(Boy)
My shoulder has kept me from the gym and from riding my bike. I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West after being doused. I'm melting. I'm melting. You cursed brat, look what you've done.... What a world, what a world....
Not going to the gym for a few days is manageable. It's only a bit uphill once I return. The not riding of the bike, however, that depletes me. The lyricism of the land can be felt by tracing its contour. To ride in a car is to abbreviate the shape of the earth. Once you become accustomed to the daily exuding of depravities then it begins to feel as if they are backing up inside of you where they linger and can do the bidding of wrongness. Stale sweat stews in the glands, making itself available to the great tempter, the wings of lethargy.
It is a good and healthy thing to work issues out while riding, to have an hour or more of uninterrupted me time. It was the best of times, it was the me-est of times. Without it, I become dangerously less self-absorbed, which detracts greatly from my natural wit and charm.
I need some woman-sugar, also. I've forgotten what a naked butt feels like in my hand, to squeeze it while kissing. The flesh cold, the curve promising. I remember it all being so very nice, a woman's welcoming. The combined warmth of one body along the length of another, flesh to flesh. The waking next to them to experience anew the trembling, the motion, the delight in movements, the temporariest of unions.
Well, this site is no longer dedicated to the subgenre of awkward erotica. There comes a time in every blogger's life that they must bind up their sexual preoccupations.
You, dear readers, will be the last to know when I do.
"Blogger" sounds turd-ish, because it is. It seems to combine the British euphemism of "bog" with the American substitution of "log" and yet somehow has something to do with writing. It fits, but it feels vulgar. To call oneself a writer, though, is far worse. It is okay to write, but to consider yourself a writer then there must be something wrong with you. Something beyond simple self-absorption. If you wish to be any good, anyway, there must be something very faulty within you and you must find a way to present it as if it were a secret in the act of giving up its own privacy. A lifetime emptied of the sub rosa.
That is an excerpt from my latest work, A Blogger Blogs on Blogging.
I usually refer to this as a "site" but I can't rightly say that I'm siting, a term born wingless, forever damned to the parentless nest.
Yuck, that is an absolutely horrific image: an orphaned bird born flightless, destined to die in confused and lonely misery.
Okay, I'm leaving now. I've ruined the pre-party.
God only knows what horror I'll conduct when the real guests arrive.
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