Spaghetti and Sausage

Mark stretched Dick's cock across the cutting board and traced a fine incision down the middle of the urethra with the sharpest knife from his mom's Home Shopping Network Cutlery Collection. Ten chops an inch apart from the base to the head and he scooped the 20 pieces up, sliding them off the knife and into the pan. Where they sizzled in the hot grease of the hundred or so pieces of Italian sausage already searing.

He swiveled the bill of his red throwback Giants cap to the back of his head, then washed his hands thoroughly under the hottest water he could stand, flicking them dry and rubbing them on his matching red throwback Giants jersey, which displayed the number of his all-time favorite New York Giant, Rodney Hampton. He snapped his fists out to pop his elbows and cricked his neck side to side, both cracks echoing in tune to the Joy Division playing on the kitchen radio:

"Don't walk away in silence
Don't walk away"

Grabbing the tongs, he flicked the frying pieces of meat over ten at a time, lightly pressing each onto its opposite side. He swirled on his heel, grabbed the olive oil, and swirled back, raining another cup over the sausages. Five minutes of inhaling the steaming smoke wafting from the pan under his nose and he dumped the pan's contents into the large pot of bubbling tomato sauce. He turned as Sarah walked in behind him.

"It smells great in here," she said. "Are you sure you're not Italian?"

"Only if you are-"

"No. Thank God."

Mark laughed, then turned and set to boiling the angel hair pasta: a pot of water, a dollop of olive oil, a carton of the skinniest noodles he could find, and a flick of the knob to HI. He shut off the radio, held up a finger to his mom, then ran out of the room. Before she could say anything through the door, he was back in the kitchen, his hands behind his back. "I got you something-"

"Mark-"

"I mean, you bought it, it was your money, but I picked it out-" He held the gift out.

Sarah grabbed it and unwrapped it. Then fell back in the chair laughing. "Jesus Christ, boy-"

Mark's smile cut his face in half. "What?"

Sarah shook her head. "You know your momma-" She laid the box containing the 12" X 10" extra-thick-veined dildo on the table and jumped up and hugged Mark.

"Ooh, my noodles!" Mark ran to the stove, and in what seemed one motion, turned it off, strained the noodles, prepared two heaping plates of spaghetti, and slid them under his and Sarah's noses.

They ate in grinning silence - except for the occasional elbow snap, neck crack, or snort of snot - until Mark watched his mom swallow her last bite. "You like?"

"It was fucking delicious, Mark. Really, you should be a chef-"

Mark smiled. "How'd you like the sausage?"

"It's what made it-"

"I used two kinds, Italian and a really rare German sausage that's hard to find. But I got a good deal on it-"

"You're the best-"

Mark sighed. "Yeah-" He giggled.

"Asshole-"

"Moi?"

Sarah leaned back in her chair and unsnapped the top button of her jeans. "I'm full-"

"Good-"

She looked around, her eyes finally settling on Mark's plate as he forked up the last bits of his meal. "So where's Dick?"

"Dick?"

"Yeah, your boyfriend-"

Mark pushed his plate forward as he swallowed the last piece of Dick's cock. "I don't know. I like to think Dick's like God, that he's in all of us-"

"But you don't believe in God-"

"No, no I fucking don't-"

Mark collected both plates, set them in the sink and turned around. He shared another smile with his mom, then unsnapped the top button of his jeans, which fell to his ankles without a sound.

Ham and Sausage

The aroma that makes his tongue tickle. A slit of light through the door. Voices. Closer. A peek. Just a peek. Him. Sitting. Her. Standing. Her eyes on his cock through his pants. His hard cock through his pants.

-Mark's favorite is ham?

-Yeah. He says he likes anything that'll make the Jews and the Muslims hate him even more.

Laughter.

-That's Mark.

-Yeah. A sigh.

-You know Mark and I are boyfriends, right?

-So you're gay too?

-No, I'm bi. Like Mark.

-Mark's not bi.

-He fucks girls.

-So?

Laughter.

-I fuck girls.

-I know.

-You do?

-Mark tells me everything. And I tell him everything. We're best friends.

-Oh, what else has he told you?

-That you have the biggest dick he's ever had in his throat. Or ass.

Blushing. Giggles. Sighs. Averted gazes. Then contact. Eye contact.

-And you know, Mark and I share everything.

-Oh?

-Everything.

Another look to the crotch. Panties caress the floor. The skirt hitches. Effortlessly. A quick, deft pirouette. The oven door hits the floor. The screech of the bottom rack. Warmth and the scent of an almost-burnt dinner waft through the ever-widening slice of the open door.

Baggy jeans baggier around ankles. Cock dripping pre-cum like he's never seen before. A moan as he enters from behind, her legs straddling the oven door. And the meat. Pump. Pump. Pump. Moans. Increasing. In volume and frequency. A small yelp as he lunges all the way in. And grinds.

Her head turned over her shoulder. -You can come in me. It's okay. I can't have kids anymore. You better come in me. You faggot.

Ten or fifteen or twenty more full-length thrusts, his hands wound through her hair so that he can't tell if he's pushing in or pulling her back on it. Until his ass shakes and he falls on her back, reaching for her tits.

A plop. A slap against the leg. A snap and a zip. The squeak of the chair. Two fingers on her clit, two more on her tit. Rubbing. Scratching. Circles. Pistoning.

A loud moan. A squat. A steady stream of come. Male and female. A further squat. A smack of cunt against pig. Sliding. Back and forth.

Metal jarring metal. The warmth recedes. Panties disappear. Sponge meets cunt. Then sink.

Khakis wet. The shirt stretched down. A hand against the door. Push.

-Mark!

-Hey!

-What's going on, guys?

The Writer and the Box

The box was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, considering its size. At least 10 lbs. He looked at the returned address and recognized the name and address instantly. Ah, the little devil. He said a quick "Merci" to the man behind the counter and made his way up the three flights of stairs and down the endless hallway till he came to his door. Sacking the box and the other 50 or so rubber-banded letters from family, friends, and fans under one arm, he teethed out a key from the several on his keychain and keyed the door. Unsucessful, he tried another. Then another. Until he was in the living area 3 feet away.

He piled the letters on the corner of his desk. Then inspected the box once more, ignoring the "Fragile" warning on the side as he turned it over several times and shook it. He laid it on the desk and grabbed his letter opener. The one with the devil's head on the end he'd been given by another fan so long ago. He stopped. Nah, he couldn't open it just yet. Had to wait for the boyfriend to get home because there was usually something in there for him too. They liked to be surprised together. Or at least his boyfriend did.

He pushed the box to the back of the desk and looked at his computer. FUCK! He'd forgotten to publish his blog post. It had been hours since he'd finished it, the masses would be wailing. He laughed at the thought because he knew that he was the only one who'd be wailing about its lateness. He clicked the mouse and signed out, then made his way over to the window, which he opened on the brisk Paris afternoon. The wind wasn't blowing in, so he got out a cigarette and inched closer to the window, his head half out as he smoked.

He heard the kids playing soccer down the lane, so he moved a little bit closer and stuck his head out a little farther. He wanted to play soccer. He wished he was 10 again so he could go out and play with them. Fuck, he'd do it at his age, but all the people who didn't already think he was a perv would think he was and those who were sure he was a perv would just find it to be further confirmation that he was. Fuck people, he thought. He just wanted to play soccer. Or at least kick something really hard. Like Mussolini's head. How much fun must that have been kicking that old fucker's head around...

He threw the cigarette butt out the window and closed it. He sniffed around to ensure he wouldn't get caught by his boyfriend later. Taking off his old olive-green coat, he tussled the white hair on his head and sat down at the desk. Wiggled the mouse. Hit a bookmark for his one of his favorite porn sites. Then looked at the box across from him. Fuck it, he could re-tape it.

He stood up, pulled the box to him and grabbed his letter opener. A letter lay on top of whatever was balled up underneath. It contained just a few words:

"Glad we could meet in DC."

Laughing, he fingered the tissue paper apart. And jumped back two steps. "Jesus Christ!" When his panting ceased, he tiptoed to the desk and peered over the side of the box. He shivered. Jesus, no way. Just no way. He pulled the tissue paper farther apart, shoving it down the sides of the thing inside the box. And stared at it. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes looking into his brain for a similar image. Fuck, no way.

He sat down at his computer and did a quick search. Jesus Christ, it was him. But was it real? He knew the answer already because he'd seen too many dead people in his life. With a sigh, he pulled the box onto his lap, then dislodged the man's head from it. He turned it over and over, as if it were a priceless egg, studying its details, the gray hair, the swollen eye-bags, the protruding bottom lip, the glassy eyes - he even thought he could see the anger still residing in the landscape of the man's wrinkled skin.

He sat it on the desk. Moved it around. To where the light would hit it best, most provocatively. There was an incinerator in the basement. But no, he'd decided against that as soon he'd searched the man on the internet. His boyfriend would shit his pants, though. Then again, his boyfriend was always working. By the time he saw it, it'd be just another piece of furniture he'd grown accustomed to. And he'd tell him it was fake, a piece of art from a fan. Or his artist friend down the hall.

