambled eggs, but the erection defied me even then!
And so, it is with great sadness, and a sense of spiritual defeat, Dear Jennifer, that I must admit, that when all else failed, I proceeded to masturbate myself. I imagine that you expect to hear that soon the deed was over, that within 2 minutes and a few porno sites later I purged myself of my seed like a child vomits up clam chowder soup? Well, I’m sorry Jennifer, but it wasn’t that easy or painless. This masturbation session lasted a good 7 hours in my recollection, my penis braving through a multitude of lubricants, and finally a full bottle of shampoo, before it spewed it’s poison.
I sat there at my desk, my pants and boxers down to my ankles, feeling my hot cum quickly cool. I tried, as a punishment for my transgression, to sit there soaking in my own juices for as long as I could, taking in the humiliation of it all. I lasted ten minutes Jennifer. Ten minutes covered in my own cold cum.
You’re probably asking yourself why I find it so important to share these intimate details about my sordid relationship with myself, with you, all these years later.
Well Jennifer, I find it imperative to inform you of EVERY degrading and filthy act that I have been involved in, because it was you, my lovely Jennifer, who awakened this sexual appetite in me. Yes, fucking you was always dandy enough, and sure, the heroin prevented me from cumming most of the time (sorry to inform you I was lying all these years later), but really my dear, you were nothing, in the end, to write home about. Did you smack my dick against your face or let me cum down your throat? No, you did not. So don’t think for a moment my dear, that memories of our lovemaking were responsible for my own personal sexual revolution, for that is the furthest from the truth. No, it was the pain and humiliation you caused me that awakened the rigid Roman Soldeir in me. It was only through memory’s of your past mistreatment and infidelity’s that I could maintain an erection, and as time went on, I desired something more potent, more tangible, to feed my ever hungry hard on.
I began to hire prostitutes, or escorts rather, through the classified pages in the village voice. At first, I would only have them penetrate me anally with their fingers as I masturbated. The addition of a partner, or rather a foreign force I should say for this was not about emotional connection, was deeply satisfying. But after a month, I found myself craving a stronger rush.
This is when I started hosting scat parties.
I know the idea that there would be enough people in the world, let alone in one state, who enjoyed the idea of being shat on and shitting on others, is a little bit fantastical seeming at first, but oh no Jennifer, you would be surprised. It was as easy as logging onto craigslist and making a simple post, recruiting like minded deviants to join me for dinner, and afterwards, to each administer enemas on each other, and then to take dumps on my chest and face.
Yes, having dinner first did seem a bit akward, and I was ever so nervous in the days leading up to the first ‘gathering’. Oh, how I scrubbed and polished every surface and window, even going so far as to getting on my knees with a mop to polish up that dusty old wooden floor. It all had to be just so, I wanted to be violated and defiled in the most sterile and pure of environments.
You, with your cynism, might be surprised to find out that the first ‘gathering’ was such a success, and that people enjoyed defecating on my naked body so much, that we decided afterwards, that our little group would meet each week, at 7pm on Tuesdays. There was always to be a dinner first, where formal dress was suggested, and all topics regarding human defecation were forbidden at the table. To keep the act as pure as possible, I demanded that everything about the dinner portion of the ‘gathering’ remain boringly normal. Topics such as politics and poetry were recommended as both could kill me with dreariness, and it all helped so much to build up the anticipation.
At 8:30, the meal would end, and the maid who I had hired for the even would clear the table of its dishes and table cloths until just a cold wooden plank remained, which I would strip down and lay with my head facing the ceiling. One by one, each guest would remove just their trousers, dresses and undergarments, and perform enemas on each other, while I grew rigid in anticipation. When they could no longer take it, and I’d hear the bubbling in their stomachs, each member of the group would climb onto the table, and defecate on a different part of my body. By the end of the evening, I was alone, covered in human shit that belonged to eight different people, and ready to cum.
You'd think Jennifer, that by now this sordid tale of debauchery would start to tone itself down. That maybe I realized that there was something deeply unnatural about my sexual deviancy and that I sought out help from a professional, a shrink or a psychiatrist. But no Jennifer, that is not what happened, for it was not salvation that i seeked, but rather, humiliation.
The gatherings continued to go on for another two years, each week growing duller than the one prior. I began to feel hopeless, shallow and empty inside. If acts of coprophelia could not make me feel alive, than what more was there? I found the answer one dark night as I cruised through the usual classifieds.
A man, was asking for consensual participants to complete his fantasy, which was that of canabalizing a live human being. The add simply described the gentleman as a ‘dapper’ sort named Jerrry, who wished to find a kindred spirit in whom he could share his apocalyptic erotic vision with. I was intrigued, to say the least Jennifer, but I was at first hesitant. Cannibalism isn’t a paraphilia that one can engage in without having a certain sense, of commitment, if you follow me. I suppose that I wasn’t sure if I was yet worthy to be Jerry’s guide in the fulfillment of his rich fantasy. I felt it best to set up a brunch date with the gentleman, and he accepted with the utmost grace and gratitude to meet me at the 12th st caffe the next morning.
