Archive for the Fun Category

Tell Me Something about Yourself…

Posted in A Dirty Mind is A Terrible Thing To Waste, A Womens Flower, Collaboration, Dangerous and Unsavory ideas that are possibly harmful to the weak-mided and overly simplistic and religious, Fun, His Penis Her Vagina, Humor, Imp Of The Perverse, Jantor To The Temple Of The Holy of Holies, Just For Fun, Liason Between Parties, Mature Theme, Much Too Good For Children, NSFW, Possibly Dangerous to Everyone, Sex, This Thing we do with Words, Vagina with tags , , , , on April 4, 2015 by dreamlanddancing

Tell Me Something about Yourself…

I want to compile a survey of what words each of us consider our term of choice for our own (semi)private parts.

Some time back, I collaborated on a post called “His Penis, Her Vagina” to explore how difficult it is to write “Literotica” without excessive repetition.

Part two of the survey would be to compile a list of your favorite word(s) to describe the naughty parts of the opposite sex.

If more than two people respond, I will post the results.

If you wish to be identified as to your choices, I will post that also.

Namasté

नमस्ते

Chazz Vincent

 

Apologia

Posted in Acknowledgement, Dangerous and Unsavory ideas that are possibly harmful to the weak-mided and overly simplistic and religious, Dirty, Drug Experience, Enhanced and Fortified non-fiction, Erotic Poetry, Explicit Sexual Language, Fornicating, Fun, gratitutde, Imp Of The Perverse, Keep Coming Back, Liason Between Parties, longreads, Love, Mature Theme, Memoires of a Post-Neo Dharma Bum, Much Too Good For Children, NSFW, Philosophical Sexuality, Poetry, Polyamory, Possibly Dangerous to Everyone, Primate Romance/Adventure, Sex, Sexual Action/Adventure, The Id, Thorn Tree in the Garden with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 25, 2014 by dreamlanddancing

Apologia

Even if you aren’t reading this,

this moment,

…these words

this testament

is for all of you,

as well as for each of you…

the heroines

of all my never-ending

torch songs.

Perhaps I wasn’t your best friend after all,

but not for nothing…

you can’t say I didn’t try.

I’m a weaver of dreams,

a conjuror of spells,

but I fear that

the realities

I brought you

did not live up

to the Great Expectations

I inspired

until I had thoroughly

disappointed

the Dickens out of you.

“I’m sorry”

I say

“Is there nothing I can do?”

I ask

as you sadly shake your head (“no”).

(Also not for nothing)

as a small part of me dies

inside.

This is what I do

time and again.

‘til you’d think

I would grow weary of it,

but no, I just grow so very,

very…very weary

of letting you down again.

I didn’t want to be that guy…

after all…

I was the guy who taught you

Grand Theft Auto

(and not the video game…)

The guy who took you

camping, or

fishing, or

smuggling,

or diving

or hunting

or running guns

or forbidden contraband

across state lines,

screwing

like cats in heat

at turnpike rest stops,

driving too many hours

with too little sleep

were it not for

“better living through chemistry”

.

You were the first to jump right in with me

scoring,

or eating

or snorting

or smoking

or shooting

or vaporizing

whatever magic

helped raise the ante

back when it was still fun

to live dangerously and without fear…

walking past chalklines

to do the Devil’s bidding

like it was a game of (hip-) hop-scotch

when copping a feel

or stolen kisses

still took

our breath away.

I was the guy

your parents

warned you about

even after they found me

charming, witty

and bright,

because they didn’t know

I was that other guy…

Of course that was

a big part

of the appeal….

I was the Serpent in the Garden

and you were my

Primordial Eve.

You became my

co-conspirator.

You followed me to

sleazy clubs

in basements

underground

or

practice houses

in bad neighborhoods,

a haunted house

way out in the country

next to a cemetery

where

no one else would live

or warehouse districts

or

wherever I could find a place

to play guitar

so loud you thought your

eyeballs would bleed

and your ears would ring for weeks

afterward,

where we would hold out

like outlaws

day and night.

You went with me

to pistol ranges,

rifle ranges,

and dojos,

living in houses

filled with

guns and ammo

(not the magazine….),

the walls of entire rooms

lined with amplifiers to the ceiling,

guarded by dangerous-looking dogs

who loved you

almost as much as me

and

would have killed for you

just as you would have for me

or I for you

even when it seemed like that moment

was just around the next turn in the story

and there was a knife and a gun

in every drawer

and under each pillow.

