The Hunt of Cunt

The Game

The game. I love the game. I play for high stakes. I play for prime cunt.

The best part of the game for me is the anticipation of cunt. I'm not talking just any cunt, oh no, the carrier of my cunt must be brilliant - well, as brilliant as her female mind will let her be. Nothing kills a man's; this man's, desire like a dumb cunt.

I'm a busy man. I always see that whichever cunt I'm pursuing is well aware of just how busy a man I am. This way she'll think 'Oh I must be special if he's finding the time to call'.

They say women are schemers but what these scheming women do is child's play. You see, they don't have the IQ needed for my sophisticated scheming.

My game, The Hunt of Cunt, is simple So simple that women and their emotionally polluted complicated thought processes never even realise what's hit them.

Beginning the hunt

I begin my game by pretending to be a dumb cunt myself. You see, I let them - she and her cunt - think that they have the upper hand. I call, I email, I compliment and I let her think: 'Yes, he is stunned by my beauty! He wants me, all of me, and not just my pussy."

Don't get me wrong. I love women. I respect them. I worship them. Where will I be without them? Where will I get cunt? From cunt I came and to cunt I shall return for all my days. For all three score and ten if the Lord wishes or more if he is so kind to me his child.

In this age of technology the first date doesn't come until I've impressed her with my technological skills. So during the first week of my cunt-wooing I text, and drop comments on all the social networks she has joined online. I let her know that I am a man of many talents.

Women are such suckers for these little text messages and online flirts. So by deepening my flirting with her through technology I am preparing this sucker for technological flirting to be my sucker. I am bringing this cunt closer to me and building the anticipation as I go.

The Kill

Now after I've given her the very guided idea that I am chasing her (and not her cunt) I pull the disappearing act followed by the surprise visit which leads to the first date and inevitably the kill.

A man is only as good as his first date, his first kiss, his first man to cunt meeting. He has to show them - she and her cunt - on the first date that he wants her and not just her evil cunt out to steal every man who looks her way. After pursuing her hotly for about a week via all the wonderful technology now available for the Hunt of Cunt I ease off.

I remove myself from her communication range. By so doing I give her time to notice the presence of my absence, to think of me, and to finally initiate communication. She will initiate communication in some manner available to her.

You see, it isn't her fault but her cunt craves the attention, her cunt knows what I'm really after and wants it too. Her cunt fights against these evil values society has chained them with. Her cunt fights for what is natural. It fights for life.

The very first call or message from her slams the cage's door shut. I leave the communication to her now and soon she'll be the one pursuing me. The next step is the surprise visit. My favourite method to use here is to park in fron her office then call.

"Hi," she says. Her voice is fueled with the excitement pulsing from her knowing cunt.

"Guess where I am sweetheart?" I ask. I know I am causing havoc in her panties. Her cunt is thinking, panting, 'Oh he's so close, so close'.

So she comes outside. Sits next to me. I tell her I've missed her. I tell her she was on my mind. I tell her I'm late for this meeting but I just had to see her. I tell her that I needed to see her and that right there get's me my first date. It's funny how women need to be needed.

She's agreed to meet me for dinner. The surprise visit has accomplished its mission. Before I leave I kiss her. Nothing to betray how much I want her cunt. No. It's a gentle, almost caring kiss; it is the most important kiss a man needs to master if he wants to get prime cunt. Trust me.

Finally, cunt!

Are you thinking that on our first date I rip her panties off and plunge right into her cunt?

Of course not!
I charm her. I listen to her. I tell her things about myself. Things she will probably think I only tell to people who matter. I play the game. I carefully go through the steps expected of me, the steps that take me to cunt.

I listen as she speaks of her struggle to be taken seriously in this world. Seriously by us men.

"Having two perfect breasts," she says, trying no doubt to sound witty, "and nice rounded ass means that there are hardly any men who will take you seriously as a professional."

Sweetheart, I wanted to tell her, you have no idea just how seriously men take you. Just push those tits in a wonder bra and see the magic it creates for you. Women have life so easy!

Now all this time, as she talks and I listen my eyes have been sampling that fine piece of cunt. Oh, if only she knew what power she had. 'Pussy got power, boy, pussy got plenty power', my father always told me.

