[Dear readers of Bram, this is a trial. This post is un-Bram. Testing testing. Thank you for your patience. Yours faithffully, Willie.]
They say we should learn from our mistakes. I sure did.
My name is Shauna and I'm a real-life lesbian. I say "real-life" for a reason. These days it's necessary. Since lesbianism became popular as a result of reality television (and girls' desire to look sexy in front of heterosexual men--attention-seeking whores) the once quite set lines of sexuality have become like a February morning--hazy.
This is the background to my tragedy. In short, I met a girl and fell in love with her. As my feelings for her continued to grow I learned that she wasn't a lesbian at all. She had a long-term boyfriend that had gone to Germany to study. Stuttgart to be precise.
I was drinking alone in a city centre pub one night when I met Janice my ex-(fake) girlfriend. She was out with her friends from work. It was a girls night out and they were drunk. They were guzzling vodka so I presumed they were straight until Janice came to talk to me. After asking my name she kissed me with much passion and tongue. Admittedly I did think it odd that she kept looking back at her friends who were laughing heartily. But that wasn't important then. Real female contact made me feel alive.
We started "dating" which consisted of going out with her friends to clubs, lots of passionate kissing and erotic dancing that attracted considerable attention. Of course I thought this was for me when it was really for the the six-foot hunk in the corner. This continued for a month or so until I felt so strongly for Janice that I told her I loved her. She laughed, ordered a bottle of Bacardi Breezer and started feeling up the next guy at the bar of the club we were in.
My mistake was, of course, trusting another woman. After my experience with Janice, I travelled a bit. I saw most of Australia. You could say I learned a lot and learned something directly from Janice. I'm now married to Matt and we live happily with our three children (two girls and one boy) in West Sussex.
Funny how things work out, huh?
Showing posts with label leather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label leather. Show all posts
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
The Most Reverent "the Bish" Elizabeth "Emily" Bishop.
As I sit here, seemingly intellectually, with the daily edition of The Nova Scotia Times, I warn people not to read my poytree-- it's hard work.
I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.
Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.
"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."
I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.
"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.
My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.
I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.
The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).
"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.
The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.
I take the old coffee-maker from the stove
and spill it on my book like a careless child.
It's a mess and I ask grandmother,
she says to put it out the back of the house
to dry. The coffee drips like sweetened tears
in the full moon, as predicted in the almanac.
Most places I visit are full of nothing and I take solace from that. What childishness is it ... to see the mouldiest places, with the strongest possibilities for aquatic imagery, the other way around?
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
"Look Lizzy, he sez to me, everyone you used to know is dead or in prison. And I've nothing but this black aul knife, the blade of which is almost worn away.
"Be careful with that match lighting up that cigarette," he warns me. I smoke on one side of the road, where the hedge is, because that's where it appears everyone smokes. On my last drag I watch the Lucky Strike logo smolder away to just Lucky in a semi-circle.
"So, I hear you're a lesbo now."
I cough out the now second-hand tobacco smoke (that seriously harms you and others around you) in surprise as the old man says this.
"Eh, so? so? so?" I say to him.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
I can see my glass of beer
behind the wooden two-by-four
in the corner of the barnyard floor.
My rhyme is in my poetry:
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry.
I use it to describe
that from which I cannot hide.
I also use it to isolate lines away from the others in quite a clever way.
I read the National Geographic and think of my Latin American girlfriend. Her tits are SO much nicer than the droopy ones in this publication, Eeeew. The yellow frame around the cover, the yellow frame around the cover... I scream. I awake sitting quietly in my room with Pascal banging his head against the wall looking for an exit. Quite a sight, you say? Always, always delightful.
The clever almanac falls from the wall and it splatters like an egg on fire (as I laugh uncontrollably in class).
"Time to plant tears," says Arfurr from beyond the grave in Westminster Abbey. I fished a fish in Florida but never forgot him. He hung a grunting weight but it was no concern of mine for obviously reasons. Here and there his brown skin hung in strips like ancient wallpaper stuck with glass-smooth dung as if it were a transmutation of fire.
The themes are epi-shite but the rhyme is just right. But, I did warn them. It's hard work.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Poshbastard Cockhole Mickey.
Anne Devitt's sex tape. I believe it features Mr Cian Bailey, showing off his enormous farmer's appendage (also known as combine harvester). O Anne Devitt, you are so perfect in my hole. We love thee dearly. HOLE. You and your horses, and your face just like a gee. Charming Anne darling, marry me forever. With love, Cianycakes.
