Ramblings From an Apathetic Adult Baby

From Justin Gawel: Eccentric Dirtbag

Tag Archives: erotic

Autoerotic Fiction

12 Comments Posted by on December 15, 2012

The sun was high in the sky on this bright summer Saturday morning.  Fresh from his night of slumber, John opened one eye and took a glance around the room before reading his clock radio.

 

Eleven-twenty: too late to salvage the morning, yet too early to start any afternoon activities.  Rested, John sat up and pulled back his sheets pondering his next course of action.  He wasn’t hungry, and his only plans for the day weren’t until five; his options were endless really.  He considered setting up a doctor appointment for the rash on his arm, but he decided it maybe just needed a few more days.

 

John supposed he could go to the bank, not to deposit money or transact—he just liked hanging out at the bank.  Nah, he didn’t want to do that, I mean, come on, he already has his pants off.  Deliberation set in about a potential trip to the grocery store but John ultimately decided against it; he already had all the provisions he needed for his one-man nacho fiesta that was happening at five o’clock.

 

He lied back down on his bed and nestled into the groove his crooked spine had established in the mattress over its many moons of use.  The groove provided him a small canyon that he allowed himself to cozy into night after night, a canyon that became particularly difficult to scale out of after a restless night.  His eyes drooped a little and he let out a small yawn; he supposed he could read.

 

A stretch across the mattress and John snagged the screenplay he was working on editing the night before.  He was at page sixteen, and the last few days have been far from productive, but he figured if he can get some good, hard work done now he can gorge on a trough of nachos later completely guilt free.  Guilt-free about being productive at least, after all, there is a considerable amount of self-loathing that goes along with any personal nacho fiesta.

 

He starts down the page and begins marking with his red pen.  Embarrassed, he circles his your-you’re confusion and laments that he can’t remember why he thought Thomas Merriweather Rockefeller was a good name for any character, let alone the main one.  Self-Hating Saturday had already started and John hadn’t even binged on nachos, been to church, or spoke to his parents yet.

 

John’s conscious mind continued editing while his unconscious mind let his left hand wander.   His left hand blazed a trail through the maze of skin, blanket, and underwear and popped in at John’s junk as if to say, “Good morning, beautiful; you feel like dancing?”

 

With just a splinter of morning wood remaining, John’s left hand realized he was going to have to do most of the work rousing this sleeping giant, but hey, you can’t start a fire without a spark—but a lot of wood would certainly help.

 

John’s conscious mind snapped into it; he knew how he could pass the time—the answer had been literally right in front of him.  His attention shifted and he was soon only skimming through his bad symbolism and unnatural dialogue.  Suddenly, he realized that he was playing with himself while reading.  He now could identify with the way hipster kids feel when they read Catcher in the Rye or how Glen Beck feels when he’s proofreading his own books.  Disgusted with either of those groups, John emphatically hurled his first draft across the room.

 

His eyelids close and his mouth opens ever so slightly; his right hand begins to work his joystick like he’s going for the high score in the video game that is himself.  His mind flashed to that girl from senior year of high school.  Not her as a person, like her accomplishments and what not, more so just her pink lips sucking on his thing with such force you’d think she had a jet engine for a mouth—John’s strokes sped up and his body tensed.  In his mind she smiled quickly and John immediately remembers her missing tooth and shuddered a bit.  Immediately, she faded from mind.

 

Back to the highlight reel and John’s mind jumped to a hazy, post-bar memory.  He recalled this sexual encounter being like a slip and slide—it had been a particularly muggy summer and that particular girl’s vagina acted like it.  So wet and smooth he recalled, as his hand now was taking the most thorough, caressing touch to his wang.  He felt himself begin to lose control, slightly, as he reminisced; his hand bouncing up and down on his throbbing member like it was a piston in some well-oiled flesh engine.  Suddenly he stopped, it was only now twenty-five after eleven; John still had a ways to go until five, so he decided to make this last.

 

John took a few strokes off in order to prevent culmination, but now he realized that he’s got to kick-start the old love machine as the realization set in that his hiatus had been too long and he should never interrupted the diligent work routine he had established.  “If only I put this kind of effort and craftsmanship into my screenplays,” he though, but alas, that thought faded away in lieu of a sexual fantasy involving the cashier at the corner gas station.

