aMediocreMan

god’s big dick

god I hope God’s dick is about three feet long. He’s been fucking me with it for about 10 years now without remorse, without KY, without Vaseline, without any lube at all.

Just dry fucking my blistered ass for years. I expected for him to at least toss my salad first and moisten it up for the fucking. But nothing.

No lettuce, no tomatoes and no ranch or blue cheese. Just straight on, dirty, hourly Motel 6 grunge fucking.

The kind of ass fucking that only the guilty get. Like the guy with the Tony Danza, Who’s the Boss van who raped kids, or the a-hole gang-banger who beats and kills an elderly woman for her $20 purse. That kind of guilty. Continue reading “god’s big dick”

night at a beach bar

it’s night, I’m at a bar across from a beach, east coast of Florida

The Cook– Skinny, white-trash looking guy with American flag bandana dancing oddly behind the bar, throwing his lighter into the air. He looks like a drunk Muppet, spinning around as he tries to catch it, like he’s at Burning Man, but let me be clear, he’s fucking not at Burning Man. Must be a bored cook….. people would have to be desperate to order food from this hole of shit bar.

Bartender– she’s kind of cute, nice brown hair and her skin appears somewhat innocent. Her strained smile and lack of amusement for the drunk Muppet gives her motive away…… searching for something more than this place. Good luck honey, don’t let those tips suck your life away.

The Manager– bad hand tattoos, walking around like he’s something, a real fucking big shot. Talking to an old dude who is probably a regular, making him a stronger drink than he needs, hoping for that 40% tip.

All of them, eyeing me like I’m the fuck up….. if they only knew.

The Couple– they walk in and sit close to me. She’s cute, in that trashy kind of way women look cute to me when I’ve had eight beers or so. Husband is fatter than when they met, she’s bitching and whining about wanting a frozen drink.

Fat husband sits silent as she argues with the manager, he’s probably seen this shit a few times before and he’s tired of it. Just like she’s probably tired of his gut and his dick, she gives zero fucks about embarrassing him. Kind of sad, because he actually looks nice, but damn she’s a bitch. She’s un-fucking-pleaseable. Continue reading “night at a beach bar”

ready for the asteroid

When the horrible day arrives

the clouds will blacken and melt

a searing, tumbling ball of rock

will head our way

We will finally all understand our smallness

I will crawl into my roach skin costume

and hide between the walls

Because roaches, I’m told, will survive

deconstructed milf

Marriage: Years 1-5

Each day, cotton candy fluffy marshmallow clouds

floating between comments of “I love you” and “You’re beautiful honey”

hubby home from work, healthy dinner served,

glass of $50 wine that is difficult to pronounce so it must be fucking great

Tongue down throat, barely make it to the bed, face in the pillow

deep, penetrating cock inside you like he fucking means it, visceral fucking with love on the side, so in love his sweat tastes like cupids own saliva

true, fucking, love.

Next day, smile like a clown as you walk outside to get the mail,

waving stupidly at the neighbors with your “the world is mine” look

because your life is better, your BMW is newer, your skin is tighter

you still stay up past 11 each night

and don’t yet know about Lifetime movies. Continue reading “deconstructed milf”

email #10

Email #10

Hi, it’s me again

I know, another email

Can I

be your friend?

just click “accept friend request”

it’s online, safe like your gated community

no realness, no weekend barbecues

no disjointed, clumsy

bar stool meet n greet

where you flip

your bleached hair

5, 10, 15 times

and pretend to look into my eyes

between Miller Lites and Jameson shots

thoughts dusted with cigarette ash

no excited stumbling

back to my place

where soiled sheets don’t matter

your hooker skirt doesn’t matter

but your unbathed, glowing cunt

breathes freedom around my cock

just click “accept friend request”

email #10

habitual masturbator….a confession

daisy Would anyone like to share today? Hello, my name is Tommy. (Hello Tommy, said the 20 people gathered in chairs in the small room at the back of the church.) And I’ve been an addict for 25 years now. (loud congratulatory clapping, of hands)

I never thought I would have the courage to come to a meeting, but the other day I knew it was time.
I woke up on Saturday morning and it was just like any other Saturday. But this time, I wanted the weekend to be different. Instead of sliding my hand down over my new, Hanes boxer briefs and gently caressing the head of my penis, I jumped out of bed and got into the shower.