And in other news, cock. And a hole lot of other things. MICKEY. Sure fair play to all those people that do be doing things with themselves, and their mickeys owe cock.
No, indeed. Jemma's ma, your mickey, and my lez bean. El owe el. Puking isn't the best, and the government don't speak for us. So when you're not feeling very well at all at all you'd be better off puking right up in a large spiral.
Puking and puking in a widening gyre,
The vomit cannot hear the vomitor.
Take that Willie, you bloody cockfiddler. That's what you get for drumming all over your cliff-upon-cock, for it's always the way. You didn't even need a Hitler haircut to make you look like a Nazi GEEEEEEEEBAAG FLANGE-IN-A-POT.
No, not at all. Lawl, says he. No surprises, please. Well done. COCK!
And in further news, it's recently been discovered that you can actually get pregnant by sticking an ear in your gee. Ask Lola Sleevend about that one, as she's well used to it. O LOLA!
Yes, yes. COCK and hole, and all sorts of other tiring things. Lawl.
Asleep yes, and cock it is for hole. Poshbastard things. Where are you going at a thousand miles a second?
And in other news, cock. And a hole lot of other things. MICKEY. Sure fair play to all those people that do be doing things with themselves, and their mickeys owe cock.
No, indeed. Jemma's ma, your mickey, and my lez bean. El owe el. Puking isn't the best, and the government don't speak for us. So when you're not feeling very well at all at all you'd be better off puking right up in a large spiral.
Puking and puking in a widening gyre,
The vomit cannot hear the vomitor.
Take that Willie, you bloody cockfiddler. That's what you get for drumming all over your cliff-upon-cock, for it's always the way. You didn't even need a Hitler haircut to make you look like a Nazi GEEEEEEEEBAAG FLANGE-IN-A-POT.
No, not at all. Lawl, says he. No surprises, please. Well done. COCK!
And in further news, it's recently been discovered that you can actually get pregnant by sticking an ear in your gee. Ask Lola Sleevend about that one, as she's well used to it. O LOLA!
Yes, yes. COCK and hole, and all sorts of other tiring things. Lawl.
Asleep yes, and cock it is for hole. Poshbastard things. Where are you going at a thousand miles a second?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
The way things go.
My granny playing Rachmaninoff as the midgets have sex in the background.
A magic show in Stephen's Green with a greyhaired aulfella called Pat Magic. Well done. He's halfbrother of Pat Ingoldsby who does be selling his books down there where Bewley's used to be.
A pigeon called Jeffrey. Woman needs man, and pigeon must have her Jeffrey while we poison them in St Mark's, which nobody can deny. Woman needs man, but she's not allowed play Liszt. But my granny can play Rachmaninoff, fair play to her. Bang bang goes the midgets as they roide. I just love a hellbound hottie. Don't you? 'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, and makes every Sunday a treat for me, and that's meeting the Reverend Willy Wonka in the Green, a great achievement for David Kelly back in the 60s before he was skin, bones and bowtie. Mind you don't drop your chocolate. I won't, but keep your chips in the bag lest the midgets get them. To the tune of Rach 2. Rutting with Rachmaninoff. Congratulations.
Well done!
Don't feed the midgets. I got it from Agnes, didn't you know that old Hollywood is over. Mickey miiiickey mickeeey et al. Dulce ay decorum ay. Fuck Leeson Street, but don't fuck there unless you want to get arrested and spend the night up in Pearse Street Garda Station with your face red, and that's not for the sake of having a spoon up your arse either.
This is another one of those Poshbastard Leather Holiday Palace posts. Do the Masochism Tango, personally approved by Mrs Thatcher and her randy husband Dennis as Mrs Thatcher dons her pink frilly knickers all the way from Shauna's Naughty Adult Shop in Capel Street, just across the road from the Mashed Bananas. SDRAWBREEZ TWOFERAEURO. But she's old and grey now and Dennis wishes she was dead. But he's consoled by the memories of them whipping each other back in the 60s when he had his virility and agility and "ability" and other ilities, well done to him. God love him, all he has left now is disab. Hellbound hottie once more. Sure God love us all. Roide? Oh moy gawd, are you a northsoider?
Kisses. On the mickey. Puke. In the face!
That's very good. Just like Garro and his Cock, but sure we never see him in there, God love us. Well done to Rach 5 (communist) and the hot youngfla (fascist). Well done all round.