We slept in tents,

on floors

in cars and trucks,

or high-rise apartments

overlooking the bay

that we could never afford

were it not for the

generous benefactors

we chose to entertain.

We watched porn together.

We made porn together

and everything we did

was either Art or Music.

We painted everything in sight.

We sketched and photographed

each other

while we played and sang

with such conviction

I don’t know how

our hearts didn’t burst.

We learned to dance

the Apocalypso

on the razor’s edge

‘til dawn

and got up and did it

all over again.

We drove way too fast

through downtown traffic

any time of day

whichever way we were going,

or late at night

along the beach

or up on the Interstate,

illuminated by

flamingo-pink

sodium vapor lights;

stopping on the causeways

overlooking Biscayne Bay

just long enough

to remind each other of who we were

and just where we were

just then.

When every moment alive together

was a miracle.

We fucked on the perimeter road

around MIA

with the planes

maybe a hundred feet

above our heads,

engines screaming

and one eye

looking out for cops

with nothing better to do

than to wish

they could have been us.

No matter where we went

or what we did

it seemed like

I could talk my way

into or out of

anywhere or anything

and charm the birds

from out of the trees,

particularly

if it meant staying out of jail

…or worse

(and most especially if I thought

it might impress you.)

But most of all,

I let every one of you down

in one way or another.

…so many memories

of that defining moment

when you knew it was over,

leaving me to figure it all out later….

I played grasshopper to your ant

well into our winter of discontent.

It didn’t turn out

happily ever after…

it never has

and probably never will,

for me or you….

Maybe it never does.

I just hope you can look back

and remember

those few golden moments we shared

with the same fondness,

with the same lack of reservations

we shared back then

before we gave a thought

to how it all might end,

because it was the beginnings

and everything

in between

that made it all worthwhile

for me…

and each ending too beautifully

poignantly sad

to just be forgotten

back when I was just me

and you were just you

before we ever thought about tomorrow….

If I had the chance

to do it all over again

I’d do it all over you.

It just took me too long to realize

that just not being

a bad person

didn’t

necessarily

make me

a very good person.

(…but not for nothing)

You can’t say I didn’t try.

Quite a few did some of it with me.

A few did most of it with me.

Who can say they did all of it,

and gave their all

with all of me?

(You know who you are,

n’est-ce pas?)

Just you…

Because before there was you and me,

Darlin’

each one of the others

saw something special

to show me about myself

that took me higher,

‘tho some cut me low

before they were thru.

But I cannot deny

each one didn’t teach me

a thing or two

I hadn’t yet learned

so that maybe

it wouldn’t happen

the same way

to me and you.

So here we are now

just you and just me

and those wantonly

willing hostages

whomever

we take

as we continue

together

until

The End.

THFWS&TTM’s: The Reception

Posted in Celebration, Dangerous and Unsavory ideas that are possibly harmful to the weak-mided and overly simplistic and religious, Enhanced and Fortified non-fiction, Fun, Imp Of The Perverse, Liason Between Parties, Long Form, longreads, Mature Theme, Metaphysical Action/Adventure, Much To Good For Children, Novel, NSFW, Philosophical Sexuality, Polyamory, Possibly Dangerous to Everyone, Primate Romance/Adventure, Sex, Sexual Action/Adventure, The Home For Wayward Souls, The Rain Dance, The Talking Monkeys, Theater of the Mind with tags , , , , , , , , on August 23, 2014 by dreamlanddancing

