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.

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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. 

What to say, how to explain, who cares.

After spending a whole month struggling with two chapters, I wrote two more in the last week/ ten days. 

The very last one is death and despair. Which is good. It reminds me of what writing should be about. A good kick in the behind. Reading can be pleasant, informative, a way to kill time and all that. But sometimes, just sometimes, reading should be about as pleasant as a hand gripping your heart and squeezing it, then throwing the remaining meat to the crows. To hell with pleasant reading and my pleasant ass. There are vampires in there, not smurfs or care bears. And there is death, madness, despair, and the knowledge that no matter how long you may live, some things will not leave you, or be forgotten. They'll stay.

"If you ask me why bad things happen to people who don't deserve them, I'll tell you I don't know. I never figured that one out. Perhaps there is no why. Am I sorry about everything I did to you? Of course I am. But if I met you tomorrow, I'd do the same all over again. I can't help it. I just can't."

I can also refer to the fact there are two new erotica pieces in my arsenal. One finished two days ago, one finished about half a month ago. Both male/ male. I don't know what I am supposed to do with them except read them and feel horny, which is why they were written in the first place. But other than that... The gay couple I know can't read my English to give those pieces to them. :( I think they'd enjoy them. I think after everything is said and done, gay people will give me a medal of honour. Or something. But nothing is said or done yet.

Well, there is always my homophobic friend who's really eager to read the next chapters of my story, and he has a surprise in store for him in chapters 24 and 25. That should teach him to make strange comments whenever I upload feminine men in my facebook photos.

I am proud of this blog.

I really am. It started in 2005 and it has countless hours of work in it. It also has a large portion of my unusual ideas, mentality and emotional chaos. I am proud of it the same way I would be proud of my child, even if the neighbor had just appeared at my doorstep to tell me my child blackened the eye of their kid. I am sure most people don't like it. Then again, I don't like most people.

I got rid of massive amounts of unwanted items in the past few weeks. Humans amass such ridiculous quantities of useless things around them... And slowly those items become a part of the house, or library, or cupboard, and we don't even realise they are there. A friend brought me a large volume of her unwanted books, so I was 'forced' to once more go through MY books. Which was excellent initiative to see what else I can get rid of. Thankfully a lady I know does a bazaar around this time of the year for stray animals. She got a small mountain of unwanted books, most of which had been stored in another room than my own. She also got comic books in Greek. She sold them all and we're both happy.

As I went through my earthly possessions I realised I can't find two books I really love. The one is 'Master and Margarita' by Mikhail Bulgakov. The second is 'The perfume' by Patrick Suskind. I have the very bad  habit of lending books and other items which more often than not results in me losing them. So I added the books to my wishlist in amazon and slowly but steadily managed to gather another big pile of unwanted comics in Greek.Those will go to another friend. I re-read them and they are good, but not something I am interested in anymore.

The next thing I did was get on all fours. And stuck a cucumber... HaHAHAHAHAHHAAHAhaahahha you fell for it, didn't you? Nope, I stuck my head under the bed and pulled out a large cardboard box. In there I had my collection of (shriveled human heads. I wish.) stationery. I had started collecting it when I was around 12. I decided that after 23 years that I had all that paper in my possession it was time for it to go. I mean, I want to move abroad and stay there permanently. Having under my bed a box of papers that are more that 20 years old serves no logical purpose I can think of. Of course, I am still keeping my enormous kawaii stationery collection. There is no way I am giving that away!!! I am not bored of it yet.

Going through my old collection (full of flowery, dreamy landscapes, beautiful women, romantic themes and so on) I got a glimpse of what I was feeling back then. More than anything else, that state of mind was achieved by my sense of smell as those stationery sets are all aromatic, and smells are an express connection to the past. I had so many dreams back then. I still do and they are not realised. I never really expected my life to become like this. I don't think anyone ever does.