Claps.
Kisses.
A magic show in Stephen's Green with a greyhaired aulfella called Pat Magic. Well done. He's halfbrother of Pat Ingoldsby who does be selling his books down there where Bewley's used to be.
A pigeon called Jeffrey. Woman needs man, and pigeon must have her Jeffrey while we poison them in St Mark's, which nobody can deny. Woman needs man, but she's not allowed play Liszt. But my granny can play Rachmaninoff, fair play to her. Bang bang goes the midgets as they roide. I just love a hellbound hottie. Don't you? 'Course you do.
But there's one thing that makes spring complete for me, and makes every Sunday a treat for me, and that's meeting the Reverend Willy Wonka in the Green, a great achievement for David Kelly back in the 60s before he was skin, bones and bowtie. Mind you don't drop your chocolate. I won't, but keep your chips in the bag lest the midgets get them. To the tune of Rach 2. Rutting with Rachmaninoff. Congratulations.
Well done!
Don't feed the midgets. I got it from Agnes, didn't you know that old Hollywood is over. Mickey miiiickey mickeeey et al. Dulce ay decorum ay. Fuck Leeson Street, but don't fuck there unless you want to get arrested and spend the night up in Pearse Street Garda Station with your face red, and that's not for the sake of having a spoon up your arse either.
This is another one of those Poshbastard Leather Holiday Palace posts. Do the Masochism Tango, personally approved by Mrs Thatcher and her randy husband Dennis as Mrs Thatcher dons her pink frilly knickers all the way from Shauna's Naughty Adult Shop in Capel Street, just across the road from the Mashed Bananas. SDRAWBREEZ TWOFERAEURO. But she's old and grey now and Dennis wishes she was dead. But he's consoled by the memories of them whipping each other back in the 60s when he had his virility and agility and "ability" and other ilities, well done to him. God love him, all he has left now is disab. Hellbound hottie once more. Sure God love us all. Roide? Oh moy gawd, are you a northsoider?
Kisses. On the mickey. Puke. In the face!
That's very good. Just like Garro and his Cock, but sure we never see him in there, God love us. Well done to Rach 5 (communist) and the hot youngfla (fascist). Well done all round.
Claps.
Kisses.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Neo-con environmental tourism
Mrs. Thatcher's leather holiday palace in Poshbastard Lancashire.co.uk. Please reuse your tourist guides of Edinbugger castle, the London Eye (which has already been burned down), Christchurch, Airhead, Superquinn in Finglas and the Eiffel Tower which was relocated to Paris from New York (thanks Chris).
The Great Barrier Reef has opened a new campsite today which you can use while utilising ill-fitting dot com-dom over one's bottle of white (Sauvignon Blanc) wine. make sure you use your piccolo flute in the swimming
Vote now, vote for the new Voluntary Euthanasia Bill. The Irish government is so full of shite now that they are swallowing (OooOohOh says the gay guy again) those European bastard values.
Mickey Terenure. There once was a boy named Sue. He enjoyed putting condiments all over his hands and other people's noses. He grew up to become (OooOooh!) Mr(s). Henderson. Gee. That's another midget question to be answered another day, another time.
Isn't it awfully nice to have a EPNS, especially when it's modelled by RO'G (and when it comes to pissing). Sure it's lovely to be wearing crispacketsoncock.com, but it does indeed be nice to have your hole. "I have me hole," says yer woman, but sure isn't better to have a cockmickey than a geehole? OOooooOooh yes says D. Norris!
The Great Barrier Reef has opened a new campsite today which you can use while utilising ill-fitting dot com-dom over one's bottle of white (Sauvignon Blanc) wine. make sure you use your piccolo flute in the swimming
Vote now, vote for the new Voluntary Euthanasia Bill. The Irish government is so full of shite now that they are swallowing (OooOohOh says the gay guy again) those European bastard values.
Mickey Terenure. There once was a boy named Sue. He enjoyed putting condiments all over his hands and other people's noses. He grew up to become (OooOooh!) Mr(s). Henderson. Gee. That's another midget question to be answered another day, another time.
Isn't it awfully nice to have a EPNS, especially when it's modelled by RO'G (and when it comes to pissing). Sure it's lovely to be wearing crispacketsoncock.com, but it does indeed be nice to have your hole. "I have me hole," says yer woman, but sure isn't better to have a cockmickey than a geehole? OOooooOooh yes says D. Norris!
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