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Paul's Place ...❗⭕❗⭕❗ ⭕ ❗ ⭕
 
Welcome...
◀️ (kLik the piC)
These aggregation of stories,
lampoons and irreverent points of view...
occasionally make sense.
I hope you can share my smile.



You deserve a friend.
(* ©April 2018-21 April Paul P. )
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My Private Mail Box 📌
Posted:Jul 12, 2018 9:41 am
Last Updated:Mar 24, 2021 2:30 am
479380 Views
My Private Mail Box 📩...
Do you have something to share? Send me a private message.
🍸 ☕
(kLik the Ram)
0 Comments , 87 Pending
Shades of Her Chestnut Hair... and Two Hundred Pound Anchors... 😮❗
Posted:Apr 6, 2021 10:31 am
Last Updated:Apr 10, 2021 8:06 pm
1497 Views
A brilliant haze splashed hues of auburn and had lit her hair in shades of chestnut and burgundy as the sun blazed its chorus — and paused. He gazed at the framed picture and her faithful smile and recalled that moment as he sat down. Saturday afternoon was fading. He lit a tiny pink candle buried in the chocolate cupcake, resting on his kitchen table, and watched it flicker as it cast vague shadows along darkened walls. It was his birthday.

SHE was never supposed to leave before him; he thought he'd made that clear to her. He smiled wistfully as an accustomed ache choked his throat. He blew out the candle then watched... as those wisps of white smoke drifted into the air. His wish would not be granted.

The boxes were packed, and most of his furniture was gone. He'd just missed calls from both his daughters — while rummaging through old clothes in the basement — but his phone had captured their song and the harmony of his grandkids. He listened to the replay of their voices and giggles.

He remembered that time when they'd tried to plant sixty candles on his cake, with much laughter and dizzy hope. It was a fail, but one where they ALL squealed and cheered. He'd puffed at those flames till he was light-headed.

He took a bite of his cupcake, sipped from a glass of cold milk and slowly turned his head towards the eerie silence that had emerged. The Grandfather clock, the guardian of his hallway — the one he'd bought with her when they first moved in — had just stopped ticking. Its moon face mocked him, the swan's neck, reflected in the bevelled glass, stood expressionless. No one wanted it, and he didn't know what to do with it.

The doorbell rang and broke the stillness of his thoughts.

He shuffled his tired legs to the door and greeted a young couple who smiled and spoke softly. "We saw your ad for the Grandfather clock. Do you still have it for sale?"

He welcomed them into his house. The couple gasped as they eagerly nestled up to the edge of the impressive clock and began to caress the smooth lines of its warm mahogany case. He smiled contently to himself as he watched. That clock would start life afresh and find a new home.

As long as they didn't ask him for help, moving that ginormous two hundred pound timepiece down the stairs, up the walkway and onto the roof of that guy's fucking Toyota.

...........................
39 Comments
Things You Should NEVER Do... If You Are IN A Threesome... 😮❗
Posted:Mar 30, 2021 10:18 am
Last Updated:Apr 6, 2021 10:22 pm
2760 Views
It was past midnight, and we were making love in her bedroom. Karen was apparently enjoying herself – I could tell. She was moaning, although she might have been faking, encouraging me to finish soon; women are experts. I was reflecting on that— holding her ankles — when I heard the front door creak open.

Karen had told me she didn't have a boyfriend, and I believed her. I stopped and looked into her eyes — Karen wasn't panicking, so neither did I, but I asked her a question. "Who's that?"

Her reply was swift and delivered with the breathless impatience of someone who wanted to cum, "It's just my roommate, Mary."

I nodded and continued my task. That first thrust after a pause always produces a pleasant gasp, doesn't it? I never had a chance for push number two; the door to Karen's bedroom flung open and in pranced the roommate, Mary, quite obviously hammered out of her skull.

She stumbled over the carpet and fell forward onto my bare ass, then, with her hands propped against my back, pushed herself up and blurted the obvious. "Oh, you're fucking someone tonight? Who's he?"