The Reception: THFWS&TTM’s
Anastasia arrived late to the wedding, and was sitting in the last row, behind and slightly to the right of Stanley Linderman, and the only one to notice when he wiped the tear from his eye. He was trying so hard to disguise the evidence of his emotional response he did not even notice Anastasia pretending not to notice at all.
But she did, and it intrigued her more than she intended to let on, at least at first. She could spot an MIB in a crowd in seconds…hell she was married to one, and she knew what they liked…at least the “right” ones.
She had always been a free spirit and had insisted that she be able to pursue her occasional romantic interests as long as they did not interfere with her basic commitment to her marriage. She hated the term polyamory for reasons she never bothered to explain, but it appeared that her biggest issue was with the idea of loving anyone other than your spouse. She preferred to regard her outside sexual adventures as more recreational than amorous.
Her husband knew better than to try to dictate too many rules to a woman like Anastasia, but they had mutually agreed upon a few. One of which was that she was not allowed to “cast her nets” in the same waters in which her husband fished, and preferably no one at DOD at all.
That wasn’t always easy but as sure as “rules are rules”, someone will decide to bend them without breaking them, and Anastasia was famous for being “bent, but not broken” herself.
Because of this, she demanded the utmost discretion from all of her lovers, especially the ones that worked for “three-letter agencies”. Most of them required equal discretion on her part as well, and that helped minimize the “tacky factor” of the actions and communications of indiscrete lovers who did not have at least as much to lose as she did, and governed their actions accordingly.
Her husband’s career required frequent travel, often outside the country. They had been married for over twenty years and a lot of water had passed under the bridge in that time.
Stanley was charged with taking Frederick back to the Habitat, once the reception was over. Usually, Darcy and Mark went with him after the services were over, but they anticipated this might stress Frederick to travel with Stanley alone, so they did it several times prior to the wedding, just to get him acclimated to the experience.
Frederick seemed to like Stanley, and he sensed that Stanley liked him, which he did. They both could be intimidating and they both seemed to admire each other’s power and confidence, but ever since Frederick had started to communicate with Stanley by signing to him when no one else was paying attention, Stan’s fascination with Frederick’s apparent ability to read Stan’s mind had not only gotten Stan’s attention, but his respect as well.
It had become a sort of cat-and-mouse game they played. Frederick would sign to Stan, and Stan would pretend not to understand, and then Frederick would respond to whatever Stan was thinking as if he had signed back.
Frederick continued with smug amusement as Stan began to purposefully try to test Frederick’s abilities until one day last week when he signed “I know why you can’t sign back…it’s OK…our secret…for now….”
Stanley Linderman was not a man who was given to “hocus-pocus”, “mumbo-jumbo” or even most forms of organized religion. His understanding with Frederick went considerably outside his comfort zone and there was no one with whom he felt he could confide on the subject, but he continued this game with his simian charge because for one thing, it amused and intrigued him and for another, Frederick continued to push the envelope whenever he was given the opportunity.
Sebastian had told Stan to remain at the reception as long as it seemed appropriate so as to be able to continue to gather whatever intel could be gleaned from his association with the members of The Home for Wayward Souls, and Stan was becoming rather fond of the experiences he was having at the Sanctuary, despite the necessity of his feigned disdain for the assignment so as not to become suspect of having gone “native” and having Sebastian remove him from it.
Frederick had developed a great deal of affection for Anastasia ever since she had met Charles and Suki, and tonight he decided to play matchmaker between her and Stan, as he already was aware of her attraction for him.
After the perfunctory toasts and assorted rigmarole associated with almost all wedding receptions, the real festivities got into high gear. Frederick never missed an opportunity to dance, so after dancing with all the brides (Darcy, Kali, and Suki) he enthusiastically insisted that Anastasia join him on the floor when the DJ played the New York Dolls’ recording of “The Monkey Dance” at Darcy’s suggestion. She had introduced it to Frederick some time ago, and it was probably his single favorite tune.
Anastasia had a wickedly playful sense of humor and she and Frederick put on such a show that soon the entire crowd had surrounded the two of them as the cavorted to the song.
When they finished, everyone applauded the couple as Frederick bowed and then pulled Anastasia by the hand over to Stan whereupon he placed her hand in Stan’s, signing “Dance…you two should get to know each other.”
Although he blushed slightly, as usual, Stan shrugged his broad shoulders in feigned ignorance of Frederick’s meaning until Mark volunteered “He wants you two to dance.” and Darcy chimed in “He also wants you to be friends.”
Stan noticed the subtle difference between the translation and what had been signed and pretended not to notice the difference, although Darcy had already suspected that Stan knew more than he let on.
“Anastasia, meet Stan, Frederick’s bodyguard…Stan, meet Anastasia, one of the most interesting women you may ever meet.” Darcy winked at Anastasia as she gave her introduction.
“You can say that again…” Charles and Suki chimed in almost spontaneously, and Suki giggled like a schoolgirl as they did.
The DJ played “The Lady Lies” by Genesis. Both Stan and Anastasia seemed slightly unprepared for a slower dance, let alone a waltz, given all the upbeat craziness of the Monkey Dance that had preceded it, but she was not at all shy and was glad to get the opportunity to get up close and personal with him, and he was relieved that he didn’t have to compete with the show Frederick and Anastasia had just put on. They were a hard act to follow, and Stan wasn’t really that much of a dancer and he would not have had the courage to approach her on his own.
That was one of the things she liked about him. Much like her husband, Stan had already proven himself to be courageous under fire and had distinguished himself many times in his abilities to handle even the most menacing forms of confrontation in his (classified) professional career (whatever that was), but he was a little bit old-fashioned and shy with women.
Most women found that quality to be charming; no lack of personal confidence in general and yet none of the arrogance and swagger that most women find repulsive…Stan was actually quite the ladies’ man once things got started (usually by them), but his career and the secrecy that accompanied it usually doomed his romances fairly early on in the relationship.
That made him a perfect fit for Anastasia.
“I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna be a tight fit,” she thought as she pulled herself a little closer to Stan as they danced. It had been her finding that many large, muscular men came up a bit short below the waist, and although she claimed to not be a “size-queen” her husband had occasionally joked about getting her a tattoo of a ruler on the inside of her left forearm, just because she seemed to be a magnet for well-endowed men.
Stan was well over six feet tall and Anastasia was about four-foot-fourteen, so when they danced together his belt line was almost up to her nipple line, and she could feel the growing prominence of his package as she coyly, but provocatively rubbed her body against his in a discreetly but very effective manner.
She sensed that a disturbance in her paradigm about sexual escapades was about to begin; that there was a foreboding of danger and excitement not usually found in her previous experiences that fascinated her, that made her heart race, her head spin, and nearly took her breath away, like driving past an accident possessed by the uncontrollable desire to look no matter how much you fear that what you may see could be something you may never be able to forget.
“Wherever this leads, I’m not sure, but it sure as hell is going to be very interesting,” she mused. “…and I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Requiem for a Kiss