The second date, now that's when I do the panty ripping. That's when I get down to the cunt viewing. No. I don't plunge into the cunt on the second date. No. I worship cunt, remember? So I get on my knees and I worship my hard earned cunt with not a word about how much I'd like to replace my tongue with something else.

I send her home after cunt worshipping. We're still in week two of my cunt-wooing mind you. By the end of the second week I've sampled that cunt with my relevant body part.

In two weeks I go from being a cunt hunter to a Prey of Cunt. Now being a cunt prey is a whole different story. A story I'll tell you another time but right now I'm just concerned with finally getting prime cunt!

The Message

As stupid as the above might sound to some of you, it really does work! This is how you get cunt and remember being a Cunt Worshipper is the only way to get prime cunt. No that last sentence wasn't the message. This right here is the message:

Women are going to read this. I am educating them about the nasty cunt hunting ways of men. Why? It's my 95th birthday today and I'm a permanent Cunt Worshipper these days. Why should I make it easy for you dumb cunts to get cunt? Ha!

He wore my shirt

The afternoon was cool. The sun was held prisoner by fat black menacing clouds that suffocated every arm of its ray. The wind whipped the earth and traffic crawled in the gridlock of the afternoon commute.

And that is when I saw you. Standing in the shade and even as the wicked wind whipped your hair into disarray, I saw you raise your hand and shield your eyes. I saw you.

I saw you and I heard the stitches that held my heart together begin to tear. The first rip tore your smiling face from happier days through me. Stabbed that single memory into me. But wrenching deeper was the memory of the hand now hiding your eyes caressing my face. I saw you that day standing in the bus shed where it all started.

The sky rumbled and the clouds got darker. The rumble grew to a roar as the sky shook in anger threatening to burst the heavy clouds. The traffic continued in stalemate and I saw you head my way.

With purposeful strides your long denim clad legs moved in unison to the pounding in my ear as memories continued to burn the back of my eyes.

You wore my shirt.

Somewhere in the haze of heartache and unwanted memories my heart sang at the realisation.

He was wearing the shirt that I gave him.

The constriction in my chest was sweet pain that I am not ashamed to say I felt. My chest constricted and I forgot to breath. I held on to that memory. I held on and my broken heart began to mend.

He wore my shirt. It was all I could think of, the shirt that I gave to him on that very special day, he still wore. The shirt that created memories that kept me warm and sane when I tore it all away. I felt my heart beat again. He wore my shirt. The shirt he said he’ll cherish always.

The dank atmosphere began to light up with white hot streaks that illuminated the stagnant afternoon. The wind picked up a chill and the clouds hung to the earth pregnant with inevitable rain. And then I called his name.

My throat clogged up and again I forgot how to breathe.

You stopped.

Should I call again? I warred with myself and then you turned and smiled.

My heart soared beyond the black clouds and smiled with the imprisoned sun.

I made my way through the traffic of vehicle and people and stumbled as you stretched your hands to me. Your warm eyes banished the chill in the air and I felt the last piece of my broken heart made whole again. Brown eyes that were last dull with pain and resignation now showed love once more. The arms that I banished opened to me once more.

I dodged a lady loaded with hats for sale and almost lost my toes to an angry taxi driver in my haste to get back to your comforting embrace only to be cut off by a bus.

My impatience sizzled as the light again stabbed the clouds and haloed your beautiful smiling face. The bus finally got out of the way. The thunder clapped loudly with a fierce bolt of lightening that sliced the clouds delivering the rains.

My face upturned, I silently thanked the heavens and then I looked your way.

I felt the fissures of my heart open anew.

The silence was cut by the rumbling sky as the fissures opened wider still.

As the rain came down from the heavens in a torrent drenching me I watched you, in my shirt, give your love- my love- to another. As the rain ran off the road it took with it the pieces of my broken heart and all our love down the clogged city drain.

De Motivation Man fuh de last time!

So I didn't tell you about Dr. Myles Munroe Saturday night. So I broke my promise. Big fucking deal.

Image Source: http://www.empirewire.com/

You see, the thing is, after I got home I realised that the good doctor really isn't as good as he seems to be. All he really does is find an entertaining way to tell us dumb people things we already know.

I mean, come on, dear Dr. Munroe could've told the Guyanese men a lot more than he did.

Individuals in public offices with personal ambition are not true leaders, Munroe said, but leeches. Yeah, yeah, yeah. We already know that we have parasites controling our country's future. We don't need to hear it in joke-form from you!