He grabbed a sheet of paper and leaned back in his chair, tearing the paper into little bits, which he then balled up and flicked with his middle finger at the face staring at him from God knew where. He laughed and shook his head as a tiny ball of paper lodged itself in one of the man's veiny nostrils. "Goooaaaaaaaaallllllllll!" he whispered.

Bette Meets Her Match

Bette sat upon the little, wooden shelf against the far end of the shack and looked the place over. "Did you build this yourself?"

"No," said Mark. He laughed. "It's been here forever. I used to come here and play by myself as a little boy."

"Weren't you scared?"

Mark shook his head. "I'm not scared of anything." He walked the fifteen or so feet to the door of the shack and dropped the duffel bag that hung from his shoulder onto the floor against the wall. "Though I guess I'm still a little boy. Or at least hung like one." He looked at Bette.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Stop it! Right now! You're an adult male. And I told you that doesn't matter at all. It's how you use it."

"Really? Do you really believe that?"

Bette looked away, her color changing from a slight beige to a slighter crimson. "Yes, of course, I believe that. Ask any woman."

"I'm asking you-"

Before Bette could get up, Mark jumped over to her, put his arms around her and squeezed. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

He let go and leaned against the waist-high table lining the wall. "Did you bring The Sluts?"

"Yep-"

"How do you like it so far?"

Bette's eyes rolled up into her eyelids, searching her brain.

"Huh?"

"Oh, it's good." She nodded, without looking at Mark. "The writing's really good. But it's..."

"What?"

"A bit extreme. I'll just be honest. It's a fine book, but I've had to put it down a few times."

"Does it lack literary merit, do you think?"

"Oh, no, not at all. It's very good."

Mark smiled. Then made his way back to the duffel bag. He stood over it, staring down at its zipper.

"You gonna get out the sleeping bags?" asked Bette, as she lowered her book bag to the floor.

"Actually," said Mark, "I have something for you."

"Oh, Mark-"

"No, no-"

"No, no to you. You didn't have to-"

"Yes, I did." And he picked up the bag once more and set it in Bette's lap. "Go ahead, look inside."

Bette unzipped the bag and spread it open, her long, chestnut hair catching in the zipper for a second. She giggled, then reached inside and pulled out a giant ball of tissue wrapping paper. "Wow, it's heavy."

"Go on, open it-"

With all the care in her tiny fingers, Bette leafed apart the thin folds and pulled them back, finally unmasking her nephew's face. The rotting, scent-less head dropped onto the floor without a bounce, as she let out a scream so loud that no one could hear it but Mark and Dick, who walked up behind Mark, a gallon of gas in one hand, his other hand falling lightly on Mark's shoulder. As Bette's wailing turned into shaking sobs, Mark turned and pecked Dick on the lips. "Perfect timing," he said.

"You told me to come in when she screamed-"

Mark turned and backhanded Dick across the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up, you dumbass-"

"Oh-"

They turned to Bette, who pushed the duffel bag and the rest of her dead nephew onto the floor beneath her. Mark kicked it to the side, then grabbed her book bag and rifled through it until he found the book he'd given her. He thumbed its pages. "You haven't even read a page of this, have you?" he said. When he got no response from the blubbering woman, he snapped a quick punch to her throat, her head whiplashing into the wall behind. "Have you?"

Bette shook her head, swallowing hard. As she regained breath, her body ceased to shake, her limbs steeled themselves, veins rising on her forearms. She shook her hair out of her wet eyes, which she steadied on Mark. "That book fucking sucks, you little-dicked moron," she gasped. "It's not literature, it's not Art, you fucking little twerp. You little kid."

"Life is Art. And everything in it's Art," said Mark. He shook his head, grinning. "Why couldn't you just be honest with me?"

"Fuck you-"

"And why did you make your classes read those shitty books? I mean, really, fucking young adult novels about black kids written by some fucking foreign white guy? Really?"

"I make-"

"Made. Past tense, Bette. You know, you really are a shitty English teacher." Mark giggled. "And not a very good fuck."

"You can't fuck a needle-"

A couple seconds and Mark had the rope in his pocket around Bette's neck, twisting it from behind. His dick hardened as he listened to her moist yelps and felt the force of her kicking legs reverberate through the knotting rope. He slackened his grip when she fell limp and wrapped the rope several times around the large nail in the wall behind her.

"Is she dead?" said Dick. "Because I ain't fucking no dead chick-"

"They're the best, though," said Mark. He laughed at Dick's wide eyes. "No, she's not fucking dead. Jesus Christ, give me some credit."

Dick laughed. Then put down the gas can and jumped out of his clothes as Mark stripped himself and Bette. His semi-hard penis slapped against against his knee, wetting it with pre-cum, as he walked towards Bette's vagina - and Mark, who straddled her stomach and held her legs up and apart.

"You're gonna need to get harder than that," said Mark. At which he hopped down, Bette's feet slamming the ground, and got to his knees. A few deep-throats and what seemed to be a gallon of pre-cum later and Dick was inside Bette up to the hilt, her ankles chafing at his collarbone. As he pumped harder and harder, Bette's eyes slowly opened, then quickly widened. Her mouth opened, the jaws pistoning, but nothing escaped save for a tiny spurt of rasps and a few drops of white spit that pooled on her lips.

Mark walked up from behind Dick and stood beside Bette's rocking body, his rusty razor in one hand, his other grasping the corroded face and scalp of her nephew. "Is that big enough?" he said. He watched Dick's slimy cock go in and out a few more times as he stroked his cock with the fleshy mask. As his chode tightened, he raised up on his tip toes and released his wad across Bette's red, swollen, tear-streaked face. "You know," he said, "you always said you and your nephew looked alike. Well, you're really going to look like each other now." And he stretched the skin of the little boy's head over his aunt's face until he was sure it wouldn't slip off, a chunk tearing off in his hand. He licked the square of leathery flesh, then reached down and fingered it between Bette's clit and Dick's jackhammering cock until it disappeared inside her for good.

As Dick grunted and finally came inside Bette, Mark went through her bag once more, pulling out a copy of Gangbangaz. He sucked out the last of Dick's semen after the latter pulled out, then soaked the book in gasoline, reaching up and wiping the excess that smeared his hand onto Bette's thick cunt, which throbbed open and shut and spit out Dick's come in short bursts. Standing up, he opened the book and ripped out the pages one by one, crumpling then inserting them into Bette's vagina until he couldn't fit any more, at which he laid the book on her belly.

Dick finished pouring the gasoline around the rest of the shack, then he and Mark dressed quickly. Mark stood between Bette's legs, which were turning blue and varicose as they hung off the shelf. "Matches," he said.

"Oh, I got a lighter-"

"Jesus Christ, dude, I said matches! What the fuck? I don't want to catch myself on fire. Duh. Plus, we could've played darts with them-"

"Sorry-"

Mark flicked the lighter and held it at arm's length. As the pages hanging out Bette's cunt caught fire and her legs jutted into the air, her body twisting almost silently on the little shelf, Mark grabbed his copy of The Sluts and headed out the door, Dick on his heels. He squatted at the entrance and put the lighter to the gasoline on the threshold, throwing the lighter into the inferno as he and Dick walked away.

"Here," said Mark. He handed the book to Dick. "An anniversary present for you. I think it's been about two months."

"Thanks, man." Dick turned the book over, trying to read its back cover in the fading light of the setting sun through the trees. "So are you my boyfriend?"

"I better be-"

Dick sighed. "Do you think we'll get caught?"

"We better not-" And Mark slapped his boyfriend upside his head.

Jerkin'

Mark unscrewed the shower head from the extension and snuck the end of the rubber tube an inch up his ass, the warm water pouring slowly into his intestines until he could no longer stand the pressure against his bladder. He flipped off the water, popped the tube out of his asshole and stepped out wet and cold onto the bathroom rug. Then sat on the toilet, his ass cheeks spread so far apart he thought he was going to rip in half, and forced, through an amazing act of willed peristalsis, the contents of his guts into the toilet.

Several wipes and two flushes and he tiptoed naked across the hall to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He grabbed the Astroglide, squirted too much into his hand, then thoroughly lubed the 12 X 8-inch dildo suctioned onto his wooden chair, as well as his puckering hole. Turning around, he grabbed the slippery dildo behind him and backed up until it was snugly between his cheeks. With a deep breath, he impaled himself an inch at a time, only stopping because the chair wouldn't let him go any farther. He rocked back and forth, alternating this with wide circles of his hips, as he watched the pre-cum drip from his tiny cock in waves. He grabbed it and began to stroke, his head thrown back as his brain pulsed images to his tight, leathery chode
















and he splattered 9 or 10 - or was it 20? - thick ropes of semen across his small room, the first 3 kissing his New York Giants curtain. Then fell forward off the dildo with a echoing plop. He lay there soaking in his cum, panting and giggling, ready for another go at the dildo whose slick, lubed surface reflected the light of his desk lamp into his eyes, either mocking or challenging him.