Posted in A Dirty Mind is A Terrible Thing To Waste, Appreciation, Dangerous and Unsavory ideas that are possibly harmful to the weak-mided and overly simplistic and religious, Erotic Poetry, Fornicating, Fun, Jantor To The Temple Of The Holy of Holies, Liason, Love, Mature Theme, Much Too Good For Children, NSFW, Philosophical Sexuality, Poetry, Possibly Dangerous to Everyone, Sex, Sexual Action/Adventure, The Id, Theater of the Mind with tags , , , , , on June 15, 2014 by dreamlanddancing

That first time

when our lips first met

it seemed as if

they would stay

together,

smashed between us

forever.

Stuck on each other

like love-bugs

on a windshield.

*****

We undressed each other

with lips pressed,

smeared,

wet and

wanton

as if the electricity that powered

our mutual seduction

was conducted solely through our mouths,

lips and tongue

so that we dared not break contact

or loose continuity.

*****

Once engaged and coupled,

our mouths explored

each other’s

neck,

ears,

and face.

Eyes closed,

then

eyes half-opened,

dreamily exploring

the visual landscape

of this new frontier

we had conquered

and claimed

together.

Then eyes wide open

staring deeply,

falling through

each other’s pupils

that engulfed each other

as we jumped

into the volcano,

vaporized;

falling and burrowing

ever deeper

down the rabbit hole

with no way back

and no desire to find

our way home backwards

as we knew this was

exactly where we wanted to be,

forever falling.

*****

I miss

that kiss.

*****

We’ve been down that way

a few times since,

but there can be only one

first time.

Nuestro primer beso.

私たちの最初のキス

Notre premier baiser.

Il nostro primo bacio.

. הנשיקה הראשונה שלנו

لدينا أول قبله

наш первый поцелуй

(Our First Kiss.)

Now is the time to discover

all the new places

in each of us

we’ve overlooked

for too long.

Dare to be.

Dare to acknowledge.

Dare to accept.

Dare to provoke

all the others

we can be

into action,

into being

from out of banishment

and hibernation

from

out of the light and into the darkness.

and out of the darkness into the light

Phantom lovers we can be

to someone we have never

known before

‘though we have been there

all along.

*****

A million new

First Kisses

dwell inside of each of us

if we but set aside

the paradigms of clichés

we have

spun together

and trust

we shall always

meet again

as us,

only different.

My forever lover.

My forever friend.

