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

Where Is Your God Now?

I can encourage others, but I can’t encourage myself. I can try to give others peace, but my own mind is scattered into a million pieces. I can give others sound Biblical advice, but I question my own convictions. I can pray for others, but feel unworthy to approach the Throne of God and ask for His mercy. I can be a shoulder for others to cry on, but am unable to shed a tear.

I posted this to FB the other night, and got maybe a few responses and a few likes. Was I looking for people’s reaction? Possibly. Others can post about a fight they had with their significant other, or pictures of themselves sitting smashed at a bar, and they get all sorts of likes and comments. A man, such as myself, bears a portion of his soul to “friends” and he gets hardly a reaction.

I’m still struggling with the whole saved by grace and thou shall not inherit the kingdom of heaven thing. It confuses me. I’m still trying to sort it out! How many times does the Bible say will not inherit the kingdom of heaven? Maybe you know, because I don’t. I don’t have the energy to look it up.

But I’m wondering if struggling for years with a particular sin to where it has virtually worn you down to nothing, and God sits on his throne on high, and you’ve pleaded with him to help you, and no matter how hard you pray when temptation comes, the temptation just gets worse and worse and it overwhelms you until you give in, and then you feel like shit for two weeks, searching for something to bring you back into God’s good graces…it wears you down!

If the Bible says that certain people will not inherit the kingdom of heaven, and these same people love the Lord, but they struggle with something in their lives, then what’s the use of them trying? It seems to me that God would want to help these people, even a little. Just enough to let them know he is there; that he hasn’t left them; that he hasn’t forgotten about them; that he isn’t ashamed of them! After all, Paul wrote that God is able to do insurmountably more than what we ask.

Key word is able. Doesn’t say he will.

Not long ago on my way home from work, I stopped off at a church and shouted to the Lord, and laid all of my frustrations out for him to see. And I asked for his help. And I have heard nothing.

And the only thought that rings in my head, the one thing that Satan brings to my doorstep is: Where Is Your God Now?!

Graveyard Night

Laid to Rest

Here I am again. Laying black roses on yet another memory. I don’t want to talk about it. At least, not yet.

Rain spatters on my black felt hat; the sound is soothing. I can almost set my heartbeat to it. My hands are so cold and the joints ache. When I get back to the house, a hot mug of coffee with a nip of whiskey might do the trick.

The world is a cruel place. It can beat us to our knees and keep us there; drowning in the muddy water. I almost drowned once. That was a terrifying experience, let me tell you!

The memory of that day is buried somewhere down the line, marked with some obscure headstone.

It is said the definition of Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. If that be the case, then my life is insane! Why do I fuck up time and time again, and think that I won’t have remorse?

Another memory too painful to tell; another mirror I will avoid. When you feel like a hollowed out pumpkin, it is easy for the devil to fill it with whatever he wants!

In the distance is my hellhound. Do you see him? He just went behind that headstone. He appears to be a little itchy to get after me as of late; been running a little slim on the trespassers. I may have to stop in town and pick him up a vagrant or two.

In the meantime, I’m going to get out of this rain. That whiskey is calling to me.


I’m Not Beautiful

If these weathered, old headstones-with chunks missing and dates scratched out-have taught me anything, is that I’m not Beautiful.  A cold wind sweeps the ground and it reminds me of the desolation of my heart.  When it comes to the sins I am guilty of, people can ask if my conscience ever bothers me:

Answer: Every Fucking Day!

An angel stands like a giant in the middle of the cemetery; its wings of faith broken off.  I used to think that I write to purge my soul, get some introspective feedback and deal with my pain.  Now, I wonder, if it isn’t the other way around.  In other words: I wonder if I remain in my own personal realm of hell just so I will have something to write about.

Theologians and the self-help gurus of the world can claim that it’s our mistakes that make us beautiful.  But I don’t feel beautiful, or relatively handsome.  I feel like a filthy rag (Isaiah 64:6).

Alone and decrepit.

Graveyard Night