Before I had a chance to reply, Mary made a frantic dash for the bathroom. The next sound Karen and I heard was Mary's horrid retching; our ardour had soured — and I'd plopped out of Karen. We both looked at each other. Karen slipped out from under me, put on a gown and quickly headed off to Mary's aid. I wondered for a second if I should wait where I was or offer my encouragement and help. At the very least, I figured I'd put my pants and shirt on and see if there was something I could do.

I stood by the bathroom door and witnessed Mary heave out what looked like a meal of spaghetti and escargot. Then I sat in the kitchen, and finally, I moved to the living room where I lay down on the couch and eventually fell asleep. It must have been early in the morning when Karen nudged me.

She was late for work and had my socks and underwear in her arms; I understood and looked around for my shoes. There was no sign of Mary, but I presumed she was still alive.

Karen and I never hooked up to finish what we'd started. Was it that sex with me wasn't as good as I'd thought, or because I was dozing when she screamed for more paper towels and the plunger? I didn't bother to ask.

And that's the challenge with threesomes; you never know if they'll work out, and you'll all be compatible. The one I had that night — was a slight miss.

.............................
21 Comments
The Art of Driving Your EX... Crazy 😮❗
Posted:Mar 23, 2021 10:15 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 8:40 am
3670 Views
I'm in a contemplative mood, slouched in my darkened living room, wondering — trapped with my obsessive clocks as they all tap *variant beats. I can feel myself drifting towards a desert, filled with parched and faded memories: Where is that oasis? Where is that vivid recollection, the one I can taste and touch, as if I'm there? I found one of those... the other day, in of ALL places — an old and weathered cardboard box.

My mother had proudly kept the inventory of everything I'd ever produced in school and shoved it in a box. I opened that crinkled corrugated cube for the first time the other night and stumbled upon a story I'd written in grade 11. Holding that yellowed parchment — penned in legible handwriting that was supposedly mine — brought me back to the VERY moment I was asked to stand up in class and read it.

That English course bored me. I'd been wallowing through it, dosing off during the lecture, when Mrs. Robinson (no relation to the real one) called my name, asked me to stand and commanded me to read my assignment; 300 words on — 'Emotions.' I presumed she wanted to embarrass me, thinking I hadn't completed it.

I hemmed and hawed, not because I hadn't done it, but because I wasn't sure if it was 'cool' or appropriate to share with my classmates. I protested she requested, I objected, she insisted — she won. I cleared my throat and began to read.

***********

I had a dream about you last night. I was walking through the door when I saw you standing next to him. He was taller than me; his hands clutched your waist tighter than I would have. Was he already afraid to lose you?

I didn't think you'd notice me — I was draped beneath black shadows. You stared back and smiled, the way you do when you're about to prove something.

I knew, as your fingers gently ruffled through his hair, it was a performance. When your lips parted, at first, I thought it was to say a word; stupid me. It was to meet his hungry mouth.

You never kiss with your eyes wide open. You made sure I fell into them as they slowly closed while he pressed himself against you.

I could smell your scent from where I stood. I would have asked him how you tasted; I'd forgotten. I shouldn't have walked into that place. I watched as you wiped your glistening lips with the tip of a finger; a silver thread from his tongue had lingered.

Was there a word you were hiding, one you wanted to share, a secret we could hold? Then why were you glaring? Should I call you later? Was that a sign? I should never have stayed in that space.

Your friends told me that you'd be there. I took a chance and hoped I wouldn't find you; then I prayed I would. Why didn't they save us from ourselves? My stomach was a twisted knot; you were deep inside my head.

I had a dream about you last night. It felt so real. My sheets still smell of you, barely now. Damn, I hate you, but I fucking miss you more than ever.


***********

I looked up at the class and shyly sat down.

I had written that story for a girl I was dating or should say — had dated. Diane was sitting up front, near the windows, by then, covering her mouth with her hands in shock. All her friends turned and looked at me. The whole class knew. High school drama; whatcha gonna do, huh?

Mrs. Robinson NEVER asked me to read ANY of my assignments out loud again.