 

It’s just an average night, John’s buying his usual pack of cigarettes and three candy bars.  John then removes his card from his wallet, preparing to swipe it on the machine.  But, when he goes to run it through the machine, John finds the machine has been replaced with a, now naked, cashier girl.  He swipes his Red Lobster Visa down her ass crack as she peeks over at him and whispers, “credit or debit, big boy?”  She turns to face him and grabs all she can of him.  John, now paralyzed by his own erotic pleasure, clenches every muscle in his body as he tries to hit his figurative brakes.

 

Just like the guy who shows up drunk to an AA meeting—John can’t stop and he knows it.  No use trying to derail this train.  John tightens his grip—his hot rod turning that deep fuchsia color indicating the pleasure express was right on time.  He mind drifts back to the gas station and he’s thrusting into cashier girl.  He’s loving every bit of this as he looks into the mirror behind the counter to fully appreciate this moment, but right then he realizes that it isn’t a reflection of him having his way with the cashier girl in the mirror, why it’s just him having his way with a very sweaty Louie Anderson.  John begins to climax as he feels the white-hot man yogurt drip down the back of his hand.  His mind is racing with a lot of confused feelings about his sexuality and Louie Anderson.  He wipes his hand on the sheets and curls up in a ball—looks like Self-Hating Saturday is off to a great start!

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Erotic Fiction, Grotesque , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

High Schooler’s Plan for the Apocalypse

40 Comments Posted by on November 25, 2012

We can all agree high school kids are idiots.  We always make comments about them like, “Oh, she’s so smart for her age,” and never, “Oh, she’s so smart”.  We, rightfully, handicap the field to pay them a compliment; it’s like saying, “He walks pretty well for having Gout,” or, “She has a pretty good appetite for just watching them pull the plug on Grandma.”  Now, dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip or no dead-grandma-Old-Country-Buffet-trip, high school kids still remain pretty dumb on the whole and incredibly easy to trick into anything.

 

Now, the chucklehead who sat behind me in tenth-grade English was no exception.  He wasn’t illiterate, but you sure couldn’t tell.  I remember convincing him that Hemmingway’s A Farewell to Arms was titled as such because the main character’s arms are blown off in an explosion at the end.   Like an old woman slipping on a banana peel and breaking her hip as she lands in a pile of wet garbage and cats, it was hysterical and sad all at the same time.

 

One day before class this future community college dropout was speculating on how he wants to go out when the world freezes over.  Yes, he is convinced that the world is going to end where everyone and everything is suspended in time and completely frozen, because, clearly, he sees the only logical end of the world being a super villain using some sort of doomsday device to freeze us all after the ransom of ten-thousand Asian babies isn’t paid.  Climate change, asteroids, nuclear war—all of these theories never crossed his mind or do not hold any credibility in his mind.  Refreshing to see that he doesn’t pay attention in his science or social studies classes either.

 

Chucklehead elaborates further that at the moment of said hyper-freezing of the world he wants to mid-coitus with a lady.  This way, in his eyes, when future beings thaw his corpse out there will never be any doubt in their eyes on whether or not this man was able to get pussy.  Adamant, he said this was the way he wanted to go out as, apparently, there is nothing else in his life he would want to be remembered by other than his ability to convince this one lucky woman let him wiggle around his stink pickle inside of her this one instance.

 

It’s shocking to me that this was the only way that he thought he could demonstrate his pussy prowess to future archaeologists.  Frankly, he could have just wished to be with his children when the world ended; a touching gesture that confirms that this man had raised children and has had sex in the past.  If he didn’t want his kids to be with him he could have just asked to die clutching child support and alimony collection letters, further demonstrating that at least during one point during his life he was able to let his bathing suit area rub up against a lady’s bathing suit area enough to get her pregnant.

 

Really, this chucklehead is overlooking the most obvious solution which would be just constantly prepare for the end of the world by perpetually wearing a t-shirt that says something like “I Fuck On the First Date”, “Pussy Poacher”, or “I’m RSVP-ing to the Orgy As “Cumming””, as any one of those t-shirts would undoubtedly be worn by an individual who wants to show off how much sex they have had.

 

To be James Blunt, his solution leaves a lot to be desired.  First off, slowly freezing to death with your penis out sounds like horrible way to die.  Plus what if the archaeologists interpret it wrong? I mean, honestly, what if they do a future autopsy and reveal that the girl died four hours before the world ended and Chucklehead died?