It was difficult because I knew how lonely Mr. Spickles (the name of my dick) is when I first wake up. He always enjoys a good morning tug.

I turned the water on and left it as cold as possible. I didn’t want the hot water to help elongate Mr. Spickles, I was trying so hard (no pun intended) to not jerk-off. I grabbed my Pantene shampoo and immediately thought about those old commercials with Daisy Fuentes.

Oh shit, suddenly the shampoo turned into Daisy and she was blowing me kisses and rubbing her hand across her breasts. Holy fuck, this is going to be difficult. Continue reading “habitual masturbator….a confession”

Ramada Inn tiki bar

tiki bar I ordered a Heineken and immediately I’m an alien.
“No Bud Light? No Miller Light?” They know I’m an outsider.

There are four men at the bar and me the fifth. Everyone smoking except for me. One guy is a New Yorker who recently moved here. Another guy is ex Navy, or so he says. Military guys always make sure everyone around them knows they were in the service.

Then two guys who could be gay, not sure, but they have that red-faced look that only seasoned alcoholics have and they are smiling weirdly at each other after each sip.

The bartender is tall, crack skinny with purple black, long hair and looks like she just came off of a meth binge. Her face is stained with pitted, shaded spots and she has a scar on her neck that probably came from a “dream” of bugs trying to scurry into her brain via her trachea. Continue reading “Ramada Inn tiki bar”

extra mayo

steak When I asked for extra mayo on the side, she stared at me with those banjo eyes. You know the eyes I mean.

The eyes that seem to be much farther apart than they should be. Eyes that have watched cousins touch each other in the dark, warm areas only non-relatives should be allowed to touch.

Her quizzical expression reminded me of how a squirrel’s mind must feel when it crosses the road in front of a car safely, then darts back from where he came from. But her expression was far less urgent than the squirrel narrowly escaping death.

“Extra mayo? You sure about that,” she said with a southern baptist twang.

“Absolutely dear. Haven’t you ever had mayo on a philly cheese steak?” I answered a bit angrily.

And why did she give a shit about my mayo ordering habits? After all, this was an Applebees in the deep south and not exactly a bastion for health nuts. I naturally assumed that mayo was quite popular here. Continue reading “extra mayo”

rest areas trip me out

Always an old creepy white guy loitering near the stalls, waiting for someone to take a shit, waiting to wave his wrinkled hand under the divider, hoping someone will wave back, suck him off or play with his old balls.

Why can’t old gay dudes just go to a gay bar, find someone there to fuck, find someone there to touch his taint?

Always a carni-worker, sweeping up trash, wearing a stale, brown outfit, looking sadly at the life that passed him by. Putting up the chain on one of the two bathroom entrances, “this side closed for service“, so he can mop up the misguided piss, clean up the old man jizz, throw away the leftover shit stained scraps of toilet paper stuck to the cold concrete floors, flush the un-flushed toilets and then do the same to the other side. Continue reading “rest areas trip me out”

that bitch on the bread aisle

pants1 It was staring at the whole wheat, organic, high fiber, no trans fat, sodium free, steroid free loaves

It was wearing bright pink sweat pants with the word “JUICY” spread across both ass cheeks, the “UI” sucked into the designer thong cavity, screaming for release.

I couldn’t find the 99cent generic Publix brand hot dog buns,
My eyes strained for the all white bread goodness, its eyes reading labels to disguise an attempt at being healthy.

I wanted to stop staring at it, but I couldn’t, I needed to see the blood from the train wreck, the pieces of bone from the auto crash, the land mine aftermath.

“Excuse me, do you know where the hot dog buns are?” I asked it.

“I don’t eat hot dogs, I wouldn’t know,” it replied without even looking in my direction.

Well shit, my fucking bad, I guess I should’ve known.
It was just a bitch on the bread aisle who wants to be 20 again.

Thanks for the collagen, thanks for the Ughs, thanks for your husband fucking his secretary instead of you. Thanks for the suburban, thanks for the diamond studded Iphone.

I found the buns and walked out with my soul.