The Snowball Fight

Posted in A Dirty Mind is A Terrible Thing To Waste, A Womens Flower, Dangerous and Unsavory ideas that are possibly harmful to the weak-mided and overly simplistic and religious, Dirty, Explicit Sexual Language, Fornicating, Fun, Human Stew, Humor, Imp Of The Perverse, Jantor To The Temple Of The Holy of Holies, Just For Fun, Liason Between Parties, Mature Theme, Much Too Good For Children, Naked, NSFW, Philosophical Sexuality, Polyamory, Possibly Dangerous to Everyone, Primate Romance/Adventure, Sex, Sexual Action/Adventure, Snowballing, the dark kiss, The Id, Theater of the Mind with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 9, 2014 by dreamlanddancing

The Snowball Fight

I love porn, but I don’t watch it very often anymore. I have almost never paid to watch it, and it has been years since I purchased any of it, yet it comes to me like a long-lost lover whom I am obligated to give witness without having sought her in the first place.
I am no expert on porn either. I used to know the names of most of the male and female leads who were distributed by Cal Vista during the seventies and eighties, but that’s about it. No addiction to porn
Imagine…there I am, minding my own business…more addicted to my own imagination than anything, when along comes “The Beautiful People”….
I used to know one of them. I met her a while after she tried to quit the business, or the business quit her…I’m not really sure which came first. She rolled right up to the door of my E.R. on a motorcycle she had designed and painted herself. Her back was covered in the most beautiful monochrome single-needle cholo style Tree of Life I had ever seen and she had driven to my hospital with one leg in a cast up to her hip and one crutch.
In the rain.
She was a bit disheartened when she realized I did not recognize her, but she only fucked for love or sport by the late eighties, and my ignorance made me an enigma to her.
The business had already changed at least once on her since she got her start, and she had the good sense to get out while she still had money in the bank and her house paid for. Fame is a fickle mistress and trends are like breezes on the beach.
Because I own a computer and possess a preternatural level of curiosity about Things Carnal I have noticed numerous subtle and unsubtle changes in the Industry and what it produces in terms of what and how and upon whom it chooses to focuses its lens.
I know it has been seen with more prevalence over the past several years, but I for one still feel a little uncomfortable watching the scenes where the actors and actresses spit onto either each other’s genitalia, or even into each other’s mouths.
I am not squeamish about “The Dark Kiss” (anilingus), nor do I shrink about swallowing, or even “Snowballing” (the reciprocated kiss), but even just the idea of being spat upon anywhere on my body set my comfort zone out of whack…until I thought up a script for a porno I would love to make with just the right players (no actors allowed; ‘ya gotta be a believer) just to enjoy the experience.
The film would be called “The Snowball Fight” because instead of simply passing the semen from mouth to mouth during a deep kiss, they would spit for at least several inches, or perhaps even several feet at the open mouth of the intended recipient. Of course, sometimes they will miss…but that’s just part of the fun.
But the object would be to conduct it like a Frisbee toss and catch, where the recipients sometimes make amazing efforts of skill and dedication resulting in saves that would make any major-league outfielder envious.
As a result, say for instance Lady A. blows Mister D. only to spit it across several feet to the open mouth of Lady S. before she transfers it into the mouth of say, Mister A who deposits it into the snatch of Lady S. (for safekeeping inside the goal-net).
Mister D. then goes down on Lady A. who has a great big surprise for him waiting inside her goal-net, courtesy of Mister A. whereupon Lady X. enters and gets on all fours so that Misters D. and A. can spit snowballs onto Lady X’s buttocks as Mister V. ravages her from behind, attempting to help push the spewed conglomerate of their combined viscous offerings back into the snatch of Lady X. while Lady S. lies on her back as she licks Lady X. impaled upon Mister V.’s viande.
Eventually, this could be shot along the lines of a Japanese bukkake film as Lady S., or even her designate, Lady A. could eventually receive the entire avalanche (“snowballs”) in a tsunami of viscous body fluids.
Oh, and BTW: No intention is made or implied as to the identity of any of the proposed players in the imaginary script.
If you prefer, you can go all Reservoir Dogs on it and call Lady A. Lady Red, and Lady S. could be Lady Yellow, and Mister A could be Mister Pink (he won’t like it any better than Steve Buscemi’s character did), Mister D. could be Mister White and Lady X. could be Lady Blue, and Mister V. would probably want to be Mister Black.
Upon reflection, it may be somewhat difficult to locate six really close intimate friends who are all into the same thing like this, unless they were all in a really silly mood, so as not to give it that edgy-nasty hard-core mood that was created in the films that I did see that contained elements of the above-proposed scenario. Maybe there are amateurs out there somewhere who are up to the task.
Or Maybe that’s just me.