That memory still resonates. I imagine all of us have nicks and scrapes from a bruised heart. I looked at my yellowed paper, folded it, then placed it in the box and pushed that box back under my bed. Why would I continue to relive my cryptic past? I'm devoted to managing my tangled present.

And here I am now... slouched in my darkened living room, wondering — if it's possible to synchronize my untamed clocks, so they ALL 'TICK-tok' at the same fucking time.

...........................
*Variant: Although the clocks were all ticking in an asynchronous manner, each one had a different tone and sound; hence — 'variant'.
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28 Comments
She Left Me With Shards of Glass... and Bucket List Craziness...😮❗
Posted:Mar 16, 2021 10:28 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 7:55 am
5332 Views
Throughout my life, I've been casually crossing things off a list. These days, my targets are modest, NOT from having done it ALL, but because I'm comfortable. Yet, once in a while, I'm surprised when a thought consumes me, one that sneaks into my bucket list. It all began a couple of Saturdays ago.

I'd pulled an all-nighter, binge-watching 'Schitt's Creek'. Breakfast turned out to be dinner: I craved an old-fashioned meatloaf with mashed potatoes, maple roasted carrots, a cucumber salad and — of course — garlic bread au gratin. The meal was delicious, but the cleanup (I don't own a dishwasher), required a commitment too tangled for my tired brain. I left everything where it was, piled up on the counters, next to my two sinks.

And THAT'S when things went off the rails. A lazy 'laissez faire' attitude conspired with apathy, then bloomed into an idea that moulded a plan — and shaped this question.

'Can I use EVERY single knife, spoon, fork, plate, cup and bowl that I own, without washing ANYTHING — for the next two weeks?'

I mean, what's the point of keeping all this stuff clogging my cupboards if I'm never going to use it? My NEW bucket list pin had materialized. The only rule in this challenge was — the sinks could NOT be used for stacking. One needs some minimum standards.

Back when I was married and the lived at home, we'd regularly entertain a dozen people or more. Yes, we passed out paper plates for the BBQs we blazed, but on other occasions — the dinnerware and silver cutlery came out. My crammed cupboards were undoubtedly jonesing for that long-gone crowd; I imagined them pulsing, eager to please and be touched, once again.

Picture what my kitchen looked like after week one. I almost gave up, but I persevered because — I'm not a quitter. By week two, everything was piled precariously high, and I'd already had a miss-hap with (I forgot I had any) a glass plate.

I understand now why my ex-wife left those fuckers for me. Ever break one of them? You're picking shards and slivers of glass off your floors for days, and I expect... weeks.

This past Saturday, I'd finally used my last bowl. By noon, I looked into my bare cupboards and drawers and at the horrific mess in my kitchen and confirmed — my goal had been reached.

I had a satisfied smirk on my face as I surveyed the carnage. Then I realized — I'd have to start cleaning up all that crap. It wouldn't be an easy task. Pre-soaking in hot water was compulsory, and so was double washing. I lost track of all the hours it took, but eventually, I got the job done. My kitchen is sparkling clean and looks great. And, I discovered some new favourite bowls and plates.

Will I ever try this again? Never! I can hear some of you suggesting I get a life. Point taken. I could probably target other items on my bucket list, but you know, walking the Great Wall of China doesn't interest me anymore. Have I somehow morphed into a venerable, forgetful and boring homebody?
Ugh!

I've been drinking a coffee while writing. Hang on a sec; I'm going to wash the mug....

... I'll be right back.

...............................
*Addendum: I should have opened this question up to items on your 'sexual bucket list'. I've had a couple of threesomes — so I've ticked THOSE off.
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35 Comments
Honesty and Altruism... How to Church Yourself Up... and Get Laid 😊❗
Posted:Mar 12, 2021 9:21 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 12:33 pm
5569 Views
I'm often asked — here and on the street — the same question over and over: "Paul, how can I get laid?" Men AND women approach me with that conundrum, and daunting as it may seem (to the inexperienced), the answer is simple.

