Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Gummy denture blowjobs

Collaborative by Jennifer S. Chesler and myself.

Gummy denture blowjobs

The psychiatrist was obviously anti-Semitic, since he did not refer to God but Jesus in his version of Pascal's Wager that he used to boggle Jennifer's mind and make us laugh. But the sun went down over Shadyside as squirrels masturbated, dental vaginas, and turtles engaged in self-harm like the BDSM cranes. There were nipples everywhere and night an abject lavatory.

Older ladies are sexier fatter and master the art of zombie dentistry, the vaginal prosthesis is wood or steel, but old ladies who prostitute themselves will wear vaginal dentures made of fiber gummies. Young boys need it special, as Burroughs said, though affecting to speak of something else sexual.

Nan wears fiber gummy dentures and what head she gives, both to women and men. Look at her fibers, one man says, when she smiles at him on a crowded San Francisco street that panders to men wanting old tranny whores. She wears her cream colored rose-trimmed tunic that day so that her long white legs are exposed in all their glory. I go up to her and say, hey, Nan, he picked me up the other day, good payer, take him. So Nan gets in his car, but he has this aversion to fiber due to a medication that gives him awful diarrhea so he punches her in the mouth, knocking the gummies out. Oh, Nan, I'm sorry, I had no idea, I say when she comes up to me without her gummy dentures, crying.

Tuesday, May 22, 2018


Fragments is, the third written but first published of Jennifer S. Chesler’s four novels. Fragments has the form of an anthology but functions as a sort of aleatory novel, in that Chesler randomly ordered the texts when she first wrote them, & I, who ultimately edited the book, reordered it & added new pieces from her archives. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic & linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies of ordering.

This reordering was particularly necessary since the book had been massacred by a worthless agent & was not in its first form.
The book is brilliant & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. Topics covered in the book are dog sex in the Phoenix area, the stupidity of the average American, the patriarchal nature of society, the worthlessness of almost all sexual relationships, & the author’s mental illness & poverty (caused by an upbringing in a hostile family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags as a consequence of a low self-esteem & "political correctness" in the sense of thinking that all humans have equal value, which they obviously don't).

The book can be ordered here at Lulu.

It is also on Amazon at this link.

A preview can be found on Google Books.

Monday, May 21, 2018

Nocturnal parenting

Nocturnal parenting

Daddy! Daddy!

Daddy, help me get up. I’m stuck in bed.


In bed, Daddy, I can’t get up.

Is that why you woke me up at midnight?

Yes, Daddy. I’m cold too. My pajamas are too thin.

Oh, okay.

(He gives her a hug.)

Are you going to get me up, darling?

What do you mean, Daddy?

Oh, you know what I mean, Jennifer. You know very well.

Not that, Dad, not a second time.  I already played with it once.

That’s not enough when you wake Daddy up in the middle of the night.

But I’m cold.


(He hands her a bathrobe hanging on the door.)

That was your mother’s robe, Jennifer.

But I don’t know where Mommy is.

She’s in heaven, Jennifer. Put your lips there. That’s a good girl. Lick it with your tongue under the head of it, darling. Yes.

I don’t want to wear Mommy’s robe.

No talking, Jennifer. Be quiet now.

Okay, Daddy.

(She keeps sucking. He moans in atavistic pleasure.)

Yes! What a good little Jennifer you are tonight.

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 2: Extreme Sex

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 2:  Extreme Sex

Jennifer complained today that I, David, fucked her very intensely, and that the power of the pressure on her clitoris therefore led to considerable cursing and protests. Basically, fucking is done by taking one's huge cock and using it with tremendous force and expertise. Jennifer tells David that she appreciates the atavistic bellows and roars, just as he feels that this is the point of the exercise, to surrender focus on utility, the exchangeable unit of measurement, the unit of pleasure or whatever, and exist the intensity of which Lyotard writes in his "evil book", the absolutely unique irreplaceable.

Part of the point of the stories earlier about the deplorably inadequate exes is to demonstrate that none of these had mastered the art of fucking, or of general humanity, but got by through exploiting mental illness. This is why they were never loved. For example, French Little Billy Blond, who assiduously reads these blogs, can go fuck himself, and sleep with dust and memories. Jennifer tells us that he uses a form of Fleshlight. But these are for lonely, pathetic, older men, so we naturally ask ourselves why does Mr. Blond have one? In fact she now tells me that he has more than one. He has three, one for each orifice that he recognizes

It should not be forgotten that, in nature, it is not necessarily an animal's right to fuck. Jennifer says that Blond once abused a frail gay man and was bottled, he phoned the police: that's just weak. Low quality males, or females, are often rejected, and this is no problem to the better animals, since, let's face facts, what the fuck are the rejected specimens going to do about it? The best should fuck, the rest can fuck off and die. Dysgenic fertility is already a huge problem.  Scumbags breed most readily.