A Funny Thing happened to me on the way to my Blog

Posted in A Dirty Mind is A Terrible Thing To Waste, Adventures of Captain Mike, Blogging, Collaboration, Cumming Back, Dangerous and Unsavory ideas that are possibly harmful to the weak-mided and overly simplistic and religious, Dirty, Drug Experience, Enhanced and Fortified non-fiction, Explicit Sexual Language, Fornicated, Fornicating, Fun, Goddess, Humor, Imp Of The Perverse, Interspecies Erotica, Jantor To The Temple Of The Holy of Holies, Liason Between Parties, Mature Theme, Memoires of a Post-Neo Dharma Bum, Much Too Good For Children, NSFW, Philosophical Sexuality, Polyamory, Possibly Dangerous to Everyone, Primate Romance/Adventure, Sexual Action/Adventure, Share The Love, Sorcery, Suki, The Id, The Rain Dance, Theater of the Mind, Tsukimono-suji, Vagina, What You Have Conjured Up, Witchcraft with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 4, 2014 by dreamlanddancing

A Funny Thing happened to me on the way to my Blog
I recently read a comment by one of our fellow bloggers that acknowledged the conflict we often face between our imagined obligations to feed this wood-chipper of words and ideas more material against the demands of our everyday lives.
Ah Duality! All is one, even when we don’t possess the eyes to recognize it.
Without all the stuff that keeps us too busy to write, we would have nothing to inspire us. So for that reason I have tried of late to make better choices about what stuff I allow to make me too busy to write. I’m at least twenty years behind schedule to attempt to do any justice to my life so far.
Too often, we act like teenagers who treat every incursion into the never-ending video gaming, texting reality show of their lives as if it was an interruption of our entitled play time.
Then again, it all depends on why you write….
I had just settled in to try to keep up with the story of my latest novel that is unfolding in my head faster than I can chronicle it when there was a knock at my door….
Unfortunately, it was not Ed McMahon…of course it wasn’t…he’s been dead for some time now. If it had been, that would mean that either I was also dead, or that I was dreaming. ..
Once, during a dream I smoked a joint with Sam Kinison shortly after he died. I suddenly realized the dilemma, and asked him how he was. He said he was fine, considering he had just gotten married again….
Instead it was Captain Mike and he was either trying to tell me about Wahoo hitting Ballyhoo in one hundred and sixty feet of water, or giant bull dolphins (Mahi, not Flipper) hanging out under the weed line six miles off shore.
Sometimes when he mixes the rum and the methadone it becomes very difficult to interpret his rants.
The really exciting/scary part is that in either case, he wants me to go with him. It is exciting because he has a very large fishing boat that he sometimes uses to make a considerable sum of money, which allows him to pay his chosen “first mate” more money than I make in a week to go fishing on my day off. I love to fish.
It is scary because in the twenty-five years I have known him, he has shown absolutely no regard for his own personal safety. He is Captain Ahab, The Ancient Mariner, The Old Man and the Sea, and Captains Bly and Queeg trapped in the body and brain of Gary Busey.
I have known him since he was an EMT-driver for the municipal emergency medical rescue service for which I worked many years ago as a paramedic.
He has the constitution of a cockroach and there are more than a few of us who believe it may be impossible to kill him. He frequently puts himself in predicaments that normal humans would never survive. That is where our friendship started…getting him out of trouble and managing to keep us both alive.
I could fill a whole book of short stories about his predilection for chaos. Maybe someday I will.
I also know that on more than one occasion, upon having participated in one of his hare-brained schemes surviving by margins as thin as half a coat of paint the sheer exhilaration of the experience often provoked me with an almost uncontrollable desire to summons the superhuman strength it would take to strangle the last breath from his body.
It has not been an easy friendship, and now shows no signs of getting any easier.
And yet somewhere, out of his considerable body of quirks, addictions, and proclivities for self-destructive urges there lurks a sort of creature that has never been seen in the light of day that hides inside his brain to prompt him to follow his preternatural ability to find and capture fish of every type and size. Shellfish, crab, and every sort of scaly, finny denizen of the great blue alike are the objects of his desire, and none are immune.
Women love him, fish fear him.
For him, the wind is never too high, or the water too rough. On one occasion, he piloted his craft back to dock with no wheelhouse or bridge left, sitting on a milk crate with the wheel trapped between his knees.
When the wheels of insanity are spinning inside his head he has talked me into participating in far too many adventures that involved multiple felonies and serious risk to life and limb.
We were at our best when we were taking huge risks to rescue patients without much serious regard for our own safety. The county for which we worked eventually made us sign a “hold harmless” form in case we got killed or injured doing any number of things such as going into the water before back-up arrived.
I always believed that when I was doing the right thing, or fighting the good fight, that I was somehow “protected”…maybe even invincible. But the rest of the time we were just a couple of red-ass fools who should have known better, but didn’t act like it.
Mike drove us down Blimp Road one night when we inducted yet another woman into the “Code Three Club” (think of the “Mile High Club” except in an ambulance with lights and sirens). She was a videographer tasked with following an EMS unit for twenty-four hours for a documentary she was going to make.
