A Little Late in Coming

Today is so bleak, so drab, so somber. If I wasn’t wanting to hang myself from a balcony or blow my brains out, I believe I’d sit somewhere and stare aimlessly out the window. That is, of course, depending on whether or not I can be left alone long enough to do it.

The Lexapro I’m on seemed to be helping at first, but now? Now I’m not so sure. I don’t know if it’s the weather, the medicine, or both, but fuck! I feel like strangling myself today.

It’s difficult to concentrate, to get my thoughts out. My writing style, I think, definitely has changed.

You know, I’ve been thinking about this for a while: I’m convinced that I will never have anything nice in life. The nicest thing that I have is my car. And the fucking bumper has been wrecked twice!

On Halloween, we took our boys trick or treating, and one of the neighborhoods we hit up was the wealthy neighborhood. You would think that more of them open their homes to trick or treating, but they don’t. Be that as it may, it didn’t prevent me from becoming envious of what these people had.

I’m sure these people have worked hard for what they have and I would hope they wouldn’t look down on me. About the only major appliances that I have owned were a washer and dryer. That’s it! Each and every single stove that apartment complexes have provided have been nothing but pieces of shit!

Ugh. I’m rambling. You must forgive me.

I think I’m gonna stop right there. I hope you all have a wonderful day.

Graveyard Night


Loser Today

I feel like a loser today. Restless and ill content. I could say that I don’t know what the culprit is; I could be like a woman and talk around the issue, but I won’t. I downloaded a shit ton of porn yesterday.

It happens every time.

How many men do you know of that have piles of porn magazines or X-rated movies say they don’t like it? I hope I’m not in the minority.

Just as cocaine and alcohol are damaging to the body, porn is damaging to the mind. I know this. And yet, I feel powerless to stop it.

If I go cold Turkey on porn, I am driven to madness hearing the erotic moans and the leg and feet placement of a woman getting fucked. It haunts my mind in the waking hours.

Any man who hasn’t dealt with the addiction to pornography better consider themselves blessed.

It’s maddening!

Graveyard Night


A hollow wind blows through the graveyard. My hellhound is missing! I stand amongst the gray, decaying markers, and whistle and call his name. But nothing. No bark. Not even a whimper.

First, my caretaker! Now my hellhound!

He was an old man with a balding head and curved back. Vietnam veteran. ‘Fraid of nothing because he had already seen the worst that mankind had to offer.

I told him what lurks in the woods beyond, stay on the grounds, and keep my hound fed. Seems like he didn’t listen. I must have looked like Van Helsing marching into those woods to find his body.

A Van Helsing, I can assure you, I am not. I found his body down by Shadow Creek. Its waters run black with the souls of the damned. He had puncture marks all over his body.

His body was-what’s that word I’m looking for?-exsanguinated? He was a bit lighter than I expected as I carried him back to burn him. From the midst of the woods, I could feel eyes upon me, twigs and branches broke behind me.

But I didn’t dare look back! No! Never look back! The moment that you look back is the moment they have you! Haven’t you seen all the horror flicks?!

So, here I am! Sweat drying on my brow from standing beside the incinerator. Have you ever caught the scent of burning flesh? It’s the most God-awful, pungent odor imaginable. It’s especially worse when you’re burning a vampire!

My incinerator is in the basement. A vent sucks out all the ashes and spews them into the atmosphere. I haven’t used it in a long, long time. For vampires, that is.

As I carried the old man down the steps, I knew my time was short. His body was twitching, and not in concert with my steps. Laying him on a steel cart, I sprinkled his body with holy water. Nothing. That’s another myth I’m not sure about.

I grabbed a heavy chain, hooked it to a loop and began to criss-cross it down his body. My heart was thumping in my chest. Outside, light was fading and I could see his muscles convulsing! No doubt he could hear the beat of my heart.

Just as I was about to send the chain through the last loop, his right arm broke the chain! I cried out in terror! His skin was a grotesque white and I could see every vein in his body. The old man sat up on the cart, his back straightened by death!

Eyes as black as my heart stared back at me. His lips were curled back, revealing two four-inch fangs, and on the inside of those close to his incisors, shorter fangs, but just as deadly. His guttural hissing echoed off the walls!

I stumbled backwards, clutching the wall for a machete I knew was there. Each limb in my body felt like lead, and his demonic chuckle froze my heart. With just a flash, just a whir, he swiped at me with his right hand. Pain stung my left cheek and blood oozed between my fingers.

“I can hear your heart, boss! You’re terrified! They’re coming for you! All of them! Where is your hound now?!”