Oh my, so I sound as though I didn't enjoy Myles? Oh I did. Brilliant man with lots of balls. Who else would look at the acting President and tell him to write this twice: "Persons in public offices with personal ambitions are not leaders but leeches!"

De Motivation Man

So I see my good friend Raine told you about the mouthful and then some we were given to suck yesterday. (Oh my does this sentence not have a wicked connotation? It wasn't intended.)

Yes, the good Doctor did give us something to think hard and long about. For me the thing that got me sucking hard and long is the fact that he said that the thing that makes you angry that is your gift. Now I'm left wondering WTF makes me angry?

You see I have a book of his that I started reading and that is as far as I got. After his little speech yesterday it got me thinking that maybe I should finish that book. The book is suppose to help me find what my purpose is and after that confusing statement that had me wondering I started thinking that maybe I should finish that book.

Isn't it funny how at one time in your life you had everything figured out and then you're left wondering a few years later what the hell happened to that person? At one time I had it all figured out and now here I am seeking my way back to that thing; that time when I was secure in what it was that I have to do before I join the community of the wealthy.

This is a little too much to be telling a bunch of strangers so I'll end it here leave the rest to Raine so she can add her two cents.

De Motivation Man

I'm all fired up and I'm very tired. This is not the vision I had of my Friday night. However, though I'm not a believer, I suppose my night got screwed for my long-term happiness.

I was destined to sit in the gully-side of the National Cultural Centre listening to Dr. Myles Munroe deliver one of his powerful motivational speeches. Tonight it was all about leadership, its purpose; how we know our purpose in life and how we can determine whether we are true leaders.

Well, hell did Dr. Munroe give me something to think about. If it weren't for the lady screaming behind me I'd get up and shout: Yes! Yes, doctor! Most of what the good doctor said made a whole lot of sense. It was so scary.

I promise to tell you all about it tomorrow night. The Seeker, Rose, was with me tonight. If she beats me to it then no problem. I can tell you, the good Dr. Munroe, gave us both enough to suck on! Let's just say de motivation man Docta Munroe give me and De Seeker a craw full.

Damn lucky? Or jinxed?

In our business people say you're lucky when you get all the front pagers. You're still considered lucky if you get the stories which generate the most interest even when they don't make the front page.

Well in my country crime almost always makes the front page and even when it doesn't, rest assured that it'll get a few thousand hits on the website.

So I suppose most people would call me a lucky sucker 'cause I've been getting all the shootings whenever I work the night shift. Shootings in our business and in this country is a sure way to hit the front page.

To be honest with you; I'm sick of it all. These days - it's the new trend - when people hear that I'm on the late shift they groan and think shooting. Guess what? They were right again tonight!

Are we all crazy in this industry that I've made my life? I mean, am I damn lucky or just jinxed? Hey, you'd better watch out. The next time I'm on the late shift you just might get shot!

Image Info:
Source: http://www.subeta.net/

Dear Rose V

Dear Rose V:

So I see you've risen from your sexless period with a sexed up piece (the letter). I like it by the way.

And dude, I've got balls so I won't get overly dramatic and pull our blog down just because no one reads it.

I tend to be an optimist most times and I believe as many people as we want will be sucking on this soon. Just the other day one of our colleagues was telling me how mellow I've become. Scary, eh?

You see, Rose, fame is not what I seek from this little project of ours. I'm not saying that I wouldn't welcome fame though.

I, my friend, am one of writing's many lovers and this is how I make love to my lover. This blog is not for shallow asses who have nothing better to do than pick on our passion. No it is for you, Rose; it is for me; it is for us to share with each other and people we care to show this part of ourselves.

This, Rose, is perhaps our first step to fame. You see, my dear friend, this is how I enhance my love making skills. This is how I will learn, word by word, to be a worthy lover of writing.

Well, now that I have all those sinfully emotional thoughts out of my head I feel like a woman! (I was about to say fool but what's the difference really? I'll be dealing with this in a later post so please don't respond to it!)

Thank you for starting this new culture. You see? I did learn one good thing about what is perhaps a woman's worst trait. I learnt that by nagging constantly you can get anyone, if they don't murder you first, to do brilliant things!