(I later married that last inductee….)
There are times when I miss those days, but today was not one of them.
I had cranked up the word processor to get rid of some nervous energy I was feeling in anticipation of a visit from a fellow blogger whom I was most anxious to meet. I had no idea what she looked like, but she has the spirit of an angel.
She is still a neophyte; quite full of passion and idealism. She is probably the most unabashedly avid/rabid fan I will ever have the good fortune to encounter, and she has a certain way with words that inspires me at times.
She lived a few hours away, but was surprisingly enthusiastic about taking the drive.
Of course, she is married…I have been lead to believe it is a very open relationship, but as a gentleman I am also inclined to believe it would no doubt be best to keep her identity “on the down low” at least until she chooses to break radio silence of her own volition.
I know of but a few things that exceed Mike’s rapacious appetite to kill fish or risk his life, those being Drugs, alcohol, and intimate contact with the opposite sex.
Suki was as anxious as I to meet the mystery blogger and was in no mood to put up with Captain Mike’s nonsense. He adored Suki and tended to be a bit of a lecherous pest around her no matter how hard he tried to mind his manners.
When he is drunk he reminds me of one of those poodles you just can’t shake off your leg when you go visit your aunt.
We were unsure what to do with Mike. I wasn’t even sure we had enough booze in the house to wait for him to pass out, and I had no intention today of all days to go out to sea in a boat.
This does not happen often, so make careful note of the above statement.
As luck would have it, suddenly Peppermint Patty had come knocking on our door to ask to borrow a pack of cigarettes.
There is a term in the Florida Keys called “Conch Borrowing;” there are a number of interesting aspects to it, but one of the most important is that it does not generally involve the obligation to give the borrowed item back which is just as well because once she borrows a pack, she does not generally come back until enough time has lapsed that she can pretend to have forgotten about the first pack.
As medically non-compliant schizophrenics go, she can be fairly interesting company, depending on how bored you really are…especially if you are interested in seeing any of the adult films in which she starred over twenty years ago….In just the right light, you can almost see the resemblance…and the tattoos are in fact, identical…and she loves to spread her talents amongst her fans.
Captain Mike, for all his flaws and scars has one characteristic that has made him a pussy-magnet, even now. He has the most disarmingly bright ice-blue eyes I have ever seen, and few women are immune to his “School-Boy Heart” charm and his skinny body-language that is half Jimmy Stewart, half Michael Fredericks.
Patty’s eyes met Mike’s. With the morning light behind her as she stood in the doorway of our trailer, you could see right through her dress and it was obvious that she was not wearing anything under it.
Little details like that never went unnoticed by Captain Mike (…and he had plenty of cigarettes).
Patty then asked Suki if she had ever seen her do DP before as she shifted her gaze back and forth between Mike and myself until Suki reminded her that she had (it was a lie, but Patty was much too crazy to realize it).
With that, I gave Mike a bottle of Bacardi Select Rum and suggested they take the party over to Patty’s trailer where they could see the ocean from her bedroom window.
Even Patty knew that was a lie, but she just winked at me and smiled. (She had once told me that if I held my ear to her snatch that I could hear the ocean, but I never tried to find out if it was really true.)
As they strolled arm in arm back to Peppermint Patty’s trailer, I could hear Captain Mike telling her how Jimmy Buffet had written the song “Jamaica Mistaka” about him and how he had once flown a small private plane between two pilings on the Seven-Mile bridge, and I knew it wouldn’t be long before she would be showing Mike the first anal video she ever shot with Ron Jeremy.
We were still laughing about it when my friend the lady blogger drove up. She and Suki had talked several times before on the phone, and it was heartwarming to see just how well two ladies who had never met before could strike up a friendship.
I later learned that they had been “pen-pals” for over a month and I really think Suki was as enthusiastic about meeting Ms. A. as I was.
Suki had already plugged in the vaporizer and now promised to show our new friend her collection of Japanese Pillow-books while I called a nearby restaurant to order Tai take-out.
But the real reason I didn’t get any writing done that day was because of what I discovered when I returned with the food….
As much of a confirmed pervert and connoisseur of (nearly) all things carnal as I am, there is a strong streak of Southern Gentleman that runs deeply through my character that prevents me from going into the details of what ensued that afternoon, that evening and for most of Saturday morning…
Nah! I’m just bullshitting you…They just made me promise to let them tell you about it in their own blogs in the next few days, and I am, if nothing else, a man of my word….
…And that, dear friends is the reason I did not have my homework ready for Monday morning…no, the dog did not eat it…no schedule conflicts with graduation ceremonies or final exams. No car trouble. No issues with the Police. I did not have technical problems with my computer, nor did I suffer from some mysterious malady.
And if anyone else has any excuses for why they have not been writing, I hope your reasons were at least as good…and if you have, please honey! I want to hear all the details.
PS: Look for the rest of the story to appear soon in two blogs I hope you have the good fortune to read in the near future.