I, Jennifer, mistook Principle #2 to mean that constant complaining during sex was not only good, but a turn on for David. I would say no, stop, you're hurting me, when inside I was gushing with vaginal fluids. The more excited I got, the more biting the complaints became, such as saying, oh, you asshole. I came to learn over time that complaints were not necessary to keep this particular male member erect and that, indeed, almost the opposite was true. The more excitement I expressed, the more passion I felt, the more I continued to complain. One time David told me to shut up and slapped me across the face. That really excited me, so much so that I instantly stopped complaining. Indeed, he was harder than ever, a true lightning rod of unbridled pleasure.

Jennifer writes as though I don't slap her around pretty much all the time, as one does, and as I just did a round dozen times while bruising myself around the os pubis, and producing a symphony of sluttishness from her frail form. She writes as though she would not be enormously pissed off if I refrained from so doing. Anyway, if men with small dicks breed, we will ultimately see an accursed race of humans who develop midget wangs. The clitoris will become insufferably arrogant, and Jennifer will be able to crush me (I, Jennifer, am related to the Incredible Hulk, which enables me to wind David quite severely when I lie flat on top of him); whereas now, with my use of the techniques of extreme sex, I am able to lift her by the goddamn snatch with one hand and hold her up in the air, which really does provoke cursing, even if my grip gets all slippery on account of the enhanced flow of secretions.

Again, with extreme sex, Jennifer is obsessed by showering before i eat her out, since the vagina is assumed to smell and taste funny, which it doesn't. There is no particular pong attributable to the snatch. I attribute that particular piece of bullshit to religions, even influencing atheists such as Jennifer, since it influences the whole of society. The Christian pedo rapists, and other practitioners of retarded voodoo, disapprove of the snatch as being a residence of devils and general naughtiness. She also seriously believes that I give a shit if she happens to be bleeding like a stuck pig. As a vegan, I appreciate the nutritional supplement, and am not obliged to chew coal for iron.

Really, it is impossible to be more extreme than I have been. But I've never met a man who would eat me out and earn what used to be called their "red wings" by lesbians, the term having been used once by Hells Angels, though the latter are more advanced than the lesbian community. Maybe this is because I was a lesbian for a while, women shying away from blood like most straight men. However, it is common practice for lesbians to perform oral sex on each while one, or both, has a yeast infection. No, the cottage cheese discharge is no breakfast treat. Some lesbians even put their yeast discharge into glass vials and display them on the mantelpieces in their homes. The scent emanates from the vials like a sweet perfume in the nicer homes of such cities as San Francisco. I have turned my nose on the whole mess, and tell David he can lick me anytime. We were going to ask some lesbians in the grocery store, but David bottled out when they stared at his trousers, licking their lips and giggling inanely. The excitable one started running round in circles.

Extreme sex, it must be noted, does not require an extreme cock or extreme pussy, but we do not really know what women with gaping vaginas and men with small cocks do to get off in an extreme fashion. Quite frankly we don't want to know. It's like whether the crack babies are laughing or screaming; who cares?

Sunday, May 20, 2018

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 1: Extreme Shitting

Another collaboration with Jennifer S. Chesler.  This is a very instructive piece. As the reader may recall, my previous technique for her involved a particularly brutal face fuck. Sadly, this technique, though highly enjoyable for me, did not actually work, no feces was produced, and she's such a good girl that she hardly puked. She pissed on me later but that is not germane to the issue, I'm just boasting, really.

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 1:  Extreme Shitting

The primary goal of the philosophy of extremism is to aid in the elimination of feces. Technique #1 is my personal favorite, one akin to an asana in yoga. I sit on the toilet and push as hard as I can out of my bowels. There might be considerable, but low, grunts emitted. At this point, if the shit has not at least crowned (crowning is the most important sign of a satisfactory bowel movement, though in certain circumstances the crown, due to constipation, stays in one place, fixed as it were, in the anal opening), it becomes necessary to release your breath completely, almost as though you are giving up on the shit completely. Then after you’ve caught your breath, push hard and you will feel the crown, in all its glory, turned into a large mass of feces, or, when constipated, a series of rock hard turds in succession, plopping away merrily into the toilet as you flush, stomach emptied.

David recalls an experience that profoundly traumatized him. He had eaten Swedish bread that is basically unleavened, and served in round cakes. He had eaten a whole two pounds of this garbage together with a hard mature cheese, only one pound of this. The shit-baby took two days of labor. He was obliged to hold the ring and raise his whole body with his hands while screaming curses and praying to Baphomet to at least abort and torture the foul fetuses of Xian scam as some consolation. When the shit came he swore to never suffer constipation again unless heroin was involved. 