Really? No, wait...Really?!

newhazeleyedWOMAN
I'm an open-minded, free spirit looking for a STRONG but sensitive man

Active within 24 hours

* 29-year-old woman
* Cedarville, Maryland
* seeking men 30-50
* within 100 miles of Cedarville, Maryland, United States

Relationships: Never Married
Have kids: No
Want kids: Definitely
Ethnicity:

* White / Caucasian

Body type: Svelte
Height: 5'2" (157cms)
Religion: Christian / Other
Smoke: No
Drink: No Answer

About my life and what I'm looking for

I'm looking for someone with similar interests. I’m a college professor who enjoys the good things in life – good books, movies, art, the outdoors, quiet nights at home, expensive dinners, cute pets, etc. I want a man who can keep up with me and provide a strongly independent woman like myself with the life that I deserve. I think my man should be strong and unafraid of getting his hands dirty. But at the same time, he should know how to hold me without crushing me. And not to be mean or come off as rude, but anyone under 30, take a hike! I’ve found that men that young are just way too immature and juvenile. Really, I can’t stand them. And one other thing: shorties – in every respect, if you know what I mean, hehe – need not apply. I like BIG men – in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.

I love quirky comedies like Two and a Half Men and The Wedding Singer. I like wine and beer and cornbread. I have a great sense of humor (some friends think I should do stand-up!), and I like others who are not afraid to be funny. But funny in a wholesome way. Scatological jokes are not funny. Jokes about rape and incest and murder are not funny, either. Dogs are cute.

I participate in the Louis Armstrong OutLoud Challenge 5K run every month to support fundraising for those with damaged vocal chords. This cause is very personal, as my mother damaged her voice box years ago in a terrible kitchen accident and hasn’t sounded right since.

I'm a Washington Redskins fan (sorry Giants fans! (you losers!)) since I grew up in MD. I'm not into watching sports, but I don’t mind watching them if you’re into them, as long as you don’t mind a great movie like Armageddon later in the evening. I love watching movies, but I stay away from the scary stuff. I almost died and couldn’t sleep in the dark for months after watching The Dentist.

About me

Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Hazel
Sports and exercise:

* Dancing
* Running
* Swimming
* Walking / Hiking
* Yoga

Exercise habits: Exercise 6-7 times per week
Interests:

* Camping
* Coffee and conversation
* Cooking
* Dining out
* Exploring new areas
* Kayaking
* Movies/Videos
* Museums and art
* Music and concerts
* Nightclubs/Dancing
* Performing arts
* Travel/Sightseeing
* Volunteering
* Wine tasting

Education: PhD
Occupation: Teaching
Income: $30,001 to $49,000
Languages:

* English

Politics: Very Liberal
Sign: Sagittarius
Pets I have:

* None

Pets I like:

* Dogs

About my date

Hair: Dark (Brown or Black)
Eyes: Dark
Height: 6'0" (183cms) to 7'0" (213cms)
Body type:

* Stocky

Languages:

* English

Ethnicity: No Answer
Faith:

* Christian / Other

Education:

* College Graduate

Job: Yes
Income: $150,001 to $10,000,000
Smoke: No Way!
Drink: Social Drinker
Relationships:

* No Answer

Have kids:

* No Answer

Want kids:

* Definitely


In my own words

for fun:

I enjoy kayaking, reading, watching movies, fancy dinners, cute doggies, and walks on the beach…

my education:

I went to Cedarville Community College in MD and got my BA, Masters, and PhD in English.

favorite hot spots:

I love the beach, especially Ocean City, MD. I also enjoy going into the city to tour museums, restaurants, clothes stores, and my favorite store, Spencer’s. But I’d much prefer to be at home with my honey, spending some ‘special time’ together with some items from Spencer’s, if you know what I mean.

favorite things:

I mostly listen to soft rock. The only music I don't really like is heavy metal, rap, emo, goth, new wave, ‘80s, Britpop, grunge, classic rock, and hard rock. I don't watch much TV, but Two and a Half Men is my favorite; it’s so deep. Some movies I love are The Wedding Singer, Armageddon, Beethoven and Beethoven II, and the Ernest movies. As you can tell, I love comedies with an ‘edge.’

last read:

Reading is something I’m very passionate about. I was an English major in college, so I've read a wide variety of genres. My favorites are the classics, especially the modern classics, like Gangbangaz, Niggaz and Wiggaz, and Crack Pipez for Homey. And let me state this here for all to see: PORNOGRAPHY IS NOT LITERATURE! Graphic sex and violence don’t make a book ‘literary.’ It is sickening and disgusting and does nothing more than harm minorities, children, and women. People who like books like that are sick, small-minded, and have lots of screws loose. I know because I’m an English professor!

my pets:

Spiders, frogs, and dogs are my favorite animals. A funny story: I used to have two frogs and 8 spiders, but since I didn’t know much about keeping them at first, the frogs ate all the spiders, then turned on each other. I ended up with only one frog – he was so cute, I used to pick him up and kiss him every day, hoping he’d turn into my Prince – who died eventually from all the toxins he’d swallowed from eating all the spiders and the other frog. Who knew? So never again. I’ll just look at pictures of them. But I do want a dog. They’re cute and furry and yap a lot.

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

Mark looked down to Dick's gigantic, clown-sized feet, then up into his eyes. They smirked at each other. "So tell me," said Mark, "why the fuck do you have a profile on there too?"

The Willing Unwilling (or How to Mung Friends and Influence People)

Mark cocked his bored, spikey head and looked from Dick to Dill, sighing through his turned-up nose.

"I'm keeping it," she said.

Dick's eyes remained on the ground, and as he spoke, his head wobbled from side to side. "I'm not ready to be a father-"

"You should've thought of that when you fucked me without a rubber-"

"You should've thought of that when you told me you were on the pill-"

"I was!"

"Yeah, right-"

"It's only ninety-nine percent effective-"

"You sucking my chode is only ninety-nine percent effective-"

"Oh, you son of a bitch-"

"Fucking boogit-"

Dill sat down on the bed and let out a short yelp. "You are so fucking frustrating-"

"Moi?"

"Yes, yoi. And why the fuck do you say boogit all the time?"

"Because it's fucking awesome, that's why-"

Dill looked over to Mark.

Mark nodded. "It is pretty awesome-"

"You fucking guys are all alike-"

Dick finally looked up. And looked Dill in the eyes. "I can give you the money to take care of it-"

"You damn will give me the money to take care of it. Every fucking week-"

"No, to take care of it now-"

"Fuck that-"

"No, fuck that-"

Dill sighed. "Look, I've always wanted a baby. And I want this one. I'm keeping it."

Dick looked over at Mark. "I don't know what to do-"

"Mung," said Mark.

"What?"

"What?"

Mark laughed. "Nothing." And he laughed some more, crossing his arms and rubbing his hands over his taut triceps. "Anybody want a drink? Dill?"

"Yeah, a Coke. I can't drink alcohol while I'm pregnant-"

"Nick?"

"Dude, it's Dick, for the last time-"

Mark giggled. "Sorry. I just like calling people by other names. Shit, I call myself Mike half the time. What do you want?"

"A Coke too-"

Mark winked at Dick and rose. The plastic covering the floor creaked under his bare feet as he made his way to the bedroom door. In the kitchen, he poured Coke into three glasses, slipping two tiny, white pills into the third. After it dissolved completely, he stirred it with a spoon and took the stairs two at a time, the three glasses tight in his two hands. He opened the bedroom door and almost dropped the drinks as he walked into the middle of a deep kiss between Dill and Dick. "You fucking sluts," he said, giggling. "Isn't this how all this started?"

As they separated, Dill leaning back onto the bed and Dick sitting back into Mark's desk chair, Mark handed them their drinks. Dick gulped his and sat it on the desk, next to Mark's keyboard; Dill finished hers in a swig and placed the empty glass on the windowsill next to Mark's. Mark climbed up in the bed next to Dill, their legs pressing together. He looked to Dick and raised his eyebrows. Then leaned over and grabbed Dill's mouth with his own, his tongue barreling between her teeth.

As he came up for air, Mark looked back at Dick, who was already naked and hard, then turned back to Dill, his hands working fast at her clothes and his own. Completely disrobed, they rolled onto the plastic-covered floor, panting and moaning like zombies out of a B-movie, Dill on her back, Dick at her obese pussy, and Mark straddling her face, his pinprick of an asshole staring Dick in the eye familiarly.

Mark rubbed his shaved sack against Dill's lips, his cockhole dripping pre-cum onto her nose, until he saw her eyes flutter then roll back into her head. He put a hand over her mouth and nose to make sure she wasn't breathing anymore. Then stood up, turned around, and leaned against the wall. With two steps, he jumped as high as he could, his knees hitting his chest, and stomped his heels into the top of Dill's stomach at a 45 degree-angle with all the power of his legs, his feet tearing through the flesh and fat to the womb below.