 

As for me I’m hoping to die the way I lived—drunk and in a karaoke related mishap.

 

Complaints, Erotic Fiction , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Presidential Erotica: A Chocolate-Vanilla Swirl

30 Comments Posted by on November 4, 2012

President Barrack Obama stewed in the Oval Office late one Friday night.  Frazzled about the country’s impending decision over his job, he kept running over numbers from various focus groups and demographics as he wearily tried to figure out if he was missing any key voters before Election Day.  Drained, he decided to call it a night and closed his binder, but just then the door opened.  Stunned, Obama turned to see none other than his opposition and Republican candidate, Mitt Romney, standing in the door.

 

“Hey there; you’re looking well, Mr. President.”

 

“You too, governor, what are you here for?”

 

“Don’t play hard to get; you know exactly why I’m here.”

 

As soon as Romney let those words leave his lips he and the president each took three quick strides towards each other and collapsed on the floor in a sloppy, homoerotic, interracial make out session that would make anyone’s grandparents vomit with rage.

 

Mitt worked his mouth down the president’s wrinkled shirt and unbuckled his belt with his teeth as Obama reciprocated the action.

 

“Happy birthday, Mr. President.”

 

“It’s not my birthday.”

 

“Then why are we about to party like it is?”

 

Simultaneously and instinctively they took one another’s Anthony Weiners and jammed it in their respective mouths in a beautiful bipartisan display.  They had turned the Oval Office into the Oral Office in no less than two minutes.   Although not members of the Tea Party, the two candidates proceeded to do their share of tea bagging as waves of pleasure washed over them.

 

Romney was trying to hold on for a few more moments, but it was not use.  He accidentally thought about how little he paid in taxes as took the First Penis out of his mouth and with urgency in his voice hollered, “Do you want it in your mouth or on your face?”

 

“What,” replied Obama, taking the governor’s Dick Nixon out of his mouth.

 

“Well, I figured since you’re pro-choice I’d give you the option.”

 

Without words Obama took some affirmative action and let that hot, billionaire cream hit him in the face.  By the time it was over the president looked like he had been in an explosion at a whiteout factory.

 

Romney, being a gentleman, reached in his coat pocket and pulled out several wads of cash and one Chinese baby that he gave to the president to clean himself up.

 

“Talk about a loaded question,” Obama said through a laugh.

 

“Oh, you’re so bad.”

 

“Quit your filibustering and let me fill you, buster.”  Obama stated as he aggressively bent Romney over the desk and mounted him from behind.  “Oh, yes, we can,” Obama said to himself before he penetrated Romney’s rear cave like it was in Pakistan and his member was a member of SEAL Team Six.

 

With furious thrusts Barrack began to rock the desk and initiated ass-warfare on much more than just the top one-percent of Romney’s pooper.

 

The sex was short-lived, but powerful and Obama let freedom ring after a few thorough thrusts resulting in the president emptying, a much more eco-friendly, Exxon Valdez-esque load into Romney’s dumper.  Exhausted the two collapsed onto the floor in an embrace.

 

Predictable, the president soon sparked up a post-coital cigarette while Romney began counting the money in his wallet to wind down, but not before letting a little bit of Santorum leak out of his strip mine and onto the Oval Office’s carpet.

 

Absurd, Erotic Fiction, Grotesque , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Masturbation Etiquette: A Sticky Situation

57 Comments Posted by on October 12, 2012

Humans are a superficial species; a species who are quick to judge one another on how they handle themselves in public with the biggest red flag being if you are actually “handling yourself” in public.   It’s a double standard in our society where we celebrate a man’s success when he creates a company that profits off of the donations sent to starving children, but, as soon as that charity-mogul-villain whips our his flesh spout to pour himself a fresh, steamy shot of man-yogurt at the local petting zoo, well, that’s when we all finally see him as the abhorrent monster.

 

Masturbating can be great fun, but we need to recognize that with great power comes great responsibility.   On the plus side though masturbating isn’t like standup comedy, circus performing, or selling nerve tonics where you’d need to be on the road in order to really turn pro.  Take it from me, an old veteran that’s a sure bet for the hall of fame, I went pro right at home around the ripe old age of twelve or thirteen and never looked back, unless I thought someone was walking up behind me when I was in “game-mode”.