Yesterday as I was separating some papers to send them to a swapper I thought about vampires and wondered if they, too, hold onto objects. However, when you're made to outlive everything and anything that surrounds you, whether living or inanimate, it must be hard to be sentimental about objects. You cannot afford to be sentimental about people anymore, let alone objects. Besides, modern objects are not build to last. Clothes, gadgets, even jewellery in some cases last only for a season or two if they are expensive. In the old times, clothes lasted for twenty or thirty years and I have an ancient stereo thing that plays large rolls of tape. It belonged to my father and it's probably still working. I don't even know the name for that item. Not even in Greek, I mean. But it's working after the 40 odd years that we have it. Buy a sound system nowadays and see if it lasts longer that five. And it's not only the objects that are made to be cheap. The mentality is also different. I have had the same cellphone for the past three years. It's still working, so I see no reason to change it. If it breaks, I will. Until then, I am perfectly happy with it. It does not have a touch screen, internet or android. You press buttons and call people, or accept calls, or send messages. That's what a cellphone is supposed to do. It even has bluetooth connectivity and can get funny ringtones by my friends' mobiles. All my needs are covered. Most people nowadays stampede to get the latest iphone, ipad, imyass although they have the exact previous model. I could get in a long winding argument about how this mentality has screwed us and the planet over by making us buy with money we don't have (credit cards) gadgets we don't need at an outrageous price. Gadgets that cost 10-20 dollars to be made are sold 500 or 700 or more, and they are made in terrible factories that treat human beings like automatons. But no-one will listen because they are too busy playing with their new gadgets. So I won't say anything more.

Sometimes I hope the Earth will get Her Christmas wish granted and an extra terrestrial civilisation will come and spray the population with something that kills eejits only. And the rest of us will inherit the earth and their ipads too.

*grumblemoannag*

Fantastic, amazing, hilarious writing advice!!!

Kurt Vonnegut’s 8 Tips on How to Write a Great Story

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things — reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them-in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Taken from here:

http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2012/04/03/kurt-vonnegut-on-writing-stories/ 

How many ways of stupid? Let me count.

• Trying to log in Paypal or your mail with Caps Lock on. Great success.
• Struggling to log in Paypal without Caps Lock on but with the keyboard turned to Greek. Another great success.
• Cursing like a constipated sailor with syphilis while attempting to log in Paypal without Caps Lock on and with the keyboard turned to English, on the day ebay decided that there is no reason why it shouldn't misbehave and refuse you entry. You can't win, can you? 
•  Writing a whole paragraph with Caps Lock on without realising it, because you can't really type and you keep looking at the keyboard. Or just because you're busy and distracted and don't realise.
• Same as before, but writing an English text with the keyboard turned to Greek. The statement I just wrote would look like this: Σαμε ασ βεφορε, βθτ ςριτινγ αν Ενγλιση τεχτ ςιτη τηε κευβοαρδ τθρνεδ το Γρεεκ.
• Writing a whole paragraph of English text with the keyboard turned to Greek and through the random combinations of letters accidentally invoking Cthulhu that appears in all his glory and chomps you down. Then burps in non-Euclidean frequencies and the world collapses and is replaced by a shining gold turd. I dare say it would be an improvement.
• Other variations have to do with internet searches with the keywords in Greek and busting your head why you can't find the (English) site. Until you look at what you have typed and looks like a chemical composition for a new psychotropic drug. Well, that's why you can't find the site, genius.
• I am absentminded and easily distracted, more or less like the majority of people that live inside their heads. This should explain why on more than one cases I have shaken my chocolate milk after I have unscrewed it, splattering milk all over me. Or why I sometimes try to drink from bottles although I have not removed the protective foil from their opening. Or why in most cases that I squat ON the toilet of a restaurant or a place I don't trust to sit on, more often than not, I manage to pee on my right shoe.
• I don't even have to refer to those cases that after I seal an envelope I realise the address I need to write is on an item INSIDE the envelope. Or I spend a quarter of an hour looking for something I had just next to me and it has vanished. In one case I even went to the kitchen and the bathroom of my house thinking I may have accidentally taken it with me to another room. Then I looked at my huge ginger cat, sleeping peacefully on my bed, and I picked him up. And there it was.

At some point I will think of more and write a second entry. :)

Occult books: an example why as a rule I don't read them.

 The following extracts are from Kenneth Grant, from the book 'Nightside of Eden'.

..."The number of Kia, 31, is also that of AL, the key of The book of the Law, and in this sense Kia may be said to be the eye of Nuit, the Ain, which is the 'other' or 'secret' eye, (i.e. the vulva), typified by the anus of Set."

Which 'AL' are we talking about? Weird Al Yankovic? Remind me again why am I reading about the anus of Set at this time of the night and I will be grateful. Also, while you're at it bring me an ice-cream because all this Tree of Life talk always gives me the munchies.