Dick fell back against the opposite wall with a loud bang that the empty house couldn't hear, choking and smeared in blood, shit, and amniotic fluid. He picked furiously at his face, pulling from between his lips a small, slimy boomerang of rubber that was his son or daughter. He threw it onto Dill's concave stomach - the skinniest she'd ever been, no doubt - and it bounced onto Mark's left foot. He looked up to Mark, one hand still clawing at his slick face and wide eyes, the other shaking uncontrollably on his side. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"You said you weren't ready to be a father-"

Art for Bette's Sake

"What? I'm just looking at it-"

"I know it's small-"

"No, it's not small. It's...cute-"

"Whatever. I don't care. I just make do with what God gave me-"

"So you believe in God?"

"No-"

"But then why-"

"It's just a phrase, a figure of speech-"

"What do you believe in?"

"Nothing-"

"Nothing?"

Mark craned his head and looked at his wrinkled inch or two of penis in Bette's hand. "Hmm. I believe in me. In you. In Art."

"Really? That's it?"

"Yep." Mark sat up on his elbows. "I don't care if it's the smallest thing you've ever seen-"

"It isn't the smallest thing I've ever seen-"

Mark's eyes opened wide. "Really?"

"Really-"

"What about Jacob-"

"Oh-"

"I'm sorry. Touchy subject-"

"No, no, it isn't. Not about that. But to be honest, he was really big-"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah-"

"How big?"

"I don't know, 8 or 9-"

"Wow. Lucky bastard." He flipped his legs over the side of his bed, his cock from Bette's hand. Christ, violence just wasn't any fun without sex and vice versa. "Speaking of Art," he said, "I've got something for you." He walked to his desk, deftly wiping the pre-cum oozing from his cock hole with a quick flick of his finger, which he jabbed in and out of his mouth so rapidly Bette never saw it. "It's just a sort of late birthday present-"

"Awww-"

He returned to the bed holding out a book to Bette. She grabbed it and analyzed its cover without blinking. She frowned. "The Sluts?" she said.

"Yeah, it's a favorite of mine. I thought you might like to try something different. Or maybe have something for your contemporary lit class-"

She turned the book over and her eyes jigsawed back and forth over the blurbs and book summary. She took in a deep breath. "I don't know, Mark, this book sounds pretty intense. A little too...racy? for a class-"

Mark flopped next to her on the bed. "What? For adults? Are you insane? This book is excellent for exploring the themes of identity in the internet age and the whole concept of perception versus reality-"

She leaned over him and slipped the book into her bag. "I don't know. I'll give it a chance. We'll see." She put an arm over him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for my gift-"

The Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice" blared from her bag. She leaned back over him and grabbed her cell phone, looking at the display with a wrinkled brow. "Hello?" she answered. After a minute, during which her eyes widened so much that it seemed they may fall off the sides of her head, she finally spoke: "Jesus Christ! Yes, yes, I'll be right over!" She jumped over Mark's semi, her tits bouncing, and grabbed her clothes off the floor. She jammed her bra and panties into her bag, then took all of 5 seconds to throw on her blouse, jeans, and flip flops. As she slid her feet into the latter, she looked up at Mark, tears slipping down her cheeks.

"What?!"

Between chokes, she said: "My nephew. He's been missing since last night. Nobody's seen him. Not my sister. Or his friends. Or his friends' parents. I've gotta go over to Jenny's right now. She's about to die."

Mark stood up naked and faced her. "Oh, my God, Bette. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, no, you stay here. I'll call you when I get there." Quickly, she hugged him and threw another peck on his cheek. She grabbed her bag and glided out the door like a ghost.

When Mark heard the front door shut, he bent over and pulled up the bed skirt, exposing his duffel bag. "You aren't missing, are you?"

The Nephew

The little boy who was helping him find his dog lay chloroformed on the thick plastic that covered the New York Giants bed-sheet and half of the tiny bedroom, his knees tied tightly to his elbows with thick rope, his lips sealed together with the duct-tape that circled his head in several clean loops. Mark checked the lock on his door again, threw the half-empty enema bottle in the trash can, then dropped his boxers to his feet. Side-stepping one of the several stacks of books on the floor - textbooks, novels, chapbooks of poetry, comic books, graphic novels, porno mags - he slid onto the bed on his knees, his hard, little dick hovering above the boy's tiny, wrinkled sack of balls.

He put a jagged fingernail to the boy's anus and scratched up and down. He watched the boy's face for a reaction but received none. It was amazing how much he looked like her even though he was just a nephew - same hair color, wide eyes, turned up nose, and mousey lips. Leaning forward, he kissed the boy on the lips as he dug harder at his asshole. Then bit a hole through the boy's left cheek. At which the child's eyes stammered open and a vague scream tried to escape through the several layers of duct tape, as if the kid was yelling to his mother from the depths of a black hole.

Mark grinned and spit the flesh onto the boy's smooth chest, right between his nipples, which seemed much too close to each other, and licked the blood that tasted like everyone else's blood from his lips. He thought about removing the duct tape, but no, Sarah would definitely be at the door after the next howl. So he squeezed the boy's nostrils together until his body stopped squirming, his eyes began to shine with stillness, his unsuccessful yelps abated - at which he let go and watched, grinning and bug-eyed, as the boy regained consciousness and began to cry once again, the tears from his left eye running over his temple and diluting the blood that pooled under his ear.

He dipped his finger into the hole in the boy's cheek and lubed his diminutive dick, which may have been bigger and harder than it had ever been, with it and the pre-cum that had smeared the boy's genitals. Scooting closer, he touched the glans to the boy's asshole for a second, then fell forward with a pump of his hips until he was all the way inside. Five pumps and he delivered a load of semen into the boy's rectum, his eyes fluttering, his ass tensed as the boy's head swiveled from side to side.

Without pulling out, he grabbed the scalpel he'd stolen from the medical supply store from his nightstand and sat up, thinking briefly of Irwin Cook and the man's pathetic screams. His dick hardened again - Jesus Christ, was it even harder than a minute ago? - as he put the scalpel to the boy's sternum and drew an invisible line to the base of the boy's floppy inch of cock - a line - no, a piece of art! - that took a minute to open with all the force of the boy's pulsating innards and spewing blood.

He watched the boy's eyes and nostrils, the former blinking rapidly, the latter swelled so large that he could have fucked them and not felt a thing. Then began to pump the tightest asshole he'd ever had around his dick again, slithering his fingers into the crevice of the boy's abdomen until he thought he could feel his spine. He dug down and through the slimy coils of intestines, towards the movement of his pistoning cock, until at last his slender fingers were around it and he could feel it throbbing through the boy's colon.

He squeezed hard and pumped harder, sure that his cock would explode if he didn't come soon. He watched what had been 5 or 6 years of life expire in the boy's light-brown eyes, at which he finally came - he swore he could feel the cum hit the palm of his hand - and removed his cock and his hand at the same time. His cock looked as it always did and his hand looked as it had so many times in the past. He wiped the latter clean on the boy's legs, then cut the rope around the boy's knees and elbows with the scalpel, which he lay in the boy's open abdomen, unsurprised when the legs and arms didn't fall onto bed but just remained crooked in the air.

Mark jerked off once more to the images he'd just witnessed - nay, created - ate the cum in his hand, then sat on the edge of the bed. He laughed as his breathing resumed normalcy. And thought of Bette and all the things he wanted to do to her. And of Dill and the thing he wanted to do to her. And of Nick and the things he wanted him to do with him.

After a final kiss, he carefully wrapped the boy's beautiful corpse in the plastic, securing it with the last of the duct tape. Then shoved it into the duffel bag he'd bought at the Army-Navy surplus store a month earlier. He pushed it under his bed and looked around his room. He took quick piss in the bathroom across the hall, pulled his boxers back on, grabbed a comic book from one of his stacks, jumped into bed, and began thumbing through the latest adventures of that pussy Superman.

Take Scat!

Every spike of his spiky hair was spiked to spiky perfection, held in place by the strongest mousse he could find, each strand ready to impale anything that may come near it. His poppy elbows were popped, needing only another 10 or 100 pops the rest of the day before he'd be confident they were all popped out. A dull Rodney Hampton jersey - his favorite player and the only fan Rodney Hampton probably ever had - hung off his bony shoulders and almost reached his knees. The lobster ravioli was thawed and sitting in the microwave, awaiting a nuking. Lettuce; tomato, cucumber, purple onion slices; and a quart of blue cheese dressing lounged in a large, wooden bowl, restless to be scarfed down.

Mark glanced around the kitchen once more, then turned his attention to the bowl in front of him, into which he hocked a slimeball of fresh snot. He giggled, then gloved his hands with the latex gloves he'd bought for the occasion. Slowly, he kneaded the dingleberries against the bottom of the bowl, churning them with his knuckles into a thick, brown paste. He dumped the gloves into the trash can and read the instructions on the box. Once the ingredients were pulverized together with a couple hundred thrusts of the handheld mixer, he spooned and smoothed them into the greased, glass baking pan, then set them in the pre-heated oven, dipping his finger deep into the mix once to taste his creation.