When I arrived, upon scanning the crowd, one figure immediately stood out to me. He was a tall man, nearly seven feet I should say, with a classical roman profile. He wore a grey trench coat and a fedora, and was deeply involved in a book on asian botany. I cleared my throat twice, and finally woke him from his trance. He looked up at me with an alarmed disposition, and put his hand to his heart, before beging for forgiveness. He informed me that he was a man who too often let himself go into the realms of dreams, and to never falter to ring him back in, should he seem to fall into one of his waking trances. With a chuckle, I promised him that I had not been offended, and made some small talk in regards to the menu.
Over our meal, Jerry and I found in each other the missing pieces of ourselves. To call it love would be inaccurate, but to say that we recognized in each other our destinies would be a profound truth. I told Jerry that not only would I love for him to feast on my flesh, but I begged of him the honor to become a vessel which could serve to feed his power. Always kind and overly humble, Jerry laughed away my boyish fawning, and told me, that he should be the one begging me for the honor. At that we both laughed and shook hands. We were set to meet at his apartment, a small rental down on fifth st and sixth avenue, the next wednesday.
We are now, dear Jennifer, reaching the conclusion to what I’m sure has been a most disturbing and rude ‘hello’ from your past. I apologize, but urge you, to please finish what you started, for a wise man once said ‘half measures availed us nothing’.
The inside of Jerry’s apartment was stark. The walls were bare, except for an odd reproduction of an Audrey Beardsley drawing in the hallway, and the kitchen was quite minimalistic, though in a tasteful manner that had something of a ‘japanese’ aesthetic to it.
Jerry stood in the middle of his kitchen and was neatly chopping up some parsnip as I took off my shoes and placed the vas containing red orchids upon his table top. He made a flattering remark in regards to the flowers, in that ever quiet and gentle tone of his, and my insides began to tremble violently, for I felt something beautiful inside me grow. I tell you Jennifer, that in all my years, this sensation was the closest thing I ever experienced to knowing love. Ironic that it was brought upon by a man, for I have never considered myself a homosexual, though through my various experiences in deviancy, I have come to view sexuality as not generally an entity defined or rather, confined, to sex.
Jerry asked if I was ready. I looked around at the room, and walked over to a large window. Like so many years ago when you left me, it was raining outside, and below me I could see the townspeople scurry down the street trying to take cover by sharing umbrellas, or holding a damp newspaper above their crown. I felt suddenly very overwhelmed with a sadness. Unlike that day many years ago though, the sadness was not for myself though Jennifer, but it was for all the people outside, running to and from their busy lives. I felt a sadness for you too, and for everyone who had lived there life more mundane and simple than the insects they so carelessly crushed without so much as a thought. Have you ever known true passion Jennifer? Have you ever known what it is like to fully give yourself to something, to someone?
I asked Jerry for a moment to write this note to you, for it must be known that this act was one of consensual participation. It must be known that while you may read on in horror, and that my voice may echo for eternity in your nightmares, that I found love, and I found purpose. In someone else.
I wish for you to someday be where I am surely now, my soul and spirit conjoined with that of my lover, my life’s fire feeding his power, making him stronger. My weaker parts purged in excrement, rotting in the sewers. I wish for you to know the happiness of feeding your lover your most intimate parts, every secret, bit by bit, for otherwise, aren’t we but strangers?
I thank you Jennifer, for it was you that led me down this incredible path of transformation. It is to you who my lover owes his gratitude, it is you, who has fed him, his destiny.
From the pit of my lovers gut,
Hansel
No Jennifer, you will no longer receive long winded, exhausting and boring attempts at poetry from me, for my love for you has died, as has my body, though I exist now in a plane of existence which far transcends the mediocre reality you exist in.This is why I am writing to you my lovely girl, for I have no one else to turn to that I think would bother to read through what is sure to be a very emotionally frigid, and frustrating block of text.
I’ll first inform you of what shape my life had taken, since you decided once and for all that I would be ‘better off without you’. What a wise girl you were, when was that, back in 2008? Such intellect at the age of 22, astounding really. And I, what a poor, miserable, pathetic bastard. Weak really, that has always been my true affliction.
You see, when you left me, I became a broken man. Perhaps I should say, a ‘more’ broken man, as I was already quite disturbed prior to meeting you. But upon the extermination of our relationship, I became something of a neurotic, possibly even a psychotic. That first day after I last heard your cold voice, I holed myself up inside my bedroom in my apartment down by prospect park. I remember it was raining out, and from that second story window I’d watch the townspeople walk down the street, oblivious to my obvious suffering, ignorant in their own bliss. I became quite agitated, you see Jennifer, and for some reason, my anger (at you) caused me to produce a quite large and painful erection.