"The 23rd kala is under the dominion of Malkunofat who lies in the depth of the watery abyss."

I mean no surprises there, it's been raining on and off for a week, watery abyss is but a mere understatement of the situation. Plus fat creatures generally fare better in water. Like whales and my aunt Eustacia. Besides, if I don't find a place to pee soon, the watery abyss will be augmented. Seriously. But to be honest with you, I pity the 23rd koala. What happens if Malkunofat accidentally trips and squashes the poor fucker?

"He may be aroused by a shrill stridulation of his name in the key of 'G' sharp (upper register)."

Now, why would I want to do that? I mean we have just started getting to know each other and all. Plus that stridulation thingie sounds suspiciously like strangulation, only applied to strings. I wonder what it means. Sounds very interesting. No honey, no stridulation tonight, I have a headache. Don't get aroused on my behalf.

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/stridulation

v. strid·u·lat·ed, strid·u·lat·ing, strid·u·lates

v.intr.

To produce a shrill grating, chirping, or hissing sound by rubbing body parts together, as certain insects do.

v.tr.

To produce by rubbing body parts together: "The crickets stridulated their everlasting monotonous meaningful note" (John Updike).

See? Rubbing together body parts. I was certain he was referring to sex somehow.

Here is an example of a writer that beats my brain black and blue through his writing but at least I understand what he wanted to say:

"When you move into the level of dream consciousness, all the laws of logic change. There, although you think you are seeing something that is not you, it is actually you that you are seeing, because the dream is simply a manifestation of your own will and energy – you created the dream and yet you are surprised by it. So the duality there is illusory. There, subject and object, though apparently separate, are the same."

"The realms of the Gods and Demons – heaven, purgatory, hell – are of the substance of dream. Myth, in this view, is the dream of the world. If we accept gods as objective realities, then they are the counterpart of your dream – this is a very important point – dream and myth are of the same logic … and since the subject and the object seem to be separate but are not separate in the dream, so the god that seems to be outside you in myth (or religion, if you prefer) is not different from you. You and your god are one … All the heavens and gods are within you and are identical with aspects of your own consciousness on the dream level."

Joseph Campbell, Myths of Light, p.70

Here is a more demanding extract by the same author:

"[T]he idea of survival after death is about conterminous with the human species; so also that of the sacred area (sanctuary), that of the efficacy of ritual, of ceremonial decorations, sacrifice, and of magic, that of supernal agencies, that of a transcendental yet ubiquitously immanent sacred power (mana, wakonda, sakti, etc.), that of a relationship between dream and the mythological realm, that of initiation, that of the initiate (shaman, priest, seer, etc.), and so on, for pages. No amount of learned hair-splitting about the differences between Egyptian, Aztec, Hottentot, and Cherokee monster-killers can obscure the fact that the primary problem here is not historical or ethnological but psychological – even biological; that is to say, antecedent to the phenomenology of the culture styles ..."

- Joseph Campbell, The Flight of the Wild Gander, p. 50

Can you tell the difference? I can. 

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Fuck this.

I just came across a site that specialises in Vampire fiction.

http://www.lovevampires.com/index.htm

It gave five stars to Twilight. It's one of the most badly written, repetitive and less than mediocre books I have read in my life and that site gave it a solid five out of five review. No, wait. In fact I could not read it. No. I couldn't. I doubt I finished it. I think I just passed it on to another poor unfortunate soul, may God/dess have mercy on her.

Going through the site I discovered that there is a crapload of books in the vampire genre, by authors I have never heard in my life. It appears that there are more vampire's asses out there than there are vampires. It's scary and intimidating for someone like me who writes an essentially vampire novel. I mean for crying out loud. My vampires are not mysterious strangers that chuckle softly to themselves from the shadows of their dark castle. No, one of them appears with a mop in hand in the very first chapters. Another starts crying because he's so upset that he can't help it. The third has been used as a punching bag for so many years by his progenitor that has developed the psychology of a lifer in prison. He pussyfoots around everything and anything and tries to be invisible most of the time. How's that for dark and mysterious strangers? No?