 

When your able to put the time in and be as thorough as you need to be masturbating is a beautiful, like a flower blossoming into a swan at sunrise.  However, when interrupted or done through anxiety, masturbation can turn into a dismal, bleak affair—on par with a black and white documentary about cholera in Latvia.

 

The caveat comes with sharing your living quarters; you’re roommates are likely not always going to be able to give you the time to light a butterscotch candle or two, draw the shades, and cue up the cassette tape of Danny DeVito reading 50 Shades of Grey.  So maybe you can go all out and fully (trick or) treat yourself each session, but if you can be open with your roommates you can ensure that you’ll at least have the privacy to get your money’s worth from that Kama Sutra For One you bought off Amazon.

 

As with any relationship, a successful relationship with your roomies about your jerk-off stints is built on the foundation of boundaries, communication, and trust.  It begins with everyone acknowledging that they all masturbate and recognizing that it’s just a natural, relaxing thing to do that there should be absolutely no guilt attached to.  Masturbating is simply more effective when you’re doing it than when a stranger doing it to you—you know what you like.  Think of Pandora Radio. Pandora Radio is like a handjob to me; I can make a better playlist myself, but sometimes I’m lazy and it’s nice to have someone else do it for me.

 

If the mutual trust is there between you and your roommates you’ll be able to revel in the fact that if you’re in the middle of crank yankin’ or flickin’ the Skittle and your roommate knocks on your door you can quickly communicate something like, “Hold on, broski, I’m in the middle of a fat-beat-off sesh.”  It’s as easy as relaying those thirteen simple words to your roommate mysteriously hairy ears.  You trust your roommate to respect your boundaries and give you the serenity needed to Miracle Whip up a frothy helping of your Hellman’s Original man-nnaise (or the woman-nnaise equivalent) and, in turn, your roommate trusts you that you are actually masturbating and not reading his diary or burning his clothes again.  Unless he knows your sexual aroused by reading diaries written by adult men or by the sweet, sweet, amours aroma of smoldering polyester; then he’d probably be suspicious.

 

There you have it: trust, communication, and boundaries; be honest and effectively inform your housemates of your actions if they get close to breaking through your comfort threshold and they’ll be sure to reciprocate the action.

 

Also, just be cool and use discretion if during Spring Cleaning you find a really crusty sock next to a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal in my room.

Advice, Erotic Fiction, Rave , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Erotic Fiction: The Fool Triumphant [2/2]

8 Comments Posted by on September 21, 2012

–We rejoin our hero on his figurative precipice, about to dive into the graphic description of last night’s sexual encounter in which no detail is too trivial to not mention.

 

“She invited me up to her place,” Milton continued, “It didn’t matter that it was below freezing out or that her heat had been turned off at her apartment; I had enough warm wang to thaw an igloo.  One look at my demeanor, or the demeanor of my penis, and you would know that Milton Honeysnickle was ready to jam his beef log in some of that stinky, Kellenberger cookie.”

 

The orcs destroying the sleepy town of Djallenfjord in the group’s game of Dungeons and Dragons would have to wait to be vanquished; this traveling party had more pressing things on their plate at the moment; Milton carried on with his tale of conquest, “We go back to her room and I rip her clothes off with such force that they’re reduced to mere rags, suitable for nothing more except maybe cleaning clogged drains in pubic schools.  I plunge my face into that bushy badger’s nest she was sporting and I start licking those meat curtains like I’m devouring a Subway Cold Cut Combo.  Each stroke from my tongue is more aggressive than the last; rattling that clitoris like it’s a die in a Yahtzee shaker in a game played by Parkinson’s patients during an earthquake.  She was almost there, but I stop, because my forceful licks are starting to break skin.

 

The group is in awe at this point; Milton has them at full attention.  He knows they are hanging on to every moist detail of his story.  “I took my mouth out of her pube forest and stood up.  My steel girder of a bulge was testing the strength of the button on my jeans and when I tried to remove the pants the button shot off into the corner of room and lodged itself in the skull of her roommate’s cat.  I froze momentarily, worried a dead animal could kill the mood, but she quickly reassured me, “Hey, when you’re done lodging things in that pussy I see something of yours I like to lodge in my pussy.”  She had given me the green light and I wasted no time pulling out my junk as I imagined myself lighting a cigarette and saying a cool-guy tagline.