One ring of the chain after another broke. The sound of his disembodied voice chilled my bones. Suddenly, my right hand clutched the worn, wooden handle of the machete. I yanked it off the wall, and with a wide arc, sent the homemade blade through arm! His shriek was horrifying and nearly deafened me!

A nub a few inches long flopped wildly. There was the small circle of bone and gray, decaying flesh. His mouth opened twice its size and he roared at me with all the fury of hell. Grasping the handle with both hands, I raised it high above my head and charged.

The blade, blessed by a priest, sunk into the middle of his chest with a hollow thump! He stared up at me with those black eyes. And for a moment, I sensed a minuscule portion of his humanity. But that’s foolish thinking, isn’t it? Black slime ran from his mouth and covered his chin.

All strength appeared to leave his body. With his limp left hand, he clutched at my shoulder. His nails, sharp as razors, rendered useless.

“I told you to stay out of those God damned woods!”

I drove him back down on the cart with a mighty heave. The scrape of my blade slicing through the slab was ear piercing. His body thrashed upon his deathbed as I wheeled him over to the furnace and shoved him in.

After several seconds, once the fire burned away the flesh, he became silent. I was drenched in sweat and the left side of my face burned. Blood covered my neck and shoulder. As I climbed my basement stairs to the outside world, I could hear the violent cry of the vampires.

They were angry! I killed one of their own kind; their creation. They had taken something from me, and I had taken it back. I evened the score.

They’re coming for you!

And still no sign of my hound. Without him, I don’t know how I will keep the vampires at bay.

Like I said, I’m no Van Helsing!

Graveyard Night

The Night Closes

Do you ever just sit and think? I do. Sometimes, I think of funny things, happy things, pleasant memories and not-so-pleasant memories. I worry about the future and the past. Kind of redundant to worry about the past, isn’t it?

Nevertheless, I think about it! A lot!

But then, I think of thimgs that have absolutely nothing to do with me; situations that could be real or not. You know, kind of like those disclaimers that authors put a few pages into their books, saying that “any similarities to actual persons is subject to the author’s imagination and is purely coincidental.” Stephen King is big on that! With probably more than seventy books published, he would have to be.

I guess that’s what I will call it. Not coincidental, imagination!

Like the man who comes home to find his wife peeling away her sweaty workout clothes. A simple initiation soon turns into a wrestling match. Nothing malicious, mind you. It’s happened before and produced excellent results. But this time is different. The husband winds up with a sore crotch, a deep gash on his forehead from being spun around by a right hook and smashing his head on the foot board, and a busted eye to round it out.

The wife stares at her fist in shock, and shock turns to horror when she sees the blood pooling on the floor. He climbs to his feet and staggers out of the room. She tries to help him, but he shuns her. Dressing in haste, he is careful to keep the blood from his eye. And with a towel covering half of his face, he stumbles out the door and heads to the hospital.

With the excuse of many battered women being that they fell down the stares, I wonder what his excuse will be? Dinner plans for that night are canceled. The husband receives several stitches and is diagnosed with a concussion. How does a traumatic event such as this affect their marriage? Their sex life?

What of the man who attempts to rape a woman? He’s been divorced for nearly two years and his self-esteem is nonexistent. It isn’t until he has her naked except for her underwear that he realizes what he’s trying to do. The look of terror on her face is like a stake in his heart.

He’s had a lot of those lately.

The woman curls into a defensive ball as he slides off the bed and falls to his knees, weeping. Is he for real? Is this all just an act to gain her sympathy? Maybe get her to lower her defenses?

The weeping continues for several minutes. By then the man is facedown, too exhausted to move. She thinks of calling the police, but hesitates. Quietly, she sets her feet on the floor, and quickly pulls on her clothes. She’s about ready to set foot out the door, when he stops her.

“I’ll give you a ride home.” He sits up. And for the first time, she sees him for who he truly is: a man exhausted, scorned and betrayed, rejected. She surprises herself by accepting.

The ride home is long and silent. Brakes squeal as he pulls up to the curb.

“Why didn’t you…finish?” she asks, not looking at him.

“That…look on your face. How you said ‘please’…I must have looked the same way when I begged my wife not to leave me.” He was crying again. This was a man who was truly wounded. “I’ve tried dating since. All the women rejected me for one reason or another. You don’t have to call the police. I ain’t gonna be doing this any time soon.”

She leaves his car without saying a word. From her front door, she watches as he drives down to the stoplight. She could call the police. For all she knows, she may not be the only woman he’s sexually assaulted. But, then again, maybe he won’t do it again.