He stood up straight and stretched, swirling the cake mix against the roof of his mouth. He wanted to run upstairs and jerk off to relieve his aching boner but instead quickly put it under his waist band as the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, Bette smiled, her nostrils flaring. "Something smells great!" she said.

"Oh, I've got a little treat for you," said Mark. Then he leaned forward and stuck his smeared tongue in her mouth, at which she giggled and wrapped her arms around his lean waist to tighten their kiss.

Tête-à-Bette

"You really do make the best coffee. Seriously, you should open a coffee shop-"

Mark grinned and stretched back in his metal chair, the tip of his dick still wet with cum and smearing his boxers. His nose itched. "Excuse me," he said. Then sat up, retrieved his never-washed handkerchief from his jeans pocket, filled it with a tablespoon of snot and boogers, and re-pocketed it scrunched up in a ball. "My allergies are killing me-"

"Do you want to go inside?"

"Nah, it won't make a difference-"

"Oh." Bette dropped her eyes from Mark and rested them on her half-filled cup of coffee. "I want to tell you something-"

"Shoot-"

"I've never told anybody this. And I probably shouldn't tell you-"

"Why not?"

"Because there are lines teachers shouldn't cross with their students-"

"Bull-"

"But," Bette held up a tiny palm, "I feel so comfortable around you, and you're one of the best, most genuine people I know, and I...trust you, and I...have to get this off my chest-"

"Go ahead, I promise I won't say a word-"

Bette sighed. "It's about Jacob-"

"Oh-" Mark leaned forward, lightly plopping his elbows on the stone table, his chin in his hands.

"Yeah-"

"Well, whatever it is, I won't say a-"

"I know." Bette sighed. Then swirled her coffee with her plastic swirl stick. "Mark-"

"Yeah, I'm here-"

"I don't miss him-"

"What?"

"I don't miss him. Not one bit." Bette shivered in the 90-degree heat that couldn't bring sweat to either of their foreheads. "I'm even-"

"You're even-"

"glad he's gone. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No." Mark watched Bette as her eyes rose back to his, their mud-brown the deepest brown he'd ever seen, almost black. "But why do you think that is?"

"He wasn't a very nice person-"

"Abusive?"

She continued looking into Mark's eyes, every now and again glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, and nodded. "Not physically. But emotionally, mentally-"

"I kind of figured-"

"You did-"

"He was a cop. No offense, but cops are dicks-"

"And he was. A dick, that is. Very possessive. Jealous. Controlling. Everything was his way or no way at all."

"That's horrible. And no, that doesn't make you a bad person. You don't want him back. Big deal. It's not like you wanted him dead-"

Bette's eyebrows raised.

"Oh." Mark laughed. "Well, that still doesn't make you a bad person. I completely understand."

"I knew you would." Bette shook her head.

"What?"

"I mean, I do want someone in my life. Someone who is sweet and kind and respects me. And has the same interests: books, music, movies, art, the outdoors, snuggling, cuddling-" Bette laughed as Mark pointed to his chest. "Oh, you-"

"What?" He giggled.

"And you're my student-"

"Ah, labels, that's right-"

"And you're 18-"

"Oh, and I'm 18, an adult, I can get fucked up in a war and elect a shitty president, but I can't be a good boyfriend or husband or lover or whatever it's called -labeled- these days. Hmm, makes perfect sense-"

"Oh, Mark, that's not what I mean-"

Mark reached across the table and grasped Bette's free hand. "What do you mean?"

She sighed. And grinned. Then squeezed his hand back.

Dick's Cock

"What's on your brain?"

Mark looked up from the photo album on his lap, over which he'd been hunched all morning, rocking back and forth as he flipped the pages over and over.

"You know:"



"Aww."

Mark looked into Dick's green eyes, which were kaleidoscoped with flecks of brown and yellow, then to his stuck-out bottom lip and shrugged. He closed the photo album and set it on his desk, then reached out and stroked the bulge in Dick's khakis. "Really, you gotta let me measure it-"

Dick rolled his eyes and laughed. "Nah, it's better to keep you wondering-"

At which Mark unzipped him and took his flaccid cock - which was at least twice as long and thick as Mark's erect dick - fully into his mouth, instantly popping a boner as it began to swell against his tongue. Several hardening strokes and Mark stood up, disrobed, and lay across his twin bed, his head hanging off the side, his mouth agape. He vacuumed Dick's cock into his esophagus until his chin was covered in a beard of pubes.

Dick leaned over and took everything Mark had to offer in his mouth and continued pumping his hips. Until his perineum tightened. He stood up and with one last thrust, sent 7 or 8 silvery strings of cum into Mark, pulling out slowly and with a plop as Mark finished himself on his stomach. Dick lowered himself to his knees and rested his head on Mark's chest. After several minutes, Mark said, "What's on your brain?"

"You know:"



"It ain't mine. I double-wrap my shit when I'm with that bitch-"

"I know-"

"So what are you gonna do?"

Dick shook his head against Mark's chest. "I don't know. I guess it's not really my decision-"

Mark reached up and stroked Dick's brown bangs. "I've got an idea-"

"What?"

"Pump another gallon of cum in me and I'll tell you-"

Dill the (Un)Thrill

Dill Doublepound's thick, over-painted lips slid off Mark's genitals, and the woman flipped over onto her elbows and knees, throwing 50 pounds of ass - one-fifth of her total weight - up into Mark's face. He slipped a finger through her shit-encrusted thong, pulled it back as far as he could, then let go, the smack-snap of the rubbery cotton against Dill's lone hemorrhoid forcing her to look over her shoulder with a forced grin. "Eat me," she said.

Mark pulled the thong off her huge buttocks, kneading the dimpled flesh with his knuckles. He leaned forward, his head between her legs, and looked up at the still-unshaven, gigantic bush that had almost choked him to death the first time he'd attempted to eat her pussy. "What the fuck?" he said.

"It burns too much when I shave it-"

"How about trimming it?"

"Grow up!"

Mark shook his head and jumped up, his little boner bouncing, his elbows and neck snapping all in one motion.

"Where are you going?"

"Rubbers-"

"Fucker-"

Mark stuck his head out the bedroom door. When he was sure Sarah still hadn't come home, he tiptoed to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, locking it. He looked around a bit until his eyes fell on the tub. He giggled. Then got on his knees, leaned over the tub, and dug out all the hair and whatever else was lodged in the drain, rolling it into a slick ball between thumb and forefinger. He grabbed the XSmall pack of condoms and tiptoed back to Dill, who was still elbowing and kneeing it on his New York Giants comforter, a cow ready to give birth. Or eat another day's worth of feed in an hour.

He got behind her and slapped her jiggly ass on both cheeks, at which she laughed and begged him to do it again. So he smacked her again, two hands at once, the red finger-welts rising almost immediately against the cracked alabaster that was her skin. Mark slipped on the first condom, then the second - a request of Dill's, so that she could feel him on the walls of her cavernous cooter as he fucked her good and hard for a minute or two.

Positioning his double-rubbered cock at Dill's vagina, he quickly slipped the ball of greasy hair at its tip and lunged in. To his pubes. Grinding and grinding until he was sure the hairball wouldn't dislodge as he pulled out and stuck his slippery dick into Dill's ass for a few pumps...then in her cunt...then in her ass...alternating every 10 or so strokes, just the way she liked it.

As he was about to cum, he pulled both condoms off, grabbed her long, black hair, and forced her face to his glans, two thick strands of cum pumping up into her over-sized, bovine nostrils. When she finished blowing her nose on her thong, she lay down next to him. "Whew! That was good," she said.

"Yeah-"

"But-"

"But what?"

"But I'm still mad you didn't eat me-"

Mark laughed. "You'll get eaten soon enough-"

Return

She walked in silently, her skirt's hem tight around her knees, her bag over her shoulder and jingling down her back. She didn't raise her head until she was behind her desk, at which point she found herself bagged eye to eye with Mark. He put her arms around her and squeezed, his grip tightening as she squeezed back. "I'm glad you're back," he whispered into the brown silk that was her hair.

"Me too."

Mark returned to his seat without looking at any of the other students. As Professor Eden turned to the blackboard and began to write the title of their latest book for study and analysis in grimy, yellow chalk - Department Head Schiztomeur's latest foray into the wild world of urban young adult publishing, Niggaz and Wiggaz - the slender, manicured fingers of Dick Cox flipped a small square of folded paper under Mark's nose and onto his desk without a sound. Mark quickly opened it:



To which he scribbled and tossed back:



Mark didn't have time to gauge Dick's reaction, as the chubby, clit-calloused fingers of the neighbor to his right, Dill Doublepound, were dropping him a second note:



And right back at her fat, smelly ass, which she probably hadn't washed since he last came in it:



Mark didn't have time to gauge Dill's reaction, as Bette had turned from the blackboard and was looking right into his eyes. "Does anyone have any questions?" she asked the class.