Be as honest as you can, and present your positive attributes while highlighting your altruistic nature; everyone LOVES an altruist — although few of us know what that means. So, I'll give you an idea of what I'm talking about by showcasing a custom blog I wrote for someone who needed help promoting themselves and finding sex.


******************
*Note: This blog was for a man, but with a few tweaks, it'll work for a woman.
A Typical Day

My day usually starts at 6 a.m. . With that Covid bug still flourishing, it means I'll be wearing a mask, and I can trim 6 minutes of prep time by not brushing my teeth or shaving. A hot cup of coffee, and I'm in the car, on my way to church for morning prayers.

The liquor store opens at 9, and I like to be first in line to avoid any jostling or gunfire; then, it's off to a soup kitchen to serve lunch to the homeless. I always get a warm fuzzy feeling when I can help the underprivileged, and they seem happy to have a warm, clean place to take a shit.

The way back to my part of town includes a detour to the 'Cannabis Store,' where I'll pick up a half dozen pre-rolled joints. As I approach my house (if I haven't gotten lost), I'll always pop in at the food bank and see if they need a hand, carrying boxes or lugging anything about. Friends always appreciate my assistance and the goodies that I share with them: I'm a giving person.

Home at last and (after a quick bowl of macaroni and cheese), I'm finally able to sit in front of the computer to start sending out my 'dick pics.' It will take a couple of hundred or so before I get a positive reply from ANY lady.

Several hours of diligence and patience are required; I don't expect immediate success. But, by this point — between the alcohol and the refers — I'm usually fucking smashed, so 'sleep' is a welcome companion. Early to bed is MY trick for staying healthy.

And there it is—another successful day in the books. I can hardly wait till tomorrow.

*******************

There you have it; a frank yet straightforward and honest reveal of what THAT man does with his days. Impressive, huh?

Now, mind you, I would customize YOUR blog to reflect your style. For women, I'd replace 'posting dick pics' with placing a strategic picture of your breasts on your profile page. Your evenings would THEN be spent answering instant messages.

I hope I've been of some help to you. Your inquiries can be sent below or to my 'private mailbox'.

Getting laid is simple. Honesty and an open, humble display of who you are, are what others look for. Do you have what it takes to 'church' yourself up, become an altruist and get fucked? 🤔


------------------------------
30 Comments
FrankeeZee... Hurdies With Skirts... and The Bloggers Union... 😊 ❗
Posted:Mar 10, 2021 8:56 am
Last Updated:Mar 28, 2021 4:01 pm
6236 Views
Last Saturday was a bright, crisp winter's day, and reeleee fricken cold. FrankeeZee (a close friend from ANOTHER social site) and I were leisurely tracing the icy shore by the lake. I was startled when Frankee grabbed my arm and pointed. "Paul, THAT asshole is going to fall through the ice."

We watched with casual amusement. Frankee adjusted his scarf and tightened the hat over his ears. The guy on the ice gingerly trudged forward.

"So how are things going, over at YOUR sex site Paul. Anything exciting happening?"

"Nope, same old... you?"

"Oh yeah. We've got a 'hurdie' who wants to start a bloggers union. He's affectionately labelled us bloggers — as a 'community' — and appointed himself to manage inappropriate behaviour. Last week someone posted a preference for men who wear size 33 pants. The 'hurdie' was offended, so he called that blogger out."

"Hmmm..." I nodded.

"He used all the popular slogans. You know... played the race card, called him a bigot, a bully, a narcissist and a drunk; all those tags no one can fight. It's like trying to answer that question; Didja stop beating your husband, or are ya still struggling with a coke addiction? "

(*Although in Poland, 'Polo-Cocta' is very popular. My mind... had drifted for a second* )

"I'm going to write a sardonic blog and put MY name in the hat for President," FrankeeZee grinned.

"Frankee, no one understands your messed up sarcasm. People won't comment, and you'll be ostracized and ignored."

"Paul, if I cared about comments, I'd do what this faux 'king' practices on OUR site. He and his Bolshevik assistant dole out free bridge tokens to the hopelessly insolvent, and THAT bridge was torn down ten years ago", he laughed.