Look, I am a woman. I can't help being romantic. But there is romantic and romantic. Most people believe romantic is dinner in a candlelit restaurant. I have very different ideas on it. And there is one very important element that does NOT mix with a romantic outlook. Realism. Realism and romanticism just don't get along. I am first and foremost trying to write a book that has a strong, realistic core to the degree this is possible since we're talking about vampires. I don't want black and white characters and I most certainly don't want caricatures or stereotypes. So if someone has to mop in the house of a very paranoid and misanthropic vampire then this someone is the vampire himself. I don't know who mops in the houses of all those other vampire characters. I suppose that unless they live in a sewer or a burrow someone DOES mop the house. :) So bite me.

I think I must invite all my male hesitant emo characters in one gathering and let them pat each others' backs for several hours and nag to their heart's content. Even if I turned that meeting alone in a book it would probably make a better read than Twilight.

And as I said before, bite me.

:) Ran :) dom :)

• When my hair was longer, whenever I took a shower, I afterwards had to remove long hairs from between my ass-cheeks. Now that my hair is barely at shoulder length, nothing has changed.

• I like to sing self-made songs with ridiculous lyrics whenever I am angry, bored or just because. One of them is an ode to my cat, another is a repetition of the words "zucchini  with oregano, zucchini over the piano."

• My newest cat loves to play fetch. She likes to play that with hair bands and me. She throws me to the other end of the room and then the hair bands pick me up and take me back to her, usually with a mild concussion. Hair bands like in early metal years, only from rubber.

• A good mosquito is a dead mosquito.

• A good Nazi is a brainwashed, hippy fucking, reduced to drooling moron and willing to admit the error of his ways, dead ashamed Nazi, who works as a volunteer at the third world countries.

• I have an authority problem. They cannot break my cat communicating code and wish they could eat the amounts of chocolate I eat and live to tell the tale. I, on the other hand, cannot talk because my mouth is stuffed.

• Sometimes I want to chase after people and when I catch them, beat seven shades of black and blue out of them. Sometimes it happens to me several times in the same day. And sometimes I love everybody, including my boogers. If it happened often my boogers would have reached 8.9 points in the Buddha scale, so I try to avoid it.

• Birds usually excite me as much as they excite my cats, especially small birds. I want to put them in my mouth whole. Robins are so cute and tiny. Worst of all are hummingbirds. I want to eat them in handfuls. I guess they are lucky not to live in Greece save for the island of Crete? The smaller the bird, the bigger my excitement. Small fluffy things that try to escape me. Nom nom nom. All mine. Same goes for baby rabbits and hamsters and generally small cute fluffy thingies that try to escape me.

• When I touch items that have been put aside for a long time and have gathered stale energies I start farting. Sometimes it smells so bad that I have to run to the other room while making outraged gurgling noises. In reality I'm secretly proud of their potency. I also like to smell my own dirty socks and underwear and yell 'ew!' before throwing them at the laundry basket. Oh, and I always want to look at my production after number two, to appraise the possible value and be sure no-one stole my poop from inside the toilet or something.

• Morbid and grotesque appeals to me as much as cute does. The combination is my specialty in my daily communication.

• Boobies are God/dess's gift to the boobless.

• Humongous boobies make the best pillows but not for the one owning them. 

• If we are not animals, why there is blood coming out from my vagina once a month? And why do men have trouble avoiding walls when they unexpectedly see boobies?

• For those of you who will read the above and claim I did not breastfed enough, I have breaking news to announce. I am still at the Freudian anal stage as well. I can hear my sense of humour cackling like a witch with rheumatism from the bottom of a toilet. Live with it.Or piss off.

• The perfect man is a combination of Jung and Oscar Wilde, with the past of Nero and Casanova and the bright future of Gandhi on the rare days he was possessed by the spirit of Jeffrey Dahmer. I won't mind less than perfect abs. But he has to have manners and killing lines, and be kinky in bed. And I would like him to be attractive. At least to me. I swear I'll be spoon feeding him ice cream, naked and dressed in whatever ridiculous outfit he wants me to wear. Even a bee suit. 

• I cannot live without eggs. People who do not eat eggs are infidels. They must all die. Except for those allergic to eggs. I'll let those live and feed them eggs three times a day.

•  God is a metaphor. God is prone to boob hypnotism. God is on vacation and forgot to return. God is particularly pissed off at me, but he can eat my pussy after I have shaved it sparkling bald and smooth and kiss my well developed ass. God/dess, on the other hand, is another story. One with a happier ending.

I dare say I am done. At least for now.