Without raising his hand, Mark spoke: "Yeah. Um, no offense, but are we going to read anything but Dr. Schiztomeur's young adult novels in this class?"

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

The rest of the class rose and filed out the door. But Mark stayed behind, his eyes fixed on Bette. As she put the last of her papers in her bag and slung it back over her shoulder, her eyes fell on Mark without a start. She smiled. Then sighed, blowing her bangs up to the top of her head, where they balanced for a couple seconds before falling back just above her eyes.

"Want to get some coffee?" said Mark.

"Yes. Please."

"I'll go upstairs and get our favorite out of the machine and meet you in the Commons in about fifteen?"

"Excellent, Mark." She bit her bottom lip and briefly closed her eyes. "That'd be great."

Mark popped his bag onto his shoulders and escorted Bette into the hallway, his hand brushing hers as he turned towards the stairs - and saw Dick and Dill inches from one another, her arm tugging at his sleeve as they both giggled like schoolgirls discussing their first periods. He swallowed so hard he couldn't feel it and walked past the two without looking at them or hearing a word they said, confident that neither saw the 4-inch hard-on poking at his zipper.

The Assassinator - Part II

Craakckckcakck.

Snapbjapdbljapfsfda.

Crucnncchcchchncncncncnc.

And Mark stepped out from behind the tree into the dawn's cold, smoky light. Detective McKay stood 10 yards from him, jerking his single-barreled shotgun to his shaking shoulder, his beak of a nose resting under the gun's sight.

"I expected you," said McKay.

"No, you didn't, you stupid fuck."

"How's that?"

"You wouldn't be by yourself. And I wouldn't have startled you. And you wouldn't be shaking like-"

"Put your hands in the air."

"No."

"I'll shoot you right here-"

"No, you won't. I haven't done anything." Mark shrugged. "Plus, you're a pussy-"

"Put your fucking hands in the air!" shouted McKay. "And turn around. You're under arrest for the murder of Phil Wii."

Mark sighed and turned around, pushing his hands into the air, his elbows snapping. Then behind him: one, two, three, four steps, and the sound of handcuffs knocking against each other. Then one, two, three, four steps...and a shot fired over his head, at which he didn't flinch the slightest, and a simultaneous crash and whimper. He turned around and giggled as his eyes fell upon McKay, sitting stiff in the hole, his upper body frozen but for his arms, which reached for the gun that lay too far in front of him, and his eyes, which bled tears. He picked up McKay's gun.

"You dumb fuck. I thought Bette said you were in the Marines."

A muted howl.

"Though really, I think she'd much prefer a college boy."

Eyes tightened into slits, a bloody grimace, and a groan.

"Like when she gets over you, which'll be quick, and I'm fucking the shit out of her, I'll pretend like I'm a Marine or something. Is that cool?"

Rasping breaths, fists pounding the ground around him against the searing pain in his guts, and a gurgling fountain of blood running down his neck from his mouth.

"Okay, look, I'm an honest guy. Anybody else on to me?" McKay didn't respond. So Mark grabbed the handcuffs off the forest floor and rapped him in the head. "Answer me. Your truthfulness will save Bette's life."

McKay shook his head, at which he heaved forth a trail of vomit that ran down his stomach. "I wasn't even on to you until you said that the other day at that meeting," he blurted between soaked breaths.

"Did you say anything to anyone else?"

"No."

Mark rapped him on the head again.

"No!" shouted McKay as he fell into a fit of warbling coughing. "Don't hurt Bette, whatever you do."

"Oh, I will. But I'll take my time."

McKay's wet eyes grew wide and he reached one last time for Mark's foot, which met the bridge of his over-sized nose first, the resultant crack echoing through the forest. The detective's head wobbled for a second, then fell backwards, where it rested against his upper back, as his throat gesticulated with short, reckless breaths. At this, Mark squatted, slid his arms under McKay's and heaved him up onto his shoulder in one motion. He flopped the detective against the tree and removed the stake from his ass, replacing it firmly with McKay's shotgun up to the trigger, the man's body accommodating it without the slightest resistance.

Quickly, Mark threw the shovel, the stake, his book bag, the mosquito netting, and the handcuffs into the hole and filled and covered it by hand with the excised dirt and leaves. As he walked past McKay one last time, he bent over, and using the detective's own thumb, pushed down on the shotgun's trigger. Then skipped away from the most horrible hunting accident Cedarville had ever seen.

Blue Book

Why James Joyce's Ulysses Sucks

by

Mark Dennison

Because I said so. Okay, no, not really, not because I said so. Let me first say that James Joyce was probably one of the smartest men who ever lived, with a genius and vocabulary that rivaled William Shakespeare's. And he wrote what was probably the greatest novel of the twentieth century, if not of all time, Ulysses. His influence is felt palpably in all of English literature, especially in regards to prose, since it appeared in the early part of the twentieth century, and I doubt very much that it will ever abate.

However, Ulysses is an unoriginal, pretentious, boring novel. Yes, the merits I list in the above paragraph are true - if you are a writer or an academic. It is perfect masturbatory material for serious writers and academicians who write for each other and only read those things written for them. But for the average layperson, who is looking to put his hands around, and his eyes in front of, a good story to enrich his life and pass some quality time, Ulysses is nothing but a waste of a few good twigs.

Ulysses is structured on the template of Homer's Odyssey. Well, that's very original. I suppose that its taking place over a 24 hour period rather than 24 sections of an epic poem is somewhat original. If you are 5 years old. The Odyssey was written over 2,000 years ago and is still enjoyed today by millions of readers. Note to Joyce: we do not need a re-hashed Odyssey. We need a story that originates from your imagination, from that great brain that rests inside your myopic skull! Hey, I have an idea: I will write a novel based on Hamlet and sell that to people. Oh, wait a minute, nobody wants to read Hamlet again, even if it is one of the best tragedies of the Western World. We already have it, no need for anybody to steal it and make it worse.

But Ulysses is great because of its word-play, its use of stream-of-consciousness, its inventive dialogue, its allusions to past great works of literature, its use of symbols as based on The Odyssey, Mark. Not really. All of this is unnecessary window-dressing on an otherwise boring - no, wait, BORING! - story. A writer doesn't need word-play, stream-of-consciousness, inventive dialogue, allusions, and symbols to write a great story. No, what he needs is an enthralling beginning, middle, and ending; complex characters; conflicts and crises; and the ability to choose words that tell his story and no one else's. Anything else is overcompensation for a story so thin that skeletons call it anorexic.

Ulysses is boring. I alluded - ha, look, I'm James Joyce, I made an allusion! - earlier to this aspect of Ulysses' total failure as a novel, which is probably the hardest point to show and justify. But then again, it's Ulysses - no, it's not hard. It takes place over the course of one day in Dublin. A guy goes to a funeral, jerks off on a beach, gets drunk, goes to a brothel, meets up with a young guy he doesn't even hit on, pisses in the yard with said guy, then goes to bed, only to have his story taken over by his shrill, sorry, cuckolded wife. And it takes over 700 pages for all this to happen. Wow. Great stuff, huh? Maybe if you are a corpse. But like Judge Woolsey famously said of Ulysses in the obscenity trial regarding it, "...it must always be remembered that his locale was Celtic and his season Spring." Well, thank God (who doesn't exist, by the way; I have looked for Him and found only his Husk, which I kicked to ashes and blew into the wind), that I'm not Irish - I would have died from boredom upon being born (or hatched, as my dear mother would say).

In conclusion, Ulysses is the greatest novel ever written. I sincerely believe that. But I would suggest that no one worth his salt read it so that it remains so.

Parents' Day (And Grandmas Are Invited Too!)

Across the wide expanse of the gymnasium decorated with hanging banners and spotted with the heads of several hundred of his fellow students, Mark spotted her. And him. With a nose out of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and a round, knotted, bald pate that shone as if it was waxed, Professor Eden's boyfriend, whose fingers were tightly knitted through hers, looked as if he'd just come back from the dead. Mark smiled at the thought. "There she is," he said and pulled his mother through the crowd of pretentious sweaters, ponytails, and retching colognes.

"Mark!"

"Bette!"

"This is my boyfriend, Detective Jacob McKay-"

"The Assassinator!" Mark grabbed the man's hand and pinched it in his grip until he saw the detective pull away with a well-concealed grimace. "So nice to meet you. Bette brags on you all the time."

Detective McKay nodded and smiled.

"If I hear one more time how you're gonna catch that serial killer-"

"Mark!"

"Okay, I'm sorry." Mark's put his hands up in surrender. "Have you met my mom?"

Sarah exchanged pleasantries with Bette and Detective McKay, her smile opening just far enough so that they couldn't see her missing teeth. "You know you're Mark's favorite professor. He can't stop talking about you. Bette this, Bette that."

Bette lightly slapped Mark on the shoulder - and her boyfriend grimaced again. "Mark, you're so silly-"

"Well, you are the best!"