I tell you now with absolute honesty Jennifer, I DID NOT want to masturbate myself. I swear to you, that when I was faced with this beast of a hard on, that Jennifer, I cried to God, Allah, Satan, whoever would answer, to please take if from me. I wished to never see it’s ugly helmet again, rising in rebellion like Sparticus, equipped with a shining purple helmet. No, I did not even want to touch it, for fear that I would be reminded of you.
I trudged back and forth in my room, trying to manifest effigy’s of the most hideous nature, but so stubborn was this crude rebel from the north, that nothing was too hideous for his taste. Desperate to be released from this bondage I scrambled to my desktop computer and scoured the internet for images of large, fat, white men feeding themselves grotesque amounts of scrambled eggs, but the erection defied me even then!
And so, it is with great sadness, and a sense of spiritual defeat, Dear Jennifer, that I must admit, that when all else failed, I proceeded to masturbate myself. I imagine that you expect to hear that soon the deed was over, that within 2 minutes and a few porno sites later I purged myself of my seed like a child vomits up clam chowder soup? Well, I’m sorry Jennifer, but it wasn’t that easy or painless. This masturbation session lasted a good 7 hours in my recollection, my penis braving through a multitude of lubricants, and finally a full bottle of shampoo, before it spewed it’s poison.
I sat there at my desk, my pants and boxers down to my ankles, feeling my hot cum quickly cool. I tried, as a punishment for my transgression, to sit there soaking in my own juices for as long as I could, taking in the humiliation of it all. I lasted ten minutes Jennifer. Ten minutes covered in my own cold cum.
You’re probably asking yourself why I find it so important to share these intimate details about my sordid relationship with myself, with you, all these years later.
Well Jennifer, I find it imperative to inform you of EVERY degrading and filthy act that I have been involved in, because it was you, my lovely Jennifer, who awakened this sexual appetite in me. Yes, fucking you was always dandy enough, and sure, the heroin prevented me from cumming most of the time (sorry to inform you I was lying all these years later), but really my dear, you were nothing, in the end, to write home about. Did you smack my dick against your face or let me cum down your throat? No, you did not. So don’t think for a moment my dear, that memories of our lovemaking were responsible for my own personal sexual revolution, for that is the furthest from the truth. No, it was the pain and humiliation you caused me that awakened the rigid Roman Soldeir in me. It was only through memory’s of your past mistreatment and infidelity’s that I could maintain an erection, and as time went on, I desired something more potent, more tangible, to feed my ever hungry hard on.
I began to hire prostitutes, or escorts rather, through the classified pages in the village voice. At first, I would only have them penetrate me anally with their fingers as I masturbated. The addition of a partner, or rather a foreign force I should say for this was not about emotional connection, was deeply satisfying. But after a month, I found myself craving a stronger rush.
This is when I started hosting scat parties.
I know the idea that there would be enough people in the world, let alone in one state, who enjoyed the idea of being shat on and shitting on others, is a little bit fantastical seeming at first, but oh no Jennifer, you would be surprised. It was as easy as logging onto craigslist and making a simple post, recruiting like minded deviants to join me for dinner, and afterwards, to each administer enemas on each other, and then to take dumps on my chest and face.
Yes, having dinner first did seem a bit akward, and I was ever so nervous in the days leading up to the first ‘gathering’. Oh, how I scrubbed and polished every surface and window, even going so far as to getting on my knees with a mop to polish up that dusty old wooden floor. It all had to be just so, I wanted to be violated and defiled in the most sterile and pure of environments.
You, with your cynism, might be surprised to find out that the first ‘gathering’ was such a success, and that people enjoyed defecating on my naked body so much, that we decided afterwards, that our little group would meet each week, at 7pm on Tuesdays. There was always to be a dinner first, where formal dress was suggested, and all topics regarding human defecation were forbidden at the table. To keep the act as pure as possible, I demanded that everything about the dinner portion of the ‘gathering’ remain boringly normal. Topics such as politics and poetry were recommended as both could kill me with dreariness, and it all helped so much to build up the anticipation.
At 8:30, the meal would end, and the maid who I had hired for the even would clear the table of its dishes and table cloths until just a cold wooden plank remained, which I would strip down and lay with my head facing the ceiling. One by one, each guest would remove just their trousers, dresses and undergarments, and perform enemas on each other, while I grew rigid in anticipation. When they could no longer take it, and I’d hear the bubbling in their stomachs, each member of the group would climb onto the table, and defecate on a different part of my body. By the end of the evening, I was alone, covered in human shit that belonged to eight different people, and ready to cum.
