It’s hard to write when the sun is shining.  It’s hard to write when you can throw on paper denims and a t-shirt, stumble down 14^th street, and rub yourself all over underage women.  There was a girl born in October 1989.  There was a penthouse in Chinatown.  An apartment roof deck in Adam’s Morgan.  A shittier roof deck on U Street.  A fat one and her best friend from a New Jersey “Jewish camp”.  A pair of English broads that were slightly too big for their britches.  Frequent tables and the caliber of hoes that frequent them.
            That was my summer… dozens of disgustingly drunk debaucheries. 
            I’m not proud of it, not this time, not like this.  Every escapade ended in a shamble of shallow sensations, every hole of every hoe felt more hallow than the last.  I’m not troubled by guilt or a biting conscience; It’s the absence of any emotion at all that worries me.  Where is the exhilarating rush of victory?  Where is the sly smile on my face the following day at work?  Why do I no longer feel entertained by the female fragrance on my fingers? Until recently, the warmth of a melting woman seemed to temporarily simmer my boiling discontentment.  I suppose there comes a time when even labias lose their luster.
            All I really ever wanted was excitement.  The modern male American lifestyle is a very unnatural condition.  We no longer engage in a thrilling scrap for survival and dominance; “hunting women” is the only remaining fundamental struggle.  So, I hunted to satiate my adrenaline addiction.  Have I now overdosed on vaginal vitamins as a mental therapy?  Or perhaps this just isn’t the life I envisioned and at some past juncture I made a critical miscalculation.  I’ve never had to work for anything in life; school, money, and women all presented little more than frivolous challenges.  But, I’ve also never possessed the bravery to abandon the well-lit path laid before me.  Is that my tragic flaw?  The inability to leave behind what’s easy and step headlong into the abyss?
             After the torrent of tits this summer, I’m finally sufficiently settled to start writing.  Last weekend, after reading “Annabel Lee” 30 times, I whipped up the cautionary tale below.  I haven’t named it yet and this might not be its final incantation. I actually concentrated on meter for once and I found the experience highly enjoyable.  I’m currently illustrating this demented story with equally demented pictures and I’ll post the completed project sometime soon.
             Like all anapestic tetrameter, it’s meant to be read out loud:
 
The bachelor king in his elegant clothes,
Playing eloquent games with his roster of hoes

May sound like a dream to dull men that don’t know
The dark twisted tall tale that I’ve set out to show…

Despite lacking the tools to make sluts sloppy wet,
In my youth tame existence was nothing to fret.

 ‘twas corolla, no card, personality lame,
Instead of fast car and fat visa and game.

In those days I would struggle to conjure some laughs,
Though I was quite adept at gargantuan gaffes.

I longed for a lass that was longing for me,
Someone locked up and closed needing me as her key.

A partner to cuddle and snuggle away,
Skipping school for the beach when we wanted to play.

I’d squeeze a small pillow to sleep through the night,
And pretend she enjoyed when my arms held her tight.

Other men, other men, and the girls they would pull…
Their techniques, what were they?  I would grasp them in full!

So I watched and I learned till I figured it out,
My own art of seduction then started to sprout:

Dancing, tequila, hypnotic delight,
Mixed together just right for her thong to ignite!

As my tactics improved and my confidence grew,
Many women I banged wished for more than a screw.

These hoes held high hopes for my hours and days,
But I wouldn’t yet yield this new power and praise.

They gazed upon me in submission so pure,
Unprepared for the pain I’d insist they endure.

I’d break hearts to appease newfound vanity’s greed,
Thus began my decent to humanity’s weeds.

I fell in love; Not just once, not just twice,
But I quelled my emotions to stay cold as ice.

With every tear and with every groan,
My poor heart further mutated into a stone.

I still hear their soft whispers, sad voices of dread,
And my dreams are all haunted with words left unsaid.

These memories menace me, stealing my breath,
In drab shadows they lurk while they eat me toward death. 

This curse can’t be slowed once already begun,
In the chase of a myth my whole world came undone.

Any week, any night, any time I so please,
I can fill my bed’s sheets with a frightening ease.

But I can’t fill the gap where my soul used to sit -
Not with friends, or success, none of it seems to fit.

I’ve lost all that mattered for meaningless goals,
I’m the ultimate man and a hideous troll.

Pay attention young sir to the words on this page…
I’m a bachelor king not too far from your age.

I’m also preparing for an island hopping voyage through the Bahamas.  On Monday I’ll be crossing the gulf stream from Miami to Bimini in a small untested boat with a friend of mine.  Both of us are completely unfamiliar with this level of boating, so this should be interesting.

Hopefully I’ll have a chance to write some inspired prose about the ocean, the beach, the sand, and such, but most likely I’ll have my hands buried in 16 year old Bahama vagina instead (the islands are known for their snorkeling AND their statutory age).

I’ll be posting again by mid June, or, if the boat sinks, I’ll be suffering for my sins in Davy Jones locker.

Images in the story look best when viewed here on flickr.
Or, click the first thumbnail below to start (buggy and ugly on some browsers, works much better on flickr).

