Anna Wrecks It
Ex-Bluelighter
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2003
- Messages
- 99
I had a wet dream inside a nightmare hours after I had closed my eyes and the coffin had ceased to allow any more light in. A slut..A super vixen that could cultivate the highest level of erotic allure. Her sex appeal, though trashy, was the incarnate of a myth that resonates through vortexes of time and space, from the subconscious to supernal. She aroused minds and engorged many of organs, until one fateful morning I sat feeding pigeons cyanide rice and noticed a corpse curled in a corner where two office buildings joined. I waltzed across the street making sure to stop and twirl so I could smile at the driver who just slammed on his brakes to keep from ruffling my fine suit.
The collection of flesh seemed familiar and a reminiscent scent of semen was in the air. Her chest no longer heaving as I once saw it do, as a matter of fact this adolescent wasn't breathing at all.
This all just inflicted yet another dream...that took place years before, me, this lonesome character found this girl's body. It was myself staring over her body. Remembering the first time I had met her. Before her involvement in drugs, extreme S&M, prostitution, and the whole lifestyle, I aided her in with an introduction to such a world. The days when the air was clean, and sex was still filthy. The days when saying certain words were supposed to make your gums bleed…
An Eccentric’s Fetish in Vodevil (Vaudeville)
The weeks have grown long, hard, and not intoxicated at all with any form of absinth. I’ve been in this bored room this past month trying to continually explain the difference between a night club and a night stick to a pile of idiots, who for the life of them could not see the connection betwixt the moustache of Dali and the “mustache” of Nietzsche. I’ve grown weary and shoved all this dirt back in my mouth, for I realize my philosophies get me nowhere with any of these faux witch doktor professors. They do tickle my fancy among many other things and I’ve learned to stop our debates with these so-called superiors when need be, I never look a judge in the mouth unless his gift is a book about horses.
So with wants of dames and dolls and the excitement of para-noir, I figure its time to end this intermezzo and exercise my audio sense before the ringing musical celluloid in the canal turns to cellulite. Humming the tune of the underworld’s voix de ville, I begin to take pride in my vulgarity as I garb my limbs and paint my face until I look like a work of art in itself, or a businessman who has too many other women, whichever you prefer to label this jack-a-dandy style I’ve sculpted out of myself. Buttoned down and top hat tilted, I’m exiting this central nervous system and off to the ballroom, it is time to be nailed the wrecking ball of a waltz.
The stage is set, lights dimmed.
The audience well lubricated by their fermented liquid, most preferably in martini glasses with each individual's preference of however many olives they want. I myself feel nature calling, now whether that's due to alcohol consumption or the anticipation of the show about to start, I cannot tell. But I'd tolerate the texture of a soaked pinstriped pants and the scent of my urine lingering in the air with the likes of my fluttering cigarette smoke and the gypsy incense burning throughout the joint, if it meant I would not miss a second of the upcoming display. I squirm in my seat to readjust like a child in a pew on Sunday morning with better things to do.
And finally, that velvet cake curtain is drawn back and the host of the evening sensationally proclaims
“A little introduction to my side show tent, please take your time to understand all of these hymns of broken hymens and hurl plenty of vegetables at my stage...with a rose in my teeth and sitting hip deep in a compost heap, I am thankful for all you have to say. Though I’m sure you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cum, and maybe pass a little gas. It'll all be over before you know it, then you'll slap me and ask what the fuck was all that ruckus was for. No need for Lietz in this Cam-era, but prepare yourself for the pictureske ruins of the Aktion. Enjoy the obsequy of art ladies and gents!"
Just to disappear and to allow the spotlight to drop down to reveal the icing. A voluptuous too-young-to-know-better-buxom-bombshell-blond. The band I know is attempting a dramatic classical introduction, just to roll into today's modern sound of the new Negro jazz, but I care not for what is audible at this junction. Tonight I give praise to the gods for the gift of sight. Slowly, and sloppily seductively, the new coming wanna be vaudeville dancer breaching into this underworld of the burleske and groteske begins her dance/act. To aid my displeasure with a rotten start, the pace quickens and her struts, trots, and strides grow more fluid and natural. With every turn, bend, and presentation of flexibility I fathom the various positions she could be slaved into with the fear of pain.
Something is innocent about her, I notice, as she removes layer after layer of her excess extravagant get-up. Down to satin gloves, pasties, stockings, and a petticoat (that is shed within another 2 minutes). Intriguing how a feminine character, so undefined and well designed, can stimulate a psyche by her every movement, revealing a personality that lies somewhere between feathers and leather. The glamorous glitter blinds like diamonds capturing an eclipse, a holy light refracting off those one-day-will-lactate-mammaries.