Yours Sincerely,

R. Alexander

An addict's promise

Like a junkie after a fix I am back here again.
Longings so intense my body trembles with wanting.
The need so great I can hardly stand straight.
Why do I torture myself this way?
Why can’t I stay away?
When I try to resist,
I keep being drawn again and again
As you lure me in with your sickly sweet smell.
Your liquid amber offers succour
To this hurt I’m trying to deny.
My need to consume you is greater than any.
I need you more than I need food
I need you more than I need clothes
I need you with the intensity of rain
I need you with the passion of love ignited again
I need you,
To take away my pain.
Numb this heart so it can feel again.
Set to fire my mind to live anew.
Give your comforting warmth to me
One last time and I promise,
I really promise
To never lean your healing lips to mine
Ever again.

Indecision

I sat there that night thinking
And as I thought
The ticking clock marked my thoughts.
Tick,
Should I go?
Tick,
What if I don't like it there?
Tick,
But I would get the chance to wear that dress!
The time now reads six.
The night creatures began to come out of their hiding place.
And as I sat curled up in my chair
The croaking frog repeated my complaints
Croak,
But I have nothing to go with this dress.
Croak,
I can wear that gold shoe with it.
Croak,
But how will I know if he's there?
The croaking frog then went away
And the night grew further from the day.
Still I was there
Curled in my chair.

My Dearest Raine

Dear Raine,

I must apologise for not blogging since...well for not blogging in a while. Even though you've been on me to do it for...well for a while.

You see this is what happened: I have been working on what I thought was this really awesome super witty blog and then I got stuck and I decided to scrap the blog. Because really who reads our blog anyway?

Now don't you go feeling bad and think we should take our blog down because somewhere out there, there are people reading. And you do post some hilarious shit! A bit on the mean side sometimes but definitely hilarious.

Yes but as I was saying I hit this block and I thought and I thought and I thought some more about what to write that would live up to our name. You know I really wanted whoever reads this to "suck on it". But then I couldn't come up with something.

And then it hit me! Not like light bulb going ding hit me but like suck up apology that everybody can read hit me. And think of what a genius idea it is? My suck up apology comes in as a perfect blog and there is some sucking involved like we named this blog! Pure genius ain't it?

So my dearest Raine I killed two birds with one stone and then some. You must be so proud of me? But I already know that so I know that you're reading this and smiling and thinking, "She did me proud!"

And for those who do take the time to read this and think I'm full of myself let me tell you. First I am (but in a good way) and second if you don't like this or have some nasty thought then all I have to say to you is: SUCK ON IT!

Sorry about that Raine,love, I just had to get it out because you know there are some really mean people out there. People, few though they be that read this, who are mean and have mean thoughts and I just had to address them.

But anyway, my dearest Raine I have to be going. I just wanted to do my duty as a contributor to this blog and to offer you a public suck up, I mean apology, to not doing my duty. Do take care of yourself my dear and do not take to heart the contents of this letter because really its motive is mostly selfish.

Yours sincerely,

Rose V

ME + Late Shift = DISASTER

Maybe my boss should ban me from working the late shift for this year. Every late shift I've worked so far has been a disaster. Shootings and last night there was a major fire.

Well, I came to work yesterday and it's today and I'm still here. It's about 1.15am and I'm beginning to wonder if spending so much time in this office makes me a workaholic. Hmm...no I don't want any of you to answer.

Well my boss looks happy enough. He's gotten most of the goods tonight. I hope he knows I'll be more than my usual more-than-a-hour-late later this morning.

Image Info:

Source: http://www.flickr.com/

Craig Old Road

I took a walk today.  I walked along my street just after 12pm. It reminded me of why I love living where I do. The sun was as hot as it usually is but it was the only constant thing. I didn't, until then, realise just how much Craig Village had changed.

One of the older houses located at the southern end of Craig Old Road, East Bank Demerara. On the right is a walkway which leads to the Public Road and bus shed. The Demerara River is located across the Public Road. (Photo taken 12 January 2010 by R. Alexander)

I know change is continuous but it never fails to shock me.

I saw an old house (in photo above). It is one of the few old structures still existing on the Old Road. I stood there staring. This house reminded me of the old days; my grandfather before he died; my family back when we were all together. It reminded me of "dabbing" the bottom house with "cow dung"; something I watched my cousins do. I miss those days.