"What's the 'hurdie' going to say ?" I asked.

"Who cares, Paul? He's not my type. He wears a silk jupe and a t-shirt, with a grandpa prank smeared on it."

I looked at FrankeeZee with a confused squint.

"Some of 'hurdie's' ganglia might get offended. A few of them blathered on with smothering adulation at what he'd posted. And there's this sullen scribbler who totes a cracked microscope; he'll have an axe to grind. In any case, none of them read my stuff."

"Frankee, what's the whole point of your blog.?"

"I don't know, Paul; I'll have fun? And as President, I promise an espresso machine in the 'Bloggers Lounge'."

"You have a 'Bloggers Lounge'?" I looked at Frankee wide-eyed.

FrankeeZee took an exasperated breath.

"Don't you guys have one? Hey Paul, why does anyone post anything on a blog? Everyone has their reasons, and you can either pause and read it or move on. You don't have to create FAKE drama every time someone farts, and claims they prefer smaller pants — do ya?"

"You might be a hypocrite Frankee. If you highlight the drama, don't you BECOME the drama? So... you guys have a 'Bloggers Lounge'? How did you ..."

FrankeeZee interrupted my thought and yanked my shoulder. "THERE, he's fallen through the ice."

Sure enough, that guy had wandered out about 20 feet and had plunged into the water — up to his hips. He flayed his arms wildly in the air and began to holler for help.

His friends, who were all waiting on shore, laughed and yelled back with a suggestion that he fuck himself. They taunted him with a shark sighting and waved beer cans as an incentive to get his ass out of that freezing slush. It worked; he was soon back on land laughing and chugging a lager.

"Must be spring break, right Paul? Hey, you wanna cross the lake? I know a spot where the ice is 2 feet thick."

I looked at Frankee and blinked... and wondered if he was serious or not. With FrankeeZee, you could never tell.

...........................
*Disclaimer: Any resemblance of characters described by FrankeeZee to real persons, alive or dead — is purely coincidental.
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26 Comments
Russian Stimulants... Locusts and Their Connection With... Cheating Girlfriends... 😮
Posted:Feb 16, 2021 10:49 am
Last Updated:Mar 13, 2021 11:08 pm
26136 Views
The trails of an intrepid vagabond aren't always smooth. I once took a tedious three-week business trip that spilled across Eastern Europe with a terminus in Moscow.

I'd concluded my exhaustive meetings one day sooner than expected and was anxious to get back to Montreal - so I booked the first available flight. I was high in the sky when things unravelled with a frightening clatter.

Our plane hit a swarm of locusts, or was it volcanic ash? I don't recall. (I'd swallowed a Russian stimulant to help me through the 16-hour trip, and THAT sucker was the size of a grape.) Iceland was where we rerouted and waited 10 hours for our new jet.

There's not much to do in Keflavik if you're stuck in the terminal.

I found an eclectic coffee and gift shop which displayed an extensive collection of lopapeysur (woollen sweaters) and a repertoire of Steven King novels. And, they served the national dish - Hákarl - which is a fermented shark.
Did you know they dry it for five months? It has a very potent ammonia-rich smell; it's an acquired taste. In 10 hours, I fell short of acquisition.

It was 5 in the morning by the time we crossed the Atlantic, and I'd cleared customs; a fierce tailwind had clipped an hour off our flight. I hadn't told anyone I was flying in - hoping to surprise everyone - so of course, no one was there to greet me. Thankfully I had no cumbersome luggage to drag around; the airline had lost it. I opened the door to my home and quietly stepped in; I was startled to find what I saw.

My living room was festooned with a mass of balloons in all shapes and colours, and a banner hung on my ceiling - 'Welcome Home.' My loving Lynn had planned a surprise party. I had to admit; I was surprised.

As I crept in, I clumsily brushed the table and knocked a clump of magazines from their perch. Seconds later, I heard a male voice call.

"Lynn, is that you?"