"Thank you, Mark."

Sarah moved closer to Mark and grabbed his hand, threading her fingers through his. She laid her head on his shoulder. "I wish I'd gone to college-"

"It's never too late, Mrs. Dennison-" Bette looked from Sarah's cocked head to Mark and back.

"Ah, it's past my time, dear-"

"I'm telling you, it's never too late. We have 80 year-old students here at Cedarville CC-"

"Hmm. Really?"

"Mom, do not enroll here-"

Sarah pulled away. "Why not?"

Mark shook his head and laughed. Then put his arm around his mother's shoulders and pulled her into him, her hand sliding into his back pocket. Bette looked down, then up, then crooked her neck to listen to what her boyfriend was leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Mark," she said, "are you thirsty? I think we should get a drink-"

"I'll get it. What do you want?"

"Um, a Coke'll be fine. And one for Jacob, too. No lemonade." She looked at Jacob. "The lemonade here is awful. It tastes like toilet water-"

"But the coffee-"

"Yeah, the coffee from the machine on the 3rd floor is pretty great. Especially if you put the right amount of cream in it. Which Mark always does-"

"You want a Coke mom?"

Sarah pulled per hand out of Mark's pocket. "Sure."

And Mark was gone. And back in 10 minutes. With four plastic cups of Coke. He handed them around. Then watched as his mother and Bette wandered off in the direction of Professor Gaelan Schiztomeur, the head of Cedarville Community College's English Department, who had gained fame as a recent immigrant for his young adult novels about the inner city lives of black youths living on the edge. Currently, Mark's English class was reading his latest cliche-riddled tome, Gangbangaz. Mark sidled up to Jacob. "So are you gonna catch him or what?"

Jacob's chin rose in the air as he grimaced once more. He took a swig of his Coke. "Depends-"

"On what?"

"If he lets us catch him-"

"Oh." Mark's eyes drifted from Jacob's plastic cup to his crotch, then back up to his turned away head. "But I thought you guys' job was-"

"Not with serial killers-"

"There's more than one?"

Jacob laughed. "No, no, there's only one. That's obvious. But he's clever. With these guys, you just have to wait for them to slip up."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Well-" Jacob finished his Coke in one gulp. Then winced. He seemed to be searching his teeth with his tongue.

"You gotta catch him. I don't wanna be all cut up with tin-snips-"

Jacob's mouth fell to a stop. He looked down at Mark. "How do you know tin-snips were used?"

"What?"

"How do you know tin-snips were used?"

"I don't know what you're talking about man. I didn't say anything about tin-snips-"

"Yes, you did." Jacob glared at Mark. And Mark stared back into the detective's steely blue eyeballs, behind which there seemed to rest no soul. Or brain. He burst out laughing. "Dude, it was in the paper-"

"Oh." Jacob fished his tongue around in his mouth once more, then stuck his fingers deep between his lips. As he removed them, he said, "Fuck!" On the tip of his index finger hung a curly, stiff hair, which he threw to the ground and mashed with his foot.

Creative Writing

Valentine’s Day

6:17 pm

The little girl appeared again. Under him, Adrienne’s body shrunk; her legs around his waist shortened; the heels pressing into his buttocks softened; he thickened as she tightened; and the hair fell from her, creating a desired friction. He closed his eyes and her hair turned from chocolate to vanilla, her mascara smeared across her face like indiscriminate bruises. Several propulsive thrusts—as if this were the last time they’d ever do it—and he was finished, letting loose on her stomach. Crawling up beside her, his panting ceased. He ran his fingers through his semen and dabbed them inside her playfully, surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t made her bleed too.

11:13 am

He couldn’t stop tapping on the table, keeping rhythm with the pounding blood in his ears. He checked his watch again. Looking around, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the door of the play area and scanned the McDonald’s entrance. He let out a sigh and was about to return to his impromptu drumming—until he heard his name called. Swinging around, he saw her in person for the first time and almost cried.

They embraced, her blonde head just under his sternum, until he thought they might crush each other. She smelled like raspberries. He didn’t look at her again until they were seated across from each other at the table he’d occupied all morning, right across from the ball pit.

“You’re even more beautiful in person.”

“So are you.” She giggled. “I mean, you’re even hotter than on the computer.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving.” She looked away from his staring eyes with a wide grin and a laugh. “Is a sundae okay?”

As he watched her put each spoonful of strawberries and ice cream between her barely parted lips, his erection throbbed. He looked around. “So who knows you’re here?”

“Nobody.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I could get into a lot of trouble—”

“Not if nobody knows,” she sang and held out her last spoonful of ice cream. He put his mouth around it and swore he could taste her saliva.

5:32 pm

Adrienne was standing in the bedroom’s doorway like a ghost who’d been haunting him all day. He jumped.

“What are you doing home?”

“I got off early today.”

“You never get off early.”

He nodded.

“You tore up the garden.”

“I did work on it a little bit.”

Her eyes narrowed at his waist. “What’s behind your back?”

His head dropped. For a moment, he thought he heard the tiniest of fairies buzzing around his ears. He looked up. And sighed. “Okay, you caught me.” He shook his head. “I was trying to do something nice for Valentine’s Day.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “I got off early because I wanted to fix up the garden for you, but it took a lot longer than I thought it would. And here.” He brought out from behind his back a pair of pink underwear, blue bows at the hips, and held them out in both hands. “I stopped by the lingerie store.”

“I’ll never fit into those.”

“They stretch. See?”

“But they look so…juvenile.”

“You always said you wanted to role play. So I found the closest—”

Adrienne shook her head and looked away, staring at her antique doll collection. After a few moments, in which he heard his heart stop several times, deafening him, his wife looked back at him with a wide grin. “You are so bad.”

Laughing, they threw their arms around each other and settled into a deep kiss. She grabbed the panties from him, then took off for the bathroom, dropping her briefcase and purse on the floor by the bed. As she walked into the bathroom, she stopped, the panties out before her in her hands. “They look like they’ve been through the mill.”

“They’re brand new, believe me.”

She looked over her shoulder, her dimples as deep as ever. “Okay, daddy, your little girl’ll be back in a minute.”

12:02 pm

“So what are you gonna get me for my birthday?”

“What do you want?”

Her chin plopped against her collarbone and she looked down at her chest, where a nice set of boobies would hang someday if she got her wish. She looked up. “Have you ever heard of Polly Fashion?”

“I’ve seen the commercials.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just get me a set though, not an individual doll. I always need replacement outfits.”

“All right, you got it.”

“And a necklace.”

“A necklace?”

“Yeah. A promise necklace.”

“What’s a promise necklace?”

“You give it to somebody you’re going with. It means you promise to be theirs forever—”

He leaned down over the kitchen counter, and their lips met. He pushed his tongue in her mouth. She recoiled with a giggle, then pulled herself closer to him and stuck her tongue in his mouth, swirling it around his as if she were eating a lollipop. Out of breath, she pulled away, his fingers sliding from her hair, and pointed down at his crotch. “What’s that?”

“You know what it is.”

“Let me see it.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

She nodded without taking her eyes off his zipper, which he slowly pulled down. It sprung from his fly like a diving board and she put her hand around it, her eyes growing as wide as her smile. It’d never looked so big before.

6:34 pm

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Why? Why would I want to bleach my fucking hair blonde and look like every other bimbo in the world? Besides, I like my hair the way it is.”

“I was just saying—”

“You can say all you want, I don’t have to dye my hair any color.”

“No, no, no, you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t.”

“I was just saying—” He sighed. “What I meant was, that if you ever decided to color your hair, I think you’d look awesome with blonde hair.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“As for the other thing—”

“No way. I’m not shaving down there. I keep it trimmed, that’s good enough.”

“I just thinking for role play—”

“Eww. It’d be too much like fucking a little girl. Is that what you want?” Adrienne looked at her husband, who looked away quickly. She slapped him across his shaved chest. “And after that little girl down the street went missing this morning, you fucking pervert?” She got up, slipped on her new pink panties, and made her way past her antique doll collection to the bathroom.

12:12 pm

He guided her hand over the head, smearing both with pre-ejaculate, the most he’d ever produced in his life. Pulling away from another long kiss, he secured his hand in the back of hair and pushed her head into his crotch. Until he felt resistance. He sat up. “What?”

Her head remained on his navel. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Or you don’t know how? I’ll show you.”

She shook her head.

“It’s just like when we were kissing, just put your mouth over it and wiggle your tongue around it. It’s just like eating a popsicle.”

She shook her head again.

He was shocked to find that his heart could beat faster than it had been the previous moment. He was dizzy, his eyes seemed to be floating in his face without control. So he shook his head too. “Well, there are other things we can do.”

“I don’t want to do anything else. I want to go home.”

“What? This was your idea.”

“I just want to go home.” She looked up at him, her eyes swelling. “Please take me home.”