Even the Old Road itself has changed. The rough thoroughly potholed surface is now solid, smooth, black asphalt riddled with huge speed bumps.

I've learnt that change, like life, never brings us the things we expect.

This is what the Craig Old Road looks like now. (Photo taken 12 January 2010 by R. Alexander)

I almost broke my ass then had a dowdy day

So I fell off my bed this morning.

I did lots of falling today. Kissing my bedroom floor first thing in the morning is not my usual way of starting the day. Then I slip in the shower and fall flat on my ass. Did that hurt? What the fuck do you think?

After two falls in less than 15 minutes I headed straight for the coffee pot. Now, do you really wanna hear what happened in the kitchen? My damn towel fell off. I always hated the colour pink.

So after flashing most of my family my assets I grabbed the first set of clothes I could find. I was already more than an hour late for work. Yes, I am one of those special people who work on Sundays.

I strut in the office - I never care when I'm late - and the first thing my boss wants to know is why I look so DOWDY and DINGY. Ha! He's lucky I did any work at all today!

I went on a wild goose chase this afternoon then betrayed someone - I'll be hearing all about that tomorrow - and now I don't know what the hell to do! I had a dowdy damn day. I can't believe almost breaking my ass is the most excitement I've had all day!

Image Info:

Title - African American Man Slipping on a Bar of Soap

Description - Clip Art

Source - www.clipartguide.com

Lover of Hate

Death!
She dreams of death,
Hates breath,
Breathes hate,
A hater of life of late.

Life!
This she never dreams of,
She is in love,
Loving hate,
Hating love.

Hate!
Hate is her mate,
Who brings death,
Deadly hate,
Her faith in fate.

Trust!
Trust is her traitor,
It comes with lust,
And love of a lover;
It has made her a lover of hate.

Image Info 
Title: Love You + Hate You
Artist: 0Effe0
www.deviantart.com

In Their Eyes

Title: Her Mind's Eye

Artist: Voytek Swiderski

http://www.redbubble.com

In their eyes I see their hopes,
I see their reluctance to believe in dreams.
In their eyes I see their fears;
I see their fear of hope and dreams.

I see endless conflict in their eyes;
As dreaming wars with perceived reality.

Death

“Shannon open the door!”
The banging on her bedroom door made her jump.
“No!” she screamed back, “I don’t want to anymore.”
She broke into a sob.
“Shannon…honey…I love you…don’t do this…please!”
The woman on the other side of the door couldn’t keep the desperation out of her voice.
“You did this; this is all your fault. I hate you!”
Shannon’s accusation burned her through the

closed door.
“Honey, I’m sorry so, so sorry.”
The truth, it was so clear it almost sobered her up. It almost changed her mind and then the image flashed in her mind, taunting her.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut hoping to shut out the image. The bright sun, the innocent laughter, the torn dress, that sick smile, if only she had said no. If only…
“Baby please let me in.”
The raw plea broke the flashback.

A single silent tear slipped out of the corner of one eye. The cold comfort brushed her temple in invitation. How many times had she tried to let her in? How many times did she deny it? Shannon wondered at the hand fate dealt her as she looked down the nozzle of her salvation.

“Shannon, I should have believed you. I’m sorry. I’m sor…” the ragged woman on the other side of the door broke into a sob. Her resting head on the door swayed from side to side as her knuckles grew white from squeezing the door handle. Her sob broke into a guttural cry. She crumbled to the floor and back to the door cradled herself and cried.

Shannon hauled herself over to the door, backed it and cradled herself. As she silently offered up a prayer she asked her mother, “Why didn’t you believe me?”

The woman on the other side of the door froze. Was that a click she heard? Wild fear flashed in her eyes to be replaced with uncertainty as the silence on the other side weighed in.

“He said that he didn’t…didn’t do it…and…and I believed…I believed him.”


In a small town in the middle of nowhere a little girl found her innocence once again. The gift was given to her by indifferent steel as her mother slouched in regret. Shannon smiled as her life blood flowed warmly down caressing her cheek while her mother blankly stared at her feet, rocking back and forth lost in the horrors of her refutation.

Reflections

I dreamt I was being chased through the forest green by a creature unseen. And as my lungs burned and my limbs grew numb, the creature caught up with me. We tumbled and rolled limbs entwined, onto a grassy knoll where the sun kissed the grass and the flowers stretched to heavens in silent supplication.