A half-naked man approached me from the shadows of my hallway. My heart stopped as a chill ran through my soul. The worst possible thoughts flooded my head; I couldn't believe what was happening. I visualized my relationship with Lynn - completely oxidize. Then, he spoke again.

"Lynn...? Whadja forget?"

I still couldn't see the man's face, but I recognized his voice. It was Lynn's brother - for fuck's sake - he lived in Toronto.

"Hey, Robert. What are YOU doing here? Where's Lynn?"

"Hey, Paul. What are YOU doing here? Your flight's not supposed to land till 6. The airline called, they found your bags. Lynn went to the airport to surprise you. I'm sleeping over; she invited me to your party."

We both started to laugh. Me, from relief and at the irony of the situation. Robert, because... I have no clue why he laughed; he was easily amused.

And that's how things went that early morning. Poor Lynn had made all these plans, and those locusts and I had messed them all up.

We blasted the party that night. I feigned surprise as I walked through the door, carrying my lost luggage and a 'lopapeysa' under my arm. And, I entertained my friends with tales of 'The Kremlin' and locusts and fermented sharks. I never mentioned those Russian stimulants or how I freaked out when I saw Robert in my hallway.

You don't have to share every detail of a road trip, do you?

.....................
Images of Iceland. What a beautiful country.
34 Comments
Are There Advantages... To a Man With a Titanium Shaft... 😶
Posted:Feb 9, 2021 10:45 am
Last Updated:Apr 3, 2021 8:49 am
28849 Views
"And then he says to the judge - well, if it were mine, I wouldn't have put it in MY mouth."

I almost choked on my vodka as the four of us sat there and burst out laughing. Jennifer had always reigned supreme as the queen of the triple entendre.
The waitress walked up and paused as we calmed down and wiped the tears from our eyes. She then cleared the table and settled fresh drinks in front of each of us.

Lynn looked at me and rolled her eyes as if to say, haven't we had enough? John caught Lynn's frown and playfully admonished her with a boisterous, "Oh, come on, we're celebrating Wednesday and no one's driving."

I smiled back at Lynn. She'd admit that even though Jennifer and John were a bad influence - and occasionally annoying - sharing a faithful mid-week chuckle had become an oasis in the otherwise empty abyss of our social lives. We looked forward to these weekly adventures; especially since we'd quit the choir.

A dartboard was vacant, and someone signalled us. Drinks in hand, we shuffled over to a spot by the far end of that dark oak wall and readied ourselves. I yanked the worn darts out of the battered and beaten board and eyed the faded bullseye; my undulating target was in sight. Now, if I could only stop seeing double, I might have a chance. I stood and waited for my opponent.

John *assiduously pulled out his custom leather holster. He diligently sharpened the stainless steel tips on all three of those 24 gm titanium gripped darts and gently caressed the fine *fletching with his fingers. Finally satisfied, he raised his head and confidently grinned at me.

I stared back at him and blinked... then took a gulp from my glass. Ok then, let's fling these fucking darts, I laughed to myself; determined more than ever - to beat this grinning ringer.

.
............................
*assiduously ; with great care and perseverance.
*fletching ; the feathers of a dart.

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32 Comments
Miracle Pills... and The Myth of Winning a Bet With the Devil... 😮❗
Posted:Jan 19, 2021 9:49 am
Last Updated:Feb 9, 2021 1:16 pm
51261 Views
Midnight had slipped by as he lay sprawled on his couch, casually flashing through a tessellation of channels, searching for porn.
Momentarily captivated by some frightening images, he gratefully concluded that he couldn't have been happier with his gut.

Especially after seeing all the gross agony others had just shared on his screen. To conclude, they offered a miracle pill, and THAT reassured him. He'd have a foolproof solution if his shit ever hit the fan... so to speak.

Familiar phantoms and late-night zombies lazily nestled in between his ears and began whispering twisted vespers; images of his destiny flashed.

He'd always counted blindness in his top three unwelcome fates; surrendering a brilliant auburn sunset would be unbearable.

The spirits grew more hostile as they chopped off all his limbs, rendered him reliant on strangers, and pushed him along like a hockey puck. For fuck's sake, that helpless aberration gave him shivers.

