Do you want to permanently delete this comment?
This text may contain very explicit scenes and is not suitable for younger readers. Are you old enough and willing to read this text nonetheless?
Choose your ingredients and mix a Cocktail for you and your friends.
Hier findet ihr nützliches Zubehör für Rollenspiele.
Einfach einen Würfel auswählen und das Ergebnis erscheint im Chat :)
The next time you want to go shopping on Amazon, you could do it with this link:
Amazon for Belletristicans
(Only works for amazon.de at the moment)
... because if you get to Amazon via Bellatristica, we get up to 10% of the value of your shopping cart, without making it cost more.
The same thing works from everywhere on Belle, no matter if it's a book recommendation in our Blog or an Amazon link in a profile.
Everything we earn this way, will be added to Belletristia's development budget.
Thank you very, very much! :)
- Ben & Sebastian
I remember when it was yesterday I first started developing my interests in other women. I was an immature youth, a hyper sexuality youth. I could go all day masturbating and never broke a sweat.
It was that kind of day you felt like masturbating to chicks in Jesus sandals, in the privacy of your own computer. Imaginary double straps of doom coming down to stomp on your lady junk. Nothing would make you not a horny dog for the pleasing aroma of stinky leather sandals rubbing against your junk. It wasn't like slides, designed specifically for soccer. These had a very specific so bad their good quality, along with the groovy bottom souls especially identifiable. Her tie die shirts bounces as she does you lying down, her sitting on you in bed, with her bare bottom exposed. All all you want to do is smack that ass at the bottom of her shirt. Paddles are the way to go. Smack, smack, smack goes the paddle whack.
And that's when you say a day is done.
I turned off the computer and waited to go to bed, however I couldn't get specific erotic images out of my head. So I simply dealt with the images as my hyper sexualized self, and kept masturbating to girls in Jesus sandals until the night was over. I've always wondered why I always had a hard time sleeping, whether it's imagining Catherine Howard in my imagination brushing her Jesus sandals against my junk. The long haired version that is, as there seems to be multiple beheaded versions. I picture Ms. Howard's decapitated head licking her junk.
And she goes "Oh what a hunk."
But I'm not a hunk. I'm Hemato Tomato.
I'm a chunky girl. At the time I considered myself something of a necrophiliac, though it wasn't until later I came to realize that it wasn't necrophilia. Rather it had to do with the sexual satisfaction for blood.
I had just started going to see James, and it was a little before I met Anna-Marie. I needed some kind of father in my life, and at the time my father was a guillotine gun head figure. He was someone I never could completely trust, and someone who was as much of a godlike figure as anything else. I lived in a time when the French had secured their final take over of the United States, the British gradually having less and less influence over time in a final bid to maintain dominance after 1989. At first the people, as fickle as they are, initially took a liking to French control.
Though over time it became more like choosing the lesser of two evils, the lesser evil becoming more power hungry over time and gradual securing their place in what would have been a new mainstream America. French became an international mandated second language. I deliberately failed that class as a way of giving my nation the middle finger out of a feeling of total betrayal. So meeting James, who had mastered the French language, had an initial thing not going for him in my mind. But sense he was a guy and not a woman I was willing to give him a chance.
That was the difference between men and women, specifically French men and women. You didn't exactly expect much out of men, but part of the sexual blood lust appeal of French women was part of that feeling of total betrayal of having those total expectations broken, the feeling of being one with a murderess. And on some level I justified to myself not doing business dealings, and eventually even going to an especially rare guillotining to determine the depth of my sexual satisfaction.
And then I would eventually meet Anna-Marie.
I was originally reluctant to form a friendship with her, given my other trust issues regarding British, Germans, and French women specifically. I found that as long as I could take her a bit at a time from a distance, I could form a hateful but polite courtship who I viewed as the damned.
So our pairing was doomed from the start.
And so that's how the context of this epitaph will framed.
And then burnt in flames.
One of the girls, that would later come to influence a character in one of my books, I dreamed was in my bedroom I always wanted to avoid. She was wearing a summer camp outfit, and pair of Jesus sandals. I developed the association with those sandals being worn by girls who were mean to you in front their friends, but also almost creepily nice to you when they were not around. This tended to be all the girls that crushed on me, and looking back on it I think I had more girls crushing on me than I wanted to admit at the time do to my lack of self-esteem.
And then she came as if from a dream, another girl that descended from my darkest and wildest fears. "You know, I would like you. But you're kind of ugly. Not that ugly, but kind of ugly." At the playground. It didn't help the fact that her last name was French, although I had come to block her name out of my mind.
So in school I tended to keep largely to myself, avoiding most friendships. It was a time when I still had to wear boys clothes despite being female, one of the things no other minority group would ever have to experience. I began to develop feelings of hatred to girls who wore Jesus sandals. It didn't matter that this hatred wasn't rational, I simply wanted to avoid anyone who wore them. And so when I saw girls be nice to be who wore Jesus sandals, I wasn't sure how to feel at first.
There was a blond girl who would always smile at me in typing class in my Freshman year. While I found her cute there was something about her I found that I couldn't trust, although I couldn't exactly put my finger on what. All I knew was I didn't trust her, and wanted the government to black bag her at night, take her to some kind of dark bleak prison, and then shoot her neck with a guillotine gun. I unfortunately developed a lady hard on. I was freaking out in my mind. And then the other girls who were brunettes were tapping dancing in their potato shoes as a way of mocking me for my interest in ladies wearing wooden shoes. So whatever trust I had that the blond girl was being legitimately nice when smiling at me was out the window.
Guillotine guns were based on the Burger guillotine, they simply became more hand held and increasingly electronic over time. All one needed to do was pull the trigger, hold it like one would hold a knife gun, and then while looking through a telescope they would press a button to lock their tiny necks in a stock, and then after waiting for about a minute to let them breath their last breath, pulled the trigger.
It was thought to be as humane as you could make execution, as humane as rounding up people in the streets and beginning to commit a kind of genocide against those of Scottish/Irish. All this was happening inside my mind.
My high school life would be changed forever.
To leave a comment, join us withoror via email.