The person we elsewhere refer to as Backsplash admonished David for his profane language during the whole proceedings. Since the feces, so David assures me, was monochromatic, the bitch should have kept her mouth, as well as her anal gob, firmly closed. 

Tight pussy slut, Part II


Tight pussy slut, Part II

Little whore thinks she's a big girl, she's not a big girl at all but when i come into her Daddy's a big boy and she's gasping and grunting and groaning so I tell her, you like that don't you, you can scream for help, nobody gonna hear you, nobody gonna care. I'm running it in and outta her so she's pushed around, legs flapping like branches in a hurricane. Look in daddy's eyes i tell her as she lies there whimpering, so i pull the ass all the way up and bang her, moving her round like a rag doll and driving the jackhammer in hard. Where's mommy, I want my mommy, she whines so I tell her she has no mommy now and she can sleep in daddy's bed all the time. She gets real excited and the juice is squirting out of her covering my dick and stomach area she gets so goddamn wet. I love that little tight pussy slut.

Ginger Ale is the best, Canada Dry Ginger Ale is my favorite, diet of course. When Daddy fucks me in my sleep he wakes me up to rinse off, a big grin on his face between my legs, and a soda in his hand. Daddy's hands are so big. He can hold a can in one hand. O, Daddy, what's the white stuff between my legs? Why aren't you doing this to mommy instead? Then he gets angry – I told you mommy's dead.

I shoot my load deep in her, she says I'm pushing her womb up into her stomach so i yell what the fuck you know about wombs, you little whore, what they been telling you in school?. Jennifer lies there later, waiting for her rape soda. It makes her so happy. 

Saturday, May 19, 2018

David McLean, Part II

David McLean, Part II

David rams his thick, long porcelain cock into my nickel hole of a cunt. He goes in so far. Oh god, I think, he’s hitting my womb. I can’t take it, I say to him. He thrusts himself into me as hard as he can and tells me I’m a big girl. No, Daddy, I say, you’re such a big man, and I’m just a little girl. This excites him so much that he thrusts deeper than I’ve been penetrated ever before, grunting like an animal on top of me. His breath quickens. Grab my ass, he says. He takes my ass in his hands, as I take his in mine. You’re a big girl now, he says. Where’s mommy? Where’s mommy? Why don’t you do this to her? Mommy is dead, David says, you can sleep in mommy’s bed every night now; you’re making Daddy very happy. He thrusts in even further. No, I can’t take it any deeper. I’m out of breath. He pulls out and sticks his cock halfway into me. Praise the lord, I whisper to myself, he has listened. David’s breath quickens. You’re such a good girl, he says to me. I squeeze his ass harder. The next thing I know he’s heaving himself in and out of me. I don’t mind anymore. It feels so good. His breathing is so heavy and fast as he ejaculates a large amount of semen into my nickel hole. It’s dripping out of me until he stops the flow of come coming out of me with his underwear. I’ve got to piss, I say. I’ll come with you, he says.

Friday, May 18, 2018

Jennifer Chesler's Fragments in corrected version

Fragments came today, the third written but first published of all Jennifer S. Chesler's novels, This has the form of an anthology but functions as an aleatory novel, in that she randomly ordered the texts originally, while I, who edited the book, was obliged to reorder and add new pieces. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic & linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies of ordering.

This reordering was particularly necessary since she wasted 18 years with a literary agent who was most definitely not a writer, & seems to have been very poorly suited to his job.

The book is a splendid piece of work & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. Topics covered are dog sex in the Phoenix area, the stupidity of the average American, piss fucks, & the author's mental illness & poverty (caused by a dodgy upbringing in a hostile family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags).

Here it is at Amazon.

Here it is at Barnes & Noble.

& here it is at Google Books.

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Spotlight on Nickel Hole Press

Here is a spotlight we just created for Nickel Hole Press at Lulu, the POD site we use. Books by Jennifer Chesler & myself are available there & at Amazon etc.

The books deal with various taboo subjects, poverty, mental illness, prostitution, child abuse, & so forth. This makes them both a little sad & hugely comical. The books also direct criticism at the patriarchal nature of modern society & the policing of thought by the fascist psychiatric establishment, the psychologizing of the subject created to tame the unruly bodies of desire, as one sees in the writings of Foucault, Lyotard and Deleuze, with or without Guattari.

Buy these books at your own peril. Maybe the smack babies are laughing, maybe they're crying. What difference does it make? They are an assemblage, they do what they do.