Those evil ghosts continued - of course - and plastered him with cancer, a tedious and hapless spillage of one's guts into the abyss of endless pain and pharmaceuticals. Infinite torture is the word that came to his mind. Those ghoulish whisperers then rekindled an older memory.

Once upon a time, he'd planned the perfect painless plot; in case he EVER lost a bet with the Devil. He had imagined a romantic summer car crash, yet he'd realized - no one could anticipate intersections. His fear? Despite unbuckled seatbelts, driving with the top-down and rocketing at speeds that would bleed outer limits, what IF he miraculously survived? Ugh. He wasn't a fan of vegetables.

He sat there, shook the horror-filled visions out of his head, and fidgeted with the remote - once again. What had he been searching for? Oh yeah, porn.

He flipped the button, then stalled and eagerly settled into an infomercial on channel 22 - featuring stainless steel steak knives. He had a set of polished chrome sheaths, but he never tired of watching anything that cut through shoes. He wondered if HIS blades could shear leather.

He smiled to himself - as he admired those bayonets sawing through a brick - and realized he should probably watch less television. He was too easily impressed and influenced by the suggestive trance that tube induced. Yet, he was glad he'd learned - earlier - about hope and the miracle pill; and 'hope' is what drives us all, right?

THAT, and free shipping, he muttered as he reached for his phone.

..............................
25 Comments
Are You a Slut in a Short Story... Or a Player In a Novel... 😮❗
Posted:Jan 12, 2021 10:41 am
Last Updated:Mar 4, 2021 11:44 am
62093 Views
"Here, let's drink this; it'll make that whole seduction, sex thing less repugnant", she laughed as she passed him his glass. It was only a couple of hours since they'd first met.

Rick had been comfortably settled on the park bench, casually watching the skaters leisurely twirl along and around the small lake. There were couples and families and those cocky teenagers who zipped through small gaps in the midday crowd at illegal limits.

Sarah grappled with the lack of friction and battled to keep her skates on the ice - without success. When her feet met the air for the fourth time, and she landed with a vicious thump, Rick stood up and walked over to see if she needed help.

The enigma of how attraction between two strangers is bridged isn't a formula. Many couples spend a lifetime building a connection; a shared basket of souvenirs and postcards sketched from good and not so good moments. They'll wonder if they love each other for who they are - or because sex is a treat, once in a while. And when THAT stops, well... at least there are those faded memories: for some, that's enough.

"Are you ok? That looked painful", Rick hovered over Sarah as his steadying hand, held her shoulder.

"I don't think skating likes me", Sarah laughed while grimacing, "Are you the lifeguard here?"

"No, Uhm... I'm not", Rick laughed, "just a concerned citizen keeping score. It looks like you could use a break."

Rick helped her up and gingerly, they shuffled over to his bench where they sat down. Sarah let him hold her freezing hands while they talked and laughed. It wasn't long before they'd spontaneously super boiled an inflamed 'chemistry' that sizzled and left them breathless with a carnal craving.

And then they were there; standing amidst Sarah's stuffed animals and replica voodoo dolls, as she approached him with two potions in hand. The dim light that hovered, never reached the cobwebs crouched low in dark corners or high enough to touch those dusty ceramic vessels peering down from up on top of the bookcase.

They weren't seeking a saviour or a witness to their lives. They scarcely asked questions; enabling untamed emotions to spill the promise of a guilt-free reward. The crucial fact was, they'd already changed their hearts, looked around at what the alternatives were and decided - they were sluts in what might be, a very 'short story'.

It was a chance they were willing to take.

.................................
28 Comments
The Official A*F*F Top Blogger Awards... For 2020.. 😊 ❗❗❗
Posted:Dec 31, 2020 9:51 am
Last Updated:Jan 28, 2021 4:37 pm
82662 Views
Yes, it's that time of year again, the annual - 'A*F*F Awards for Top Bloggers'.