Then as I picked myself up, heaving with great exertion, I spun round and round looking for my pursuer. It was only me in this paradise hiding among the trees. But then I felt the piercing stare boring into my back, the hate scorching me. I shaded my eyes and moved to see but the shadow in the shade moved away from me.

(Picture from http://www.widgetbox.com)/

I chased it this time and this time, it ran from me. My heart galloped in my chest and beat widely in my ears as suddenly, the shadow took shape and moved with me. I moved back into the sun and the shaping form moved with me.

In that paradise hiding in the trees, I came face to face with the creature...It was me.
She radiated hate, she stunk of malice, she hissed with anger and shook with fury. As the sulphuric heat from this malignant creature engulfed me, I reached out to touch the reflection but she shrunk away from me.

Confused, I stared at the space where it had been hand still in mid air. It stared back but with accusations burning brightly. Lifting a hand that time had worn, this black me pointed. Her weathered finger like hardened soil stabbed in my direction condemning with one finger.
I shivered in the bright day. My blood ran cold as I somehow became aware of the cause of my condemnation. The guilt suffocated me as the memory burned the back of my eyes...The darkness has finally caught up with me.

I scream. I try to fight the memory. The pale evil in front of me smirks. Its eye’s glow as the memory continues to consume me. I tried to run but my feet became rooted into the soil. I did not want this memory. I do not want this evil staring back at me.

(Photo from http://www.flikr.com/)

She comes closer to me. Her evil stench seeps into my pores. She is seeping into my pores; with a black smirk she interlocks her malignant self with me...

I woke up in the middle of a beautiful meadow encased by looming trees on all sides. The sun was caressing the earth as the flowers danced to the silent melody of the breeze. But none of this appealed to me. Turning my back I made for the dark comforting shade of the trees, feeling more at ease as every step took me away from the light.

The Desk: Epitome of Hierarchy

Where I come from your choice to be or not to be a gossiper can either make or break you. For me and a handful of colleagues it's gained us some respect.

                                  The Epitome of Hierarchy
             (Image from www.blondiensc.typepad.com)

Where I come from a desk, as I was surprised to learn, is the epitome of hierarchy.So yesterday as I sat in our first micro-management session of 2010 the dictator popped the question: "So who's next in line for a desk...in terms of hierarchy?"

I pretended not to hear our dictator. My eyes were glued to the floor and my lips zipped shut. Where I come from it doesn't matter if you don't want to answer a question. The gossipers among us take it upon themselves to answer on our behalf.

Of course, after the dictator's chief source openly informed him I was next in line, I refused the desk. Some people here don't think I'm very smart. How could I have refused the epitome of hierarchy? I must be mad. Crazy I tell you! Refuse a desk? The symbol of seniority in this great place! Ha!

Where I come from an old desk, with draws full of God knows what horrors, doesn't improve my skills nor does it provide me with motivation of any kind. Where I come from only a good sense of humour and passion for what I do keep me going.

Desks, in the place I come from, really represent a false sense of value and serve as reminders to most in here that they've hit the highest place in the organisational structure they can go.

The Star and The Pixie

                      (Image from www.fishing4fun.co.uk)

'Hello, ' says the little pixie child to the night sky.
'Hello, ' echoes the stars in reply.
'Say, won't you go on a journey with me
'Through the Milky Way and back to the sea?
'The pixie child asked with such glee.
'Certainly, it sounds like an exciting journey'
Except I can't go to the sea!
'Sadly the stars told the pixie.'

Oh for to be together, I'll breach this galaxy
'To hold your hands and gaze at your beauty,
'Sang the pixie.

'Surely you flatter me'
And yes, I wish it could be
'But really we can never be
''For I am in the skies and you in the sea!
 'Our love can never be,
' Cried the stars solemnly.

The Hunger

When the moon is full and the night is cold

A pleasant longing takes hold
Drawing me in and whispering
Softly,
Seductively,
It is time to feed.

Out into the night I go.
In search for flesh,
Flesh so warm,
Flesh so smooth
It is flesh that I must consume.

And there in the corner so far away
Lies in ignorance,
My beautiful prey.

Smouldering eyes as dark as this night
Burns intensely at my deathly beauty.
As I tunnel towards this feast,
He welcomes me smilingly.