She swings by tables making dates be more watchful of their men as she fogs their bi-focals and loosens their ties, while some of the wives and accompanying courtesans secretly touch themselves and blush til their cheeks matches their rouge in a bi-sexual shame. Kicking her legs in patterned out numbers. Legs. Legs that only age can make that refined. Legs only youth can vouch for their flawlessness.
As this Shirley Temple dominatrix, (or Betty Page virgin- whichever way you see it), gallops her heals and lashes in my direction. I, yet again, squirm in my seat. But not out of a need for restroom facilities. With one deep inhale off a cigarette and a martini moistening my throat, I reclaim my demonically demure composure. Her buttocks propped up on my table, her lashes flutter, and wanton lips pout and part. And if I had the power of the creator of these extra ribs constructed into the originators of abortion cribs, I’d be the second hand on a cuckoo clock, grabbing a feather and yelling STOP!
This innocent little girl has already mastered the marketing tease of a bordello resident. A professional magnet apt in stimulating an organ with a rush of blood, oxygen, and alcohol that is the most difficult to erotically errect..my mind.
She drops a card in my coat pocket with a kiss on the cheek and a brush of cleavage, and I, a piece of currency in her stockings. She turns, and in a ballet step, dances backs to the stage.
She takes her bows and at last, the curtain drops. The slut garden of an audience, horny and excited, gives a barroom bred with an opera concert applause. Amused that she received the music of applause, though boo’s are beautiful when harmonized, I watch this monkey-meat-for-brains crowd make their exodus in couples in the mood for copulating and singles knowing baby oil is in their near future and with the rise of this m-obscene, I know it is time to go.
I glance at the card, and in a schoolgirl script, a phone number is listed. With more than a shroud of doubt that this maidenhead could actually want to be deflowered by a sexual deviant such as I, that this boss pussy has lost her keys and I’m the lucky cocksmith. Standing, straightening my suit, tossing my top hat back on and with cane in hand, I begin the stroll home. Lethargic and ready for bed, I tip toe down these New Orleans’s konkrete streets wondering if I could be this dove's incubus or her, my succubus. Cracking a smile, I finally let my bladder release down my leg, and finish my walk home in high spirits. Joyous with the knowledge that by next nightfall I may have plowed something sacred. That I, this Pope, this histrion of fashion and etiquette, will find a release in ravishing skin that is a neo-milky-Victorian crème and bloodying such beautiful entrails. Now that the rabbit has pulled me into the hat, I’m happy enough to sing in the rain, but sleeping in it would suffice, for I am a dog who loves his fleas. I am the mental infection who plucks pedals for the wound, succumbing to the tyranny of the taste and now my mouth waters for the plunders of tomorrow night.
The collection of flesh seemed familiar and a reminiscent scent of semen was in the air. Her chest no longer heaving as I once saw it do, as a matter of fact this adolescent wasn't breathing at all.
This all just inflicted yet another dream...that took place years before, me, this lonesome character found this girl's body. It was myself staring over her body. Remembering the first time I had met her. Before her involvement in drugs, extreme S&M, prostitution, and the whole lifestyle, I aided her in with an introduction to such a world. The days when the air was clean, and sex was still filthy. The days when saying certain words were supposed to make your gums bleed…
An Eccentric’s Fetish in Vodevil (Vaudeville)
The weeks have grown long, hard, and not intoxicated at all with any form of absinth. I’ve been in this bored room this past month trying to continually explain the difference between a night club and a night stick to a pile of idiots, who for the life of them could not see the connection betwixt the moustache of Dali and the “mustache” of Nietzsche. I’ve grown weary and shoved all this dirt back in my mouth, for I realize my philosophies get me nowhere with any of these faux witch doktor professors. They do tickle my fancy among many other things and I’ve learned to stop our debates with these so-called superiors when need be, I never look a judge in the mouth unless his gift is a book about horses.
So with wants of dames and dolls and the excitement of para-noir, I figure its time to end this intermezzo and exercise my audio sense before the ringing musical celluloid in the canal turns to cellulite. Humming the tune of the underworld’s voix de ville, I begin to take pride in my vulgarity as I garb my limbs and paint my face until I look like a work of art in itself, or a businessman who has too many other women, whichever you prefer to label this jack-a-dandy style I’ve sculpted out of myself. Buttoned down and top hat tilted, I’m exiting this central nervous system and off to the ballroom, it is time to be nailed the wrecking ball of a waltz.
The stage is set, lights dimmed.