You'd think Jennifer, that by now this sordid tale of debauchery would start to tone itself down. That maybe I realized that there was something deeply unnatural about my sexual deviancy and that I sought out help from a professional, a shrink or a psychiatrist. But no Jennifer, that is not what happened, for it was not salvation that i seeked, but rather, humiliation.
The gatherings continued to go on for another two years, each week growing duller than the one prior. I began to feel hopeless, shallow and empty inside. If acts of coprophelia could not make me feel alive, than what more was there? I found the answer one dark night as I cruised through the usual classifieds.
A man, was asking for consensual participants to complete his fantasy, which was that of canabalizing a live human being. The add simply described the gentleman as a ‘dapper’ sort named Jerrry, who wished to find a kindred spirit in whom he could share his apocalyptic erotic vision with. I was intrigued, to say the least Jennifer, but I was at first hesitant. Cannibalism isn’t a paraphilia that one can engage in without having a certain sense, of commitment, if you follow me. I suppose that I wasn’t sure if I was yet worthy to be Jerry’s guide in the fulfillment of his rich fantasy. I felt it best to set up a brunch date with the gentleman, and he accepted with the utmost grace and gratitude to meet me at the 12th st caffe the next morning.
When I arrived, upon scanning the crowd, one figure immediately stood out to me. He was a tall man, nearly seven feet I should say, with a classical roman profile. He wore a grey trench coat and a fedora, and was deeply involved in a book on asian botany. I cleared my throat twice, and finally woke him from his trance. He looked up at me with an alarmed disposition, and put his hand to his heart, before beging for forgiveness. He informed me that he was a man who too often let himself go into the realms of dreams, and to never falter to ring him back in, should he seem to fall into one of his waking trances. With a chuckle, I promised him that I had not been offended, and made some small talk in regards to the menu.
Over our meal, Jerry and I found in each other the missing pieces of ourselves. To call it love would be inaccurate, but to say that we recognized in each other our destinies would be a profound truth. I told Jerry that not only would I love for him to feast on my flesh, but I begged of him the honor to become a vessel which could serve to feed his power. Always kind and overly humble, Jerry laughed away my boyish fawning, and told me, that he should be the one begging me for the honor. At that we both laughed and shook hands. We were set to meet at his apartment, a small rental down on fifth st and sixth avenue, the next wednesday.
We are now, dear Jennifer, reaching the conclusion to what I’m sure has been a most disturbing and rude ‘hello’ from your past. I apologize, but urge you, to please finish what you started, for a wise man once said ‘half measures availed us nothing’.
The inside of Jerry’s apartment was stark. The walls were bare, except for an odd reproduction of an Audrey Beardsley drawing in the hallway, and the kitchen was quite minimalistic, though in a tasteful manner that had something of a ‘japanese’ aesthetic to it.
Jerry stood in the middle of his kitchen and was neatly chopping up some parsnip as I took off my shoes and placed the vas containing red orchids upon his table top. He made a flattering remark in regards to the flowers, in that ever quiet and gentle tone of his, and my insides began to tremble violently, for I felt something beautiful inside me grow. I tell you Jennifer, that in all my years, this sensation was the closest thing I ever experienced to knowing love. Ironic that it was brought upon by a man, for I have never considered myself a homosexual, though through my various experiences in deviancy, I have come to view sexuality as not generally an entity defined or rather, confined, to sex.
Jerry asked if I was ready. I looked around at the room, and walked over to a large window. Like so many years ago when you left me, it was raining outside, and below me I could see the townspeople scurry down the street trying to take cover by sharing umbrellas, or holding a damp newspaper above their crown. I felt suddenly very overwhelmed with a sadness. Unlike that day many years ago though, the sadness was not for myself though Jennifer, but it was for all the people outside, running to and from their busy lives. I felt a sadness for you too, and for everyone who had lived there life more mundane and simple than the insects they so carelessly crushed without so much as a thought. Have you ever known true passion Jennifer? Have you ever known what it is like to fully give yourself to something, to someone?
I asked Jerry for a moment to write this note to you, for it must be known that this act was one of consensual participation. It must be known that while you may read on in horror, and that my voice may echo for eternity in your nightmares, that I found love, and I found purpose. In someone else.
I wish for you to someday be where I am surely now, my soul and spirit conjoined with that of my lover, my life’s fire feeding his power, making him stronger. My weaker parts purged in excrement, rotting in the sewers. I wish for you to know the happiness of feeding your lover your most intimate parts, every secret, bit by bit, for otherwise, aren’t we but strangers?
I thank you Jennifer, for it was you that led me down this incredible path of transformation. It is to you who my lover owes his gratitude, it is you, who has fed him, his destiny.
From the pit of my lovers gut,
Hansel