She’s too tired to think, too tired to make a decision. Just as she inserts the key into the knob, she takes a final look back at the light. Suddenly, the man’s taillights turn off and he speeds off into the intersection. An 18-wheeler, traveling in excess of fifty miles per hour, slams into the driver side. The car slides off into oncoming traffic, and is struck by a pickup truck.

She sprints down to the intersection and sees his bloody body hanging halfway out of the mangled car. The weight of his sin was too much for him to bear; pain too great and peace too elusive. Falling to her knees, she let’s out a primal scream!

The night closes and the lights go dim…

Graveyard Night


Once upon a time, I used this blog for not only the obnoxious rants, like the one you read today, but for erotica. I love to write erotica. But more than that, I also like to visualize it. Not only as the author, but as the reader. So here is my first erotic work on this blog since WordPress shut it down and made me clear all of my graphic, X-rated writings. If erotica makes you squeamish, or you’re easily offended, move on past. Otherwise, I hope you enjoy.

Graveyard Night

The last patron left the bar. Plenty of people had been upset with the outcome of Monday Night Football. Grumbling voices and men ratcheting their brains for desperate excuses as to how they were able to lose so much money.

And now she and Bookie stood alone in the bar.

As he sneered at her from behind that carefully manicured goatee, it felt as if her body were about to come apart. It’s hard to deny cash when so much of it flows through your hands. Sometimes, it has a way of getting misplaced; say, over a thousand dollars. But then, Bookie caught her, and Bookie was angry.

It wasn’t pretty when Bookie was angry.

He had threatened to beat her husband with a lead pipe, destroy her car and burn down her house. But Leah pleaded for another way!

A hundred fuckings for a thousand dollars, is what he told her. I fuck you a hundred times and it clears your debt. You keep your house, your car, your job, and your husband stays in one piece!

Leah slowly dropped to her knees and Bookie stepped in front of her. She closed her eyes as she opened the fly of his trousers, and extracted a swollen scrotum and thick, flaccid cock. Steve hadn’t been fanatical about her working in such deplorable place as Bookie’s. The clientele were horrendous, the hours were long, and the women’s uniforms made them look like hookers.

A shudder of worry would flow through his veins and settle on his brain whenever he saw her walk out the door, dressed in a tight blouse, short skirt, and high-heeled shoes. His contracting business wasn’t taking off quite like he had hoped. And Leah insisted that working at the bar was good money; and if there was a good point to Bookie, it was that he protected his girls, as he called them. Any patron that stepped out of line, meant that they would soon make friends with Bookie’s fist, then the gravel parking lot.

“Oh, yes! Suck it like you want it! Look up at me! Fuck, yes! I know you like it! I know you like my cock!”

Leah refrained from saying anything. As pre-cum oozed from the large port opening of his well-rounded head and clung to her tongue like slime, she thought of the money she had stuffed into her purse. A hundred here, a hundred there. But all those hundreds eventually led her to where she was now.

“I love how you’re slurping on it!” Bookie said with a wide grin. Leah remained silent. She licked the shaft from one end to the other, and went back to sucking. As good as she was at giving a blow job, she was only able to fit the head and a few inches into her mouth.

Was she doing too good of a job? How many times could she have sex with an unscrupulous man before she lost her mind?

Leah didn’t want to admit the sexual arousal she was feeling inside. Most of all, she didn’t want to admit it to Bookie. Stroking the shaft, she spread saliva and pre-cum over the taught skin. The flesh of her middle finger and thumb barely met. She had maintained silence so far, but how was she going to fare once it came to him putting himself inside of her?

As if sensing her thoughts, he pulled her mouth from him and said, “take off your panties and lay down on the table.” Leah did as she was told. Down over her black thigh high stockings and shoes, she tossed her thong underwear to the side. Bookie stared down at her like a gluttonous pig.

I’m only doing this for my family, she told herself when he stepped between her legs. Breathing deep, she held onto the edge of the table as he ran the head up and down her slit, parting her labia. I’m only doing this…

Her throat emitted a startled cry as nearly half his cock sunk into her. The entrance, not to mention, the tunnel had been stretched beyond their customary width. Out and in his cock slowly went and the pain soon subsided. Leah moaned softly when the sensation became more pleasurable.

In the silence of the bar, the only thing that could be heard was each other’s heavy breathing, and the ticking of the clock…

Nothing like a Dirty Joke

One day a funeral director noticed something odd about a woman’s body in the embalming room. He went and got the second director and said, “come quick! There’s a shrimp sticking out of that woman’s pussy!”

The second director could hardly believe it, but he had to see for himself.

“You idiot!” he fumed. “That isn’t a shrimp! That’s a clitoris!”

“Huh,” said the first director. “It sure tastes like shrimp!”

Graveyard Night