The audience well lubricated by their fermented liquid, most preferably in martini glasses with each individual's preference of however many olives they want. I myself feel nature calling, now whether that's due to alcohol consumption or the anticipation of the show about to start, I cannot tell. But I'd tolerate the texture of a soaked pinstriped pants and the scent of my urine lingering in the air with the likes of my fluttering cigarette smoke and the gypsy incense burning throughout the joint, if it meant I would not miss a second of the upcoming display. I squirm in my seat to readjust like a child in a pew on Sunday morning with better things to do.
And finally, that velvet cake curtain is drawn back and the host of the evening sensationally proclaims
“A little introduction to my side show tent, please take your time to understand all of these hymns of broken hymens and hurl plenty of vegetables at my stage...with a rose in my teeth and sitting hip deep in a compost heap, I am thankful for all you have to say. Though I’m sure you'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll cum, and maybe pass a little gas. It'll all be over before you know it, then you'll slap me and ask what the fuck was all that ruckus was for. No need for Lietz in this Cam-era, but prepare yourself for the pictureske ruins of the Aktion. Enjoy the obsequy of art ladies and gents!"
Just to disappear and to allow the spotlight to drop down to reveal the icing. A voluptuous too-young-to-know-better-buxom-bombshell-blond. The band I know is attempting a dramatic classical introduction, just to roll into today's modern sound of the new Negro jazz, but I care not for what is audible at this junction. Tonight I give praise to the gods for the gift of sight. Slowly, and sloppily seductively, the new coming wanna be vaudeville dancer breaching into this underworld of the burleske and groteske begins her dance/act. To aid my displeasure with a rotten start, the pace quickens and her struts, trots, and strides grow more fluid and natural. With every turn, bend, and presentation of flexibility I fathom the various positions she could be slaved into with the fear of pain.
Something is innocent about her, I notice, as she removes layer after layer of her excess extravagant get-up. Down to satin gloves, pasties, stockings, and a petticoat (that is shed within another 2 minutes). Intriguing how a feminine character, so undefined and well designed, can stimulate a psyche by her every movement, revealing a personality that lies somewhere between feathers and leather. The glamorous glitter blinds like diamonds capturing an eclipse, a holy light refracting off those one-day-will-lactate-mammaries.
She swings by tables making dates be more watchful of their men as she fogs their bi-focals and loosens their ties, while some of the wives and accompanying courtesans secretly touch themselves and blush til their cheeks matches their rouge in a bi-sexual shame. Kicking her legs in patterned out numbers. Legs. Legs that only age can make that refined. Legs only youth can vouch for their flawlessness.
As this Shirley Temple dominatrix, (or Betty Page virgin- whichever way you see it), gallops her heals and lashes in my direction. I, yet again, squirm in my seat. But not out of a need for restroom facilities. With one deep inhale off a cigarette and a martini moistening my throat, I reclaim my demonically demure composure. Her buttocks propped up on my table, her lashes flutter, and wanton lips pout and part. And if I had the power of the creator of these extra ribs constructed into the originators of abortion cribs, I’d be the second hand on a cuckoo clock, grabbing a feather and yelling STOP!
This innocent little girl has already mastered the marketing tease of a bordello resident. A professional magnet apt in stimulating an organ with a rush of blood, oxygen, and alcohol that is the most difficult to erotically errect..my mind.
She drops a card in my coat pocket with a kiss on the cheek and a brush of cleavage, and I, a piece of currency in her stockings. She turns, and in a ballet step, dances backs to the stage.
She takes her bows and at last, the curtain drops. The slut garden of an audience, horny and excited, gives a barroom bred with an opera concert applause. Amused that she received the music of applause, though boo’s are beautiful when harmonized, I watch this monkey-meat-for-brains crowd make their exodus in couples in the mood for copulating and singles knowing baby oil is in their near future and with the rise of this m-obscene, I know it is time to go.
I glance at the card, and in a schoolgirl script, a phone number is listed. With more than a shroud of doubt that this maidenhead could actually want to be deflowered by a sexual deviant such as I, that this boss pussy has lost her keys and I’m the lucky cocksmith. Standing, straightening my suit, tossing my top hat back on and with cane in hand, I begin the stroll home. Lethargic and ready for bed, I tip toe down these New Orleans’s konkrete streets wondering if I could be this dove's incubus or her, my succubus. Cracking a smile, I finally let my bladder release down my leg, and finish my walk home in high spirits. Joyous with the knowledge that by next nightfall I may have plowed something sacred. That I, this Pope, this histrion of fashion and etiquette, will find a release in ravishing skin that is a neo-milky-Victorian crème and bloodying such beautiful entrails. Now that the rabbit has pulled me into the hat, I’m happy enough to sing in the rain, but sleeping in it would suffice, for I am a dog who loves his fleas. I am the mental infection who plucks pedals for the wound, succumbing to the tyranny of the taste and now my mouth waters for the plunders of tomorrow night.