“Fuck it,” he roared and jumped out of his bed, his erection flopping drops of pre-ejaculate onto the floor. He paced back and forth frantically, his hands ripping at his hair. He looked at Adrienne’s doll collection and wanted to smash every one to bits. Instead, he turned on the girl. And pulled his fist back as far as he could. “You little bitch!”

7:13 pm

He could hear her talking on the other side of the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to, Adrienne?” he yelled.

The door crept open a couple inches. “Shut the fuck up, you pervert!” And the pink panties flew through the air and landed on his cock before she slammed the door again and locked it.

He lay there for several minutes, crushing the panties into his face as he masturbated, until he heard a loud thumping and several voices downstairs. He opened his eyes and slid out of bed, crawling to the window, his cock losing all its blood as his heart pumped harder and louder than he could remember. He cracked the blinds and stared out, his body suddenly bloodless, as he watched the blue and red lights circle overhead.

The Assassinator - Part I

Dressed head to toe in black, Mark trudged through the 3am woods, his immaculate hearing and keen eyesight warning him of every tree, every branch, every thorn in his way. The bag of wooden stakes, thrown delicately over his shoulder, was light and bobbed against his ass as he walked. He could smell the frost in the air and inhaled it deeply, filling his lungs with its bitterness and invigorating himself as he thought of the morning ahead.

Passing the little, broken shack, where Bertha Shears still rested miserably, he snorted a clod of snot into his throat and wondered if Eli Manning would be ready for the Giants' next game. A quarter of visualized football later, he crossed over the spot where he'd left Phil Wii's remains; the area was empty but for the retarded boy's final echoing cries, which only he could hear and enjoy. He walked on, snapping his elbows out in front of him - ah, there was nothing like the feeling of loosening those joints of his, as if he'd been reborn, his bones re-formed and stronger than ever, locking out of, then back into place so he could snap them out again five minutes later.

When he arrived at the giant tree, he dropped his sack and pulled a small shovel from it. Ten paces away, he cleared the leaves to one side and began to dig, his well-adjusted eyes measuring the hole's circumference and depth with each shovelful of hard dirt. Finally hitting the perfect depth - the hole covered the entire lower half of his body - he made his way back to the foot of the tree and grabbed his bag. One by one, he extracted the stakes and hammered them into the hole's bottom with his shovel until the points were just under the hole's rim. He grabbed the fine mosquito netting from the sack, laid it across the top of the whole, then covered the net with the leaves he'd earlier discarded.

Finished, he swung the bag over his shoulder again and sat on the other side of the tree. And waited.

Oh, Really?

Mark, his book bag slung over both his shoulders, walked into the classroom, stopping at Professor Eden's desk. He surveyed the other students - 3 fat girls, a black dude who was half-asleep, and a white guy with a lazy eye - and stretched his arms out wide. "Where is everybody?"

"This is it," said Professor Eden.

Mark nodded. "You must be tough."

Professor Eden giggled, her slight breasts shaking under her lilac blouse. Her cheeks reddened. "Yeah, right. Tell my department chair that."

"So where is everybody?"

"Honestly, our enrollment has dropped substantially since the murders began-"

"The murders?"

"Yes, the unsolved murders of the past 4 or 5 years-"

"Oh." Mark watched the other students shuffle in their seats, then turned back to Professor Eden. She was already looking in his eyes. "So what, do you think somebody's offing your students?"

"No," laughed the professor. Her voice became a whisper and Mark had to bend down to her to hear her. He could smell her breath - toothpaste and coffee - and could hear her plump ass adjusting itself against the plastic of her chair as she leaned up towards him. "Nobody wants to come to Cedarville CC anymore because they're afraid."

"Ah." Mark nodded again. "I'm afraid too." He smiled and raised his eyebrows, then looked into his teacher's cleavage before meeting her eyes again.

"You shouldn't be," she said, her cheeks filling with blood again. "My honey'll get him."

"Huh?"

"My boyfriend-"

"You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes-"

"Oh-" Mark stood up and dropped his book bag from his shoulders.

"He's on the Cedarville Task Force-"

"A cop?"

"Yep! He was on the SWAT team - the other members called him "The Assassinator" - but he just got promoted to the Criminal Investigations Department, Cold Case Division." Professor Eden's chocolate brown eyes reflected the light from the fluorescent light-bulbs overhead into Mark's eyes, slackening his semi. "He's actually the lead investigator on the unsolved murders-"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I have no doubt that he'll catch the guy-"

"So it's the same guy - and only one guy - that's done all these?"

"That's what my honey thinks. He says he's getting closer every day-"

Mark took in an unnoticeable deep breath through his small, turned-up nose and let it out just as imperceptibly through his teeth. He returned the professor's wide, shit-eating grin. "Well, that's great! I hope he gets caught then!" He plopped his book bag under an empty chair-desk in the front row, then returned to Professor Eden's desk as she was rising to begin class. "You want a coffee?"

"Huh?"

"Coffee. I'm going to get myself a coffee from the machine in the hallway real quick. Do you want one?"

"Sure." Professor Eden grabbed her purse and fished out several coins. "Just cream please. Thanks."

Mark grabbed another handful of coins from his jeans pocket and snapped his elbows with short, rapid punches as he made his way to the coffee machine. When the last drop of cream fell from the dispenser, he grabbed Professor Eden's coffee with his free hand, then made his way to the men's room, the head of his hard-on soaked in pre-cum and needing only a few quick jerks to deposit a full load of his semen into his favorite professor's second coffee of the morning.

Matriculatin'

Mark knew she was the one as soon as their eyes met across the vast expanse of the community college's gym. Fifteen minutes early for their appointment, he walked over to the refreshment table and looked down at the freckled-face girl sitting behind the massive plate of finger sandwiches.

"Are these free?"

"Yep, everything."

Mark picked up a plastic cup of lemonade from the end of the table and made his way through the double-doors on the other side of the gym. A long hallway of squeaky-shoed walking and he was in the men's room, the door of the last stall locked behind him. He drank half the juice, then dipped all two inches of his tiny, flaccid penis into the cup, submerging the head and stirring vigorously. As his dick shriveled to an inch of length, he let loose a stream of urine until the cup was full again, then finished off his bladder in the toilet.

When he entered the gym once more, he grabbed another lemonade as he passed the table, then made his way to the cute girl who had recognized him as her next appointment, too. He laid both cups on the table in front of him, pushing the first he'd grabbed toward the girl, and sat down, slipping his book bag from both his shoulders.

"You looked thirsty-"

"Thanks." The girl swallowed the contents of her cup in one gulp. And grimaced. Then shivered. "Um, remind me not to get the lemonade when I go over there next."

Mark laughed. "That bad, huh?"

"Like drinking out of a toilet-"

Mark pushed his cup to the side. "Thanks for the warning-"

The girl wiped her mouth with a slight cough. She grabbed a bottle of water from under her chair and swigged it. "That's better. I'm Professor Eden-"

"I know-"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Because your last name matches your appearance-"

The professor's face reddened with a smile that showed a perfect set of white teeth and scrunched up her eyes. She put her head down and shook it, the chocolate brown of her soft hair dancing on her pushed-up breasts. She looked up, unable to meet Mark's grinning stare. "And you're Mr. Dennison-"

"Mark-"

"Mark then-" She held out her hand and they shook. "Okay, Mark, since you're a freshman and this is your first semester, you're really limited as to what you can take course-wise-"

"That sucks-"

"Well, you've got to learn the fundamentals - reading, writing, arithmetic, etc.-"

"I know all that stuff already-"

"I'm sure you do, but it's a requirement of the state system. Of course, if you do exceptionally well in your introductory courses, your professors can recommend and approve your taking the more advanced courses we offer without having to sit through the intermediate courses. For example, in my course-"

"Your course? What do you teach? I want to take it-" Mark glared into her eyes, his top teeth biting into his bottom lip, until the professor's face turned red again and she looked away.

"I teach a number of courses but primarily 'Intro to Composition' and 'Intro to Western Literature'-"

"Can I take 'em?"

"Um, yes, actually, you can. I'm teaching both this semester-"

"Okay, that's two down-"

"Three to go-"

"Cool beans-"

"Did you just say 'cool beans,' Mark?"

"Yeah, why? Should I have said 'school beans?'"

Professor Eden giggled, her taut breasts stretching the fine linen of her blouse as they shook. She reached across the table with an index finger and tapped Mark on the side of his upturned nose. "You're too silly, you know that? You've got to be serious."

Mark sat up straight, like a soldier, and pulled himself under the table until it was cutting into his stomach, his hard-on pushing itself against the gum stuck on the bottom. "Yes, ma'am-"

"You can call me Bette-"

"I bet-"

"No, that's my name-"

"Oh, I thought it was a wager-"

"I'll wager you this: we've got 10 minutes left and if we don't get you three more classes, you'll be betting that you're not going to college this semester-"

"We don't want that-" Mark got up and pulled his chair around to Professor Eden's side. He plopped down next to her, pressing his jean-clad leg into her bare calf, which refused to move. He looked into her deep brown eyes. "Let's do it."