Slowly my eyes ravish this Adonis
And briefly guilt assaulted me
But was quickly banished by my need to feed.

The night grew stronger
And his scent becomes heady
Wrapped in his arms,
I suddenly felt free.

Swirling and turning
Hunger forgotten,
We danced to the night's melody.

A feathered kiss brushed my lips.
A gentle hand caressed my breasts.
Warm breath against my neck
Raised my fever,
Ignited my hunger.

I can no longer fight
I must give in
As the hunger takes over again,
I drink of his elixir
So sweet and savoury;
I drink until he is spent
I drink until I am replete.

The night is waning
As my Adonis lies sleeping,
Drained though he be
Yet still his beauty captivates me.
Accepting what cannot be I kissed the brows of
He who temporarily set me free.

When the sun finally crests
I was already deep in my rest
Awaiting the take over
Of the insatiable hunger.

The Blowjob Specialist

I once had me a woman, who loved it up the ass,
She never was one to give a good fuck a pass.
The first time I saw her, I was sort of sick,
She was on her knees deep-throating nine inches of dick.

Raven hair brushed the top of that plump ass meant to be fucked,
Heavy, rose tipped tits begged to be sucked.
The sickness I felt lasted a short time,
Soon she had me wishing the dick in her mouth was mine.

As I watched her suck, lick, suck,
My cock thought fuck, damn, fuck.
I decided right then that she was an artist,
Later, I discovered that she was a blowjob specialist.

You see, this is why my boss married the whore,
Like all greedy fuckers he always wanted too much more.
I still remember the first night I had her in my bed,
It was the night she left her husband cockless and dead.

His death was my warning to never trust the bitch,
She was the average woman who just wanted to get rich.
If the whore had any sense she'd suck cock for a living,
Lord knows, she'd make millions more than I am making.

I wasn't the sort of man she was used to though,
I knew exactly when to let her go.
When the bitch got too demanding and started to gloat,
She'd already served her purpose so I slit her throat.

To fcuk? Or to fuck?

I've made my decision. I'm gonna start fucking, bitching and whoring all over the place from today.

It's irritating typing fcuk when I really wanna let it out and say fuck!

Langauge, like the world, is a collage of colours. Without words like fuck, cunt, bitch, whore and all the variations then life would be a hairy vagina - with the annoying hair trying to hide the beautiful colour you know is underneath.

Besides, several assholes over the course of my life have preached about how important it is for me to be myself. Well, let's say fuck-cunt-bitch really fast three times to celebrate me celebrating who I am.

So some of you are probably cringing and there are those who weren't brave enough to get this far. Well, to the weak of heart, fuck you! I know, and whatever God you worship knows, you've thought these words a hundred times.

Besides, I've read in quite a few places that swearing - fucking, bitching and whoring about - gets rid of tension and eases stress. Oh joy! Finally! A bright fucking side to my bad fucking habit. So if your language still lacks colour after reading this bit of info then don't blame me for your premature heart attack.

To fcuk or to fuck? I choose to fuck!

However, I promise to keep the fucking, bitching and whoring to a minimum because I know that too much of one thing is good for nothing. I also take this opportunity to apologise to our more sensitive readers and encourage them to try fucking, bitching and whoring.

Add some colour to your language! Start fucking today!

Sex is just a want, dude, not a need

Being sentimental is dangerous. It makes you look at boobs (delicious ones) and see breasts and when you begin thinking of a good fcuk as making love then, dude, you know you’re in a shit load of trouble.

       (Image from www.toonpool.com)

Bear with me here…I’m known to panic when it comes to certain things. In fact, I shouldn’t be looking at boobs…er…breasts at all! Nasty things, those, they tend to distract a man from the really important things in life.

I like to think of myself as an individual of genuine substance. An individual who understands sexual urges can be controlled. I refuse to be ruled by the animal in me.

In fact, I think I’ve been doing pretty well with ruling that animal. Unfortunately, being able to control your baser instincts gets you labelled as a prude and all sorts of other crap. However, I smile at such labelling. I look at my weaker human relatives and I pity them. I know that they struggle in a war I have long since won.


The thing is people tend to get their emotions involved in this simple animal act and they blow it out of proportion. They delude themselves into thinking sex is love, sex is connection, sex is a need. I say they need to get their brains checked.