 

Nerdenkrantz’s misgivings had been silenced, as he too sat, rapt with excitement hanging on every word out of Milton’s mouth.  “My wang blazed a trail through her thicket of dark stringy hairs and before long my battering ram was knocking down the doors to the infamous Kellenberger lady bits.  At this point I just start using that battering ram of a dong I’ve got to just fully hammer her slop hole.  Like a pneumatic nail gun; I’m just firing and reloading over and over again as the bed frame and walls begin to rattle causing picture after picture to crash to the floor covering the dead cat in a layer of broken glass and precious Kellenberger family memories.”

 

Milton leaned forward and drew the crowd in, “Now this is when it’s kicked up a level,” he teased, “After about five minutes of that I bend her right leg up and start going at it, essentially hitting the NOS on my sex drive. She let out a little yelp, like a dog that had been accidentally stepped on, as I can tell my thrusts are shaking her internal organs like she’s on some unsafe carnival ride.  Well, guess what, bitch, you are on an unsafe ride and his name is Milton Honeysnickle.”

 

“It was after then I pulled her leg back farther to try to get even deeper.  It was here that I thought her leg felt like ligaments were popping, but she didn’t care.  She was too busy trying to repress her screams to keep from straining her vocal cords while still attempting to keep herself conscious through the extreme g-forces being exerted on her.  I heard a cracking sounds and worried that her leg was breaking, but I realized that it was just the box spring starting to splinter under my domineering force.  Good work, Sealy, way to not make a box spring that couldn’t handle my Saturday night.”

 

“She was nearing, yet another, bone-rattling and mind-shattering orgasm and she repressed her pleasure shrieks long enough to get out an “Oh God, oh God,” to which I simply replied, “Hey, baby, I’m here, but you don’t have to call me God, you can just call me Milton.”  She nodded as if she understood, but I doubt anyone could hear much over the sound of me furiously entering and exiting her while my jackhammering of her flesh cavern continued.”

 

The room had become hotter and the boys clenched their fists in an attempt to draw their attention away from their arousal.  “As I neared my big finish,” Milton progressed, “The decision to pull out wasn’t made out of worry that she would get pregnant; it was more of a concern for that the monstrous power of my load might damage her cervix or possibly even her small intestine.  I wanted to go for round two in a bit and that was going to be tough if I she had a bunch of internal bleeding.  I decided blast my cock cream into the closest thing I could find, which happened to be a blanket that looked pretty old, very handmade, and looked to contain the most sentimental value.  Since I couldn’t find anything else, and I didn’t want to risk anymore structural damage to the room, I pulled out a few thrusts later and released my floodgates into this personal item of Kelly’s at a PSI pressure level that was enough to rupture a sewer line.

 

“Was she mad,” Nerdenkrantz wondered.  “No,” Milton responded, “The blanket was destroyed beyond recognition, but that’s what two gallons of hot goo shot at a dangerously high velocity can do.  She probably didn’t even realize it; she had never experienced anything like that before in her life and if she didn’t care about a dead cat I’m guessing she wouldn’t care about a ruined blanket.  For the next twenty minutes she just lied there while I made a sandwich and ate it while I took a dump in her bathroom.  After that she was able to gather the strength to actually sit up in bed, which revealed that she had acquired massive rug burns all over her back.  It was a learning moment for both of us as we both could recognize and appreciate that Milton Honeysnickle creates a lot of friction when he fucks.”

 

“Was that it, man,” Nerdenkrantz asked, begging for there to be more to the epic.  “Well, after that, we stayed up until about seven in the morning and did the deed about three more times.  We both fell asleep very satisfied at that point; then I woke up at her place around noon and took the bus home.”

 

The group remained stunned, still trying to wrap their minds around Milton’s experience.  They slowly moved into their Dungeons and Dragons game for the week and the rest of the night went smoothly and predictably.  However, from that point forward Milton was no longer the butt of any verbal jabs or cutting remarks and the group began to go back to picking on each other for other reasons.

 

Of course Milton’s story was completely fake since in actuality he had spent his Saturday night going to a small house party, drinking a fifth of vodka, and attempting to give a very clammy and non-consensual back rub to the host’s seventeen-year old sister who was up visiting college.

Absurd, Erotic Fiction, Fitness, Grotesque, Rave , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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