The Iron Dragon Voice Recognition Project

Posted in adversity, Auto-Correct Speech Recognition, Blogging, Collaboration, Conjured Up Next, Dragon award, Flash Fiction, Fun, Humor, Imp Of The Perverse, Just For Fun, recycling vs. plagerism, Sorcery with tags , , on April 14, 2014 by dreamlanddancing

 

Recently I began attempting to utilize the speech recognition function of my computer to dictate text.

Daily (w)rite had just posted the A to Z Challenge: Flash Fiction, which included a photograph and a prompt “Lately he had been feeling…”.

This is completely new ground for me, and I was fascinated.

I decided to attempt the project using the Speech Recognition function of my computer.

Behold the results; a story within a story, it would seem…or…you be the judge….

Here is the artwork, by Joseph W. Richardson: (with the prompt: …”lately, he had been feeling…”)

josephwrichardson_600x400-42

This is the Iron Dragon Project result:

*****

True on and all,

Too true II be true.

This is going to be eight to two attached

and the howl for the old ones who weren’t.

Iron dragons can be humans

who buy in bulk and buy one another.

Lately he’d been feeling

like an imaginary dinosaur

so out of date that he couldn’t even scare

a five-year old girl.

(Let’s face it…

after Pixar,

how you gonna keep ‘em down on the farm

after they’ve seen

Monsters Inc.?)

Thank you.

***

And you and you might be wrong

if you were among the one

that will allow them believe

this can be done to learn more than one,

or the dragon in the garden may be a man…

is he our own only hope

that can help our town?

Take anything on the day

and it still leaves us poor

and unrecognizable

to my original text

(which is pretty good for a Mayan.)

***

Tensions thee into my mission

and an avid listen

to become one with the machine

which

in their words

might become a bump on a node

in their worlds;

a bogey on the radar

or give a madman time to ship,

were she to tell it all.

***

Dick you.

(that was thank-you, btw)

…mad that really only you

have been equally

compensated

and that early on

you’re more on the money

on the back F.U.N. and Y

(“funny”)

than all the rest

that ever were.

***

And so it goes from where it ends.

Hula room deliveries

and buried on an

old fairgrounds

captured

in a faded photograph.

You don’t know how

to interpret the butt of a joke,

meaning something early on

that makes

me so horney….

And let’s let poor

caveman UG alone,

(let alone the UG woman)

and the older elder too

and that old lady who

laughed

when laugh launched luna.

***

Run one thing on

to

try something on

fun fun fun

as a loan on laughter

in a letter that said

fun is dead

and you can’t play on

fun fun fun alone,

but the challenge to him was that this

…this the…

…this Italian leather dealer

in each letter on a letter

adds up.

…the AIM’s not even close…

but this

intention

could have made a difference,

(…but it didn’t.)

***

I’m not having loved all of this and more.

I’m not loving this.

If you would treat me

as an acute writers group

…maybe God already knew…

if so,

then dial me

but

you have no clue.

No one meant that as a car wreck, children.

No…

I was saying that was a correct assumption…

And by her now this is goodbye for now…

Logo and you finally

get right question.

Goodbye?

(Something there is that does not love auto-correct dictation)

PS: with team Damyani’s permission, I intend to reblog her original post, which I found to be quite a hoot in its own (w)right(e).

 

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