I mean come on if they’re looking for a minute or less - that’s how long orgasms usually last right – of stress release then I can think of a million better ways to get it! Better yet use your hands…no one will ever do it to you like you, trust me on this.

My point? Don’t fcuk around and risk getting a disease because you’re looking for love. Understand your wants and control them. Stop being a sissy. You want love? Go adopt a fcuking kid!

Is that a hair?!

Nobody likes to find hair in their food. So the next time you're offered food and you feel you should refuse.DO IT! Who give's a shit if you offend the host?At least you won't end up finding a hair in your food!


That is what happend to me!


So yesterday I went to a friend's house and she introduced me to one of her uncles who then offered me food. Now I love Dall and curry.





Let's side track a bit so that I can tell you about curry. When Indian people make curry it's dark, it's spicy, it's mouth watering, it's fricking delicious! One thing it's not is hairy!







Now back on track. He offered me food so I said I'll have a little. While I love to eat I don't like to eat about the place. (My mom drilled it in me that it's not healthy, "and you ain't see how they preparing it" or something like that she'll say.)






So there I was debating whether or not to refuse. Eventually I gave in and my good friend had the good sense to take out a small portion. God bless her!

Now I started to eat the food. It wasn't bad and the uncle was being so hospitable showing photos of his family and giving me an unwanted run down of who's who all while my friend's trying to get us out of the house by doing a fast run through the photos as I play with my food. I had like a bite or two so far.





The scary part comes here. I took a piece of chicken and started to mix a little rice with it and I noticed something. It was short, black and thin. It wasn't a spice!I did two things at once: I supressed the urge to throw up right there and I tried to school my face from showing exactly how grossed out I was.

So to be polite and trying to hide the utter disgust I felt from my voice, I innocently ask, "What is that?" What I really wanted to say was, "WTF is this?" The funny part was when my dear friend looked over and goes, "Oh it's a hair," and went back to looking at the pictures.

Now she was mortified but she played it cool. Me, on the other hand, still wanting to hurl, made a big show of tentatively placing the hair at the side of the plate. At that point I could not hide my feelings. I was told it was all over my face!

I learnt a valuable lesson that night. The next time I feel like saying no, I'll say no!

I'm not sure that finding a hair in your food is bad for your health but it sure is disgusting to find one there. It's gross because you end up thinking about that hair and where it probally came from! I shudder at the thought alone!

But I have to give props to my friend. She handled the situation really well...as well as you can handle having your guest finding a hair in their food!

White Wine anyone? It’s free…

So I’m sipping some of the more expensive white wine available in Guyana. Of course there are some fools who would feel classy doing it. I know better.

It’s the cheapest bottle available from some fancy dude’s winery. But it’s foreign stuff which our more expensive Guyanese stores bought cheap and are selling to us classy people at a very classy price indeed.

Not that I’m really calling myself classy. I’m no fool. I value my dollars because I don’t make enough of them! Being in the non-profit business can be very frustrating sometimes. In fact let’s forget a bit about the white wine. Get to know me a bit.

Raine Alexander. Yes, that gay name (I’m not discriminating dude! If I turn out to be gay then I’ve got the perfect name) is just something I’ve got to live with. Well Alexander is sort of powerful but Raine is where the trouble is…fine, fine, fine! My name isn’t gay. It’s just romantic. Ugh.

Now if you’ve checked my profile out, I should tell you that the bit about me being in the non-profit business can be misleading. You see I don’t do charity or any of those saintly I’ll-go-to-heaven-if-I-do-it crap.

I’m so ashamed of my salary that I don’t have a personal bank account. I just have some joint ones and of course I didn’t put any of the money in those! I’m too poor.

You see, by the time I discount my travelling expenses and lunch money from my salary there isn’t much of it left. I slave all day on what I now consider my personal plantation – my home away from home – and I have nothing to show for it. So you see I really am like a non-profit organisation. I help to record history and bring the people information and I get a stipend.

So how do I afford to drink the very expensive cheap white wine we get here (which according to my very educated relative really tastes like rotten potatoes)? Simple dude, I don’t pay for the shit!

It’s all free. Apparently, it makes people feel very classy to give out cheap white wine for which they’ve paid quite a few dollars. Well…he who has his bread buttered by fools shall not complain about the fools! I’m all for helping people feel classy these days…it keeps the wine coming!