                So she had a face that would launch a thousand ships - in the opposite direction.  So her teeth weren’t very white and her body wasn’t very tight and her weight wasn’t very light.  Master Ovid said it best, “At night there is no such thing as an ugly woman!”  Perception is a flaky friend who seems exceptionally vulnerable to six ounces of alcohol; moles morph into beauty marks, a few extra chins turn into a lil’ extra skin, hairy arms become hardly hairy, faces lacking symmetry are suddenly perfectly asymmetric.  When I want my dick wet the beer goggles bend light and warp space turning Picassos into Rembrandts.  Mushiness aside, in the drunken dark, they all look and feel the same.  Sometimes vagina is vagina and friction is friction; I could be fucking a cunt, a canteen, or a cash register and I wouldn’t know the difference.
                Of course, in the morning a gripping uneasiness accompanies the first glimpse of a defective bedmate.  If you attempt day light sex then you’ll quickly discover that the primary difference between hot and not is the refractory period.  Unlike their ugly counterparts, plump bitches make exceptional hungover bedmates because they are swollen with endearing qualities.  A friendly flabby female is the closest real life entity to the jovial Santa Clause image of our youth, why won’t more wide women dress the part around Christmas?  Overweight ovaries require minimal effort to enter (aside from a late night snack) and their saggy bodies humorously jiggle when pounded from behind… is there anything more charming?
                I’m not advocating obesity; I believe most women would benefit from a biyearly bout with bulimia or perhaps a semiannual attack of anorexia.  During my tenure at Maryland I even developed an exercise regimen for undergraduate sluts that hadn’t already adopted the cocaine and cigarettes “model” diet.  I called it “Walk of shame for weight loss”, and I showed the immense metabolic benefit of repeated late night strolls from the bars to my apartment followed by vigorous morning treks back to their dorms.  A persistent and dedicated individual could feasibly fight the freshman fifteen down to the freshman five.  I really saved a lot of women that semester.
                My nonchalant cunt choices have certainly chafed my wingmen through the years.  “Tonight, we are going to use BETTER JUDGEMENT!” they tried to tell me.  Better judgment?  Right.  I make two kinds of decisions: horrible, or really horrible… so even my better judgment ends up being bad judgment. Besides, fucking flawed females is like a morally uplifting righteous donation.  When will the toothless twat ever kiss such a handsome face?  When will the cross eyed cunt ever be smothered by such a hot body?  When will the pimply pussy ever taste such delicious dick?  My sexual performance could be abysmal, my morning mannerisms could be awful, my promises could be embarrassingly hollow… it won’t make any difference.  These women will never forget nor regret my magnanimous nature.  It’s a shame I can’t write-off the gallons of cum I’ve dumped into this charity.
                A corpulent woman is generally jolly, but she is quite capable of unsightly conduct that rivals her unsightly features.  For instance, why do portly pedants periodically complain about me cumming inside?  Carrying an infant of my genetic pedigree is indubitably the greatest treasure life could bestow on such disfigured creatures and, if anything, I’d expect gratitude for my generous gifts.  I’m particularly aggressive in pushing Plan B down the throats of these fatty ingrates and I hope their distended bowls suffer through days of uncomfortable nausea.  Impregnating an imperfect female is a terrifying notion, but, given my unscrupulous nature, I can’t fathom a more fitting and bloodcurdling curse.  A gross and distorted child… like I could ever love such a thing.  In that situation, is it really wrong to pray for a miscarriage?

I love Picasso’s “Nude woman with necklace“, so I decided to draw ”Sloppy slut with santa hat” below:
If the image does not display, you can view it here at flickr.

• In my bedroom… 
• Fat foolish female: “Do you have a condom?
• Angelo De La Vega: “No.”
• Fat foolish female: “I have one… let me get my purse.”
• Angelo De La Vega: <Grunt>
• We still have our shirts on, but lack any clothing below the waist.  She hands me a condom.  I tear open the shiny wrapper and remove  the gooey latex.  I look at it, I look at her, I look back at it, and I look back at her.  At this point, while maintaining eye contact, I drop the wrapper on the floor and slowly lay the condom on the window sill above my bed.  She watches me ignominiously .  I proceed to bang her raw.
• Morning arrives.
• Fat foolish female: “You don’t have any diseases, do you?” 
• Angelo De La Vega: <Sigh>

            If this jiggly jumbo slice whore really cared, why wouldn’t she halt all sexual activity after my egregious display of irresponsibility?                                
            Statistically, it’s almost an impossibility for me NOT to have HPV… but it’s like I always say, “If you don’t have HPV, then you aren’t having enough sex.”  But it causes cancer!!  Bullshit, everything causes cancer.  Diet coke?  Cancer.  Tuna fish?  Cancer.  Cell phones?  Brain Cancer.  I’m convinced that I’ve managed to avoid more precarious STDs over the last 12 years through a slightly masochistic ritual I started in high school: The Listerine Deluge.                        
           My mother was an avid proponent of Listerine throughout my childhood; “It kills millions of germs on contact!” she used to read from the bottle.  Don’t worry mama, I learned that lesson well!  I keep a 1.5L arctic mint bottle in my apartment for scandalous females, and give my member a thorough dousing immediately after sex.  Men, in more ways than one, possess the more extraverted genitalia of the genders; women couldn’t possibly attempt the Listerine Deluge without a funnel and a high pain tolerance.                              
           Amazingly, they won’t teach this tried and true trick during elementary sex education.   I’ve written a nursery rhyme below to help keep kids safe.  Like all nursery rhymes, it’s meant to be read out loud - in this case, with a cadence very similar to hickory dickory dock. 

If you have trouble viewing the image below, see it here on flickr.

If you have trouble viewing the image below, see it here at flickr.

                Of course, I wasn’t always enlightened.  Once upon a drunken time, in a friend’s basement far far away, I experimented with The Shocker.  She was naked, soaking wet, and ready for the bang.  We were laying side-by-side and my right hand was busily pleasing her through expert clitoral stimulation… it was Shocker time!  The first problem, I quickly realized, is that The Shocker’s angle of attack is completely unsuitable from the typical fingering position (spread eagle with her back on the bed, you’re on your side, and your heads are sharing a pillow).  Without possessing a 6 foot arm with a triple jointed wrist, one can’t possibly execute the technique without repositioning.  So I repositioned.   Now I was kneeling to the right of her legs, facing