Ass hugger, or, fapping my days away over a keyboard

Once I had said to a friend of mine that I am an ass connoisseur. Well, indeed I am. I regret nothing.

Why try to hide it; if other people’s destinies lie in the stars, mine is located somewhere near the anal cavity. There is no escape from the pull of the ass. The ass holds for me the gravity of its bigger cousin, the black hole. The ass is grandiose, funny and sexy at the same time. It sings. It can kill with a single whiff. You can caress it and kiss it, slap it, fondle it, bite it. Knead it and massage it to your heart’s content. Pour chocolate on it. Draw on it. Dress it, hug it, squeeze it and call it George. You can find it on both sexes, it’s not exclusive equipment like the penis, the vagina. Boobs don’t count. They, too, can be found on both sexes.

But the ass. The ass is beguiling. It holds tight onto its secrets. It can be stubbornly shut to any approach. Demands respect because it does the dirty job and rarely complains. Poor ass. So underestimated in your struggle for freedom and recognition. So divine in your humble guise. Two perfect semicircles with so much heart in them.

By the way, I needn’t worry about finding a writer’s pseudonym. I am sure I’ll be nicknamed the trench coat author. Not because I wear trench coats often (which I do) but because all my readers will be wearing them, in order to be able to read my wonderful books on the tube, or in the bus, and masturbate without attracting too much attention.

I return to my writing.

Yours in ass appreciating bliss,

Elizabeth Fap

Ass connoisseur and writer extraordinaire.

(If you enjoy my content, please consider supporting what I do. Thank you.)

Cold sweat, or, anus, what a wonderful word.

Ooooooooh VERY PRETTY...

I make tea to calm my head down.

There's an English Thesaurus, one ancient English-Greek/ Greek-English dictionary and one English grammar book carelessly thrown on various surfaces near me. My fingers run the keyboard. I am flushed. I feel private parts of mine clench and unclench. A customer comes. I sell a pack of cigarettes. The customer leaves. I stretch my back. I continue writing. My villain is fucking an innocent young man blind. I try to keep my sentences small, which is always a struggle for me. The words need to be precise and convey what both heroes feel. I am trying to decide whether to use the word 'rod'. It seems ridiculous and decide against it. Generally speaking, I am in favour of more simple language. Nothing wrong with 'cock', 'asshole', 'fuck'. But I don't like repetition and I don't like vulgarity. It makes the whole procedure more interesting and more difficult.

I read what I've written.

I swallow a couple of times.

I wonder what the average man will think of it. He will probably screech in terror and run away. Casual bisexuality has never been the average man's strong point. Masculine characters that offer oral pleasure to other masculine characters can't possibly be protagonists if you aim at a male audience.

Fuck the male audience. I am writing this for me. I am writing because I want to read it and get horny. If my writing makes me horny, then perhaps more readers will get horny. If I am writing this to aim at an audience, I am like a blind man shooting arrows to the moon. I'll get shit.

I wonder what kind of publisher would want to publish my book.

A gay man, most likely. Or an open-minded woman with cojones the size of watermelons.

I read what the villain says to his young hostage. The image of myself hiding in a cave while all the media worldwide crucify me flashes before my eyes. I see my mother's stunned expression as journalists ask her what she thinks of her daughter's preoccupation with what can fit inside a human anus. I can even hear her outraged questions, demanding more information from the journalists.

I can see you all wondering what the hell, doesn't your mom know what you're writing about?

Are you crazy? Of course my mother doesn't know what I am writing about. She knows that I write about vampires and does not even like that. 

Writing is not about safe ground, or making your mom happy.

Writing is about as easy as walking butt naked in public display. While masturbating. And screaming obscenities. With a loudspeaker. In a stadium. Full of Mormons.

With a wry smile, I consider that the customer probably wouldn't have wanted that pack of cigarettes if he knew the places my mental fingers had been seconds before.

I make a mental note to find a cave with internet signal.

I make a second mental note not to tell my mom where the cave is and go back to writing. 

The tower

I have been practicing selective reading. I finished two books in two days in my usual manner of skipping the boring bits. One of them was ‘Knowledge of Angels’ by Jill Paton Walsh. The second was ‘Northern Lights’ by Philip Pullman. Both good books. Both made me sad for different reasons. Then again, all good books make me sad.

There are days I am so busy I forget. And there are days the darkness is real enough to touch it. I am surrounded by it from all sides and I try to stop its advance by lighting candles around me. It’s a tide of darkness, lapping at my fragile light circle. Ebbing and swelling around the limit of light. Threatening to engulf everything.

It’s not evil. It’s not even caring, or uncaring. It’s just darkness. Human soul is as full of it as any other place. So I am lighting candles one by one. I light them when I hope for a better future. When I do something for someone I’ve never seen before and will never see again. When I write one more page of my novel. When I feed the small army of cats I’ve acquired under my building.

There are so few things that are really important.
None of them is something you can hold in your hands or own.

The smell of your beloved on the sheets when you wake in the morning.
The kindness in the eyes of a stranger.
A place in your heart to call home.
The patience to let go when people refuse to understand. The patience to hold one’s tongue when the other knows no better.
Everything is fragile and fleeting.
Like a circle made of candles against a tower of darkness.
Keep walking. Move on. Don’t look back. Don’t think, lest you lose heart. Breathe and put one foot in front of the other.
That’s my girl.

Birth-day

Νίκος Γκάτσος:

Περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί σ'αυτό το αρχαίο αγγείο αγαπιούνται τόσο όμορφα δύο σώματα

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί σε τούτο το μοτέλ ένα ταξί δαγκώνει αυτό το φέρετρο σα να'ναι πούρο 

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί τα σκαλοπάτια ετούτα κατεβαίνουν μέσα στον καθρέφτη φτάνοντας εκεί που'ναι θαμμένο το προφίλ του φεγγαριού

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί στον κόσμο τούτο όλοι έχουνε το σπίτι τους κι εγώ είμαι ο ξένος που 'χει χάσει τη φυλή του και το δρόμο του

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

Γιατί περιπλανιέμαι έξω από τη μήτρα σου κι έξω απ'τον τάφο μου

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου

περίλυπος εστίν η ψυχή μου έως θανάτου.

Nikos Gatsos:

My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.

Why on this ancient vase two bodies make love to each other so gracefully

 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

 Why at this motel a taxi bites this coffin as if it was a cigar

 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

Why do these steps descend inside the mirror, reaching the place the profile of the moon is buried

 my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

Why in this world that everyone has a home, I am the stranger who has lost his people and his way

my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

Why do I wander outside your womb and outside my grave

my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death

my soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. 

(The translation is mine, and a bit awkward. But it conveys the meaning.) 

Sometimes I know for certain something you perhaps don't know, or don't want to see.

I am more like your father than I am like you.