BLULITER LackofMorality
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Oct 15, 2002
- Messages
- 133
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. And as i woke from this realm with a staff filled with morning blood, this is what I wrote:
cuts do deep she could have been hung on meat hooks
chicken wire barbed wire strain marks on her wrist and neck
she has thicker-than-snot-lashed-eyes
Polly hasn't had a cracker in a month and it shows
roof of her mouth must feel like a fetus rib cage
a forehead canon crevice due from stress and worry
her skin fades in and out in static aquas and violets
veins surrounded by an army of puncture wounds..
Visible garters..left one not connected..
The fishnets ripped as a milky fluid lies on her thigh
and she just lays here on the street decomposing
a sideshow for all passersby
-----------------------
I had yet another dream...that took place weeks before this lonesome character, I have thrown myself into, found this girl's body. It was him staring over her body..Remembering the first time he had met her. Before her involvement in drugs, extreme S&M, prostitution, and the whole lifestyle..He aided her in with an introduction to such a world.
The Innocent Fetish of an Eccentric
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 spotlight drops 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 burlesque and grotesque 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 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. 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 audience, horny and excited, give a bar-room bred with an opera concert applause and make their exodus in couples in the mood for copulating and singles knowing baby oil is in their near future.
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. 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 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 of fashion and etiquette, will find a release in ravishing skin that is a neo-milky-Victorian crème and bloodying such beautiful entrails.
[ 11 December 2002: Message edited by: BLULITER LackofMorality ]
cuts do deep she could have been hung on meat hooks
chicken wire barbed wire strain marks on her wrist and neck
she has thicker-than-snot-lashed-eyes
Polly hasn't had a cracker in a month and it shows
roof of her mouth must feel like a fetus rib cage
a forehead canon crevice due from stress and worry
her skin fades in and out in static aquas and violets
veins surrounded by an army of puncture wounds..
Visible garters..left one not connected..
The fishnets ripped as a milky fluid lies on her thigh
and she just lays here on the street decomposing
a sideshow for all passersby
-----------------------
I had yet another dream...that took place weeks before this lonesome character, I have thrown myself into, found this girl's body. It was him staring over her body..Remembering the first time he had met her. Before her involvement in drugs, extreme S&M, prostitution, and the whole lifestyle..He aided her in with an introduction to such a world.
The Innocent Fetish of an Eccentric
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 spotlight drops 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 burlesque and grotesque 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 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. 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 audience, horny and excited, give a bar-room bred with an opera concert applause and make their exodus in couples in the mood for copulating and singles knowing baby oil is in their near future.
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. 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 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 of fashion and etiquette, will find a release in ravishing skin that is a neo-milky-Victorian crème and bloodying such beautiful entrails.
[ 11 December 2002: Message edited by: BLULITER LackofMorality ]
I am only playing but when you read it that is the feeling I gathered from it. 