We all know this has been a challenging year, so special thanks to all those who've put their best efforts into making 'Blogville' a welcoming, inclusive and entertaining place to visit.

*Official Rules*
1. Any blogger who posted regularly, compulsively or insensibly throughout the year was eligible.
2. Voting: Every one of us received the 'OFFICIAL BALLOT' via email - two months ago. The voting deadline for our favourite bloggers was yesterday.
3. Members votes counted for 49%.
4. The two Bobs - CIO & CEO of A*F*F - votes counted for 51%.
5. What is a blog?
Let's not quibble about what a blog is - this site is hardly representative of what it should be; A*F*F's definition of what they think it is will suffice.

Categories for Top Blogger this year include;

1 - Funniest Blogger.
2 - Most Diverse Blogger.
3 - Blogger with the Best Memes and Jokes.
4 - Blogger with the Best Recipes.
5 - Best Storyteller.
6 - Blogger with the Hottest and Clearest, Borrowed Pictures.
7 - Rookie of the Year.
8 - Best Daily Diary.
9 - Most Opinionated.
10 - Blogger with the Most Bus Tokens Distributed.


AND the WINNERS are:

The two Bobs faxed me the RESULTS, and here they are.
CLICK this picture below, to reveal the details.


Wow! I'm shocked at some of this year's recipients, but then again, who's to say anything about ballot stuffing, last-minute mail-ins, and those pissed off east coast voters.

Congratulations to all the winners!

Did your favourite blogger win?
Was there a category missed?
Should awards and 'Best of ' be abolished, and everyone receives a 'participation' ribbon?

Make your comments known and I'll pass them on to the Bobs.

We're all in a buttermilk cloud of sexy happiness and expectant eroticism, so let's keep on blogging.
..........................
37 Comments
Do You Have What it Takes to Prosper... as a Certified Sexuality Coach... 😊 ❗
Posted:Dec 17, 2020 10:29 am
Last Updated:Jan 28, 2021 4:21 pm
91499 Views
My cell phone chimes daily. It's prodded by news sites and music feeds, and a half dozen other trivial pursuits that poke my curious mind. I might linger for a minute or two; a pocket of insight absorbed, then forgotten. But today, I received an invitation to become a - Certified Sexuality Coach; a lucrative six-digit income was dangled. Now, who could refuse such a ubiquitous proposal?

A 'measly' $997 for the introductory course and a 'paltry' $1,997 for the live, 5-day (four-module), certification lectures will;

- teach me how to transform sexual shame and trauma on this planet, into a healthy, fulfilling sexual connection and Erotic Freedom for my .

- provide me with support by a robust community of thriving sexuality coaches who'll help me be fully ME; unashamed and unleashed!

- enable me to have the most fulfilling, orgasmic sex life ever while making an INCREDIBLE living; coaching others to manifest the relationships and sex lives of their
wildest dreams.

"Wow! A roadmap for me to have it all", I thought to myself, "I've got to look at this more closely", so I did.

Descriptions of the curriculum were appropriately vague and impressively worded. Trademarked terms such as - Erotic Blueprint Technology™ and Accelerated Evolution™ sounded exotic.

Yet, it was when I read the testimonials - from actual graduates - that my eyes widened.

Roberta was a single mom with a 6-month-old, living on rice and beans. "It was a terrifying time in my life", she admitted. Remarkably, the first weekend that she graduated, she made $12,000 and has had consistent income ever since.

Gloria's tale was even more phenomenal. She's about to finish 2020 earning more than $500,000 (*that's five hundred thousand dollars*), and doing this number - in the year of the apocalypse.

And the cherry on the cake? Graduates will have their yearly certification fee - of $1,497 - included, free.

I know what you're all screaming, "Paul, are you crazy? There are only 60 available seats in that class. Do the math; what couple wouldn't pay $180 per session to improve their sexual health? All you need are 2,777 appointments, and half a million bucks are yours. Go for it, Paul."

Should I quit my job and pursue a lucrative career as an Erotic Blueprint Coach™? I'm thinking about it.

I'll keep you posted.

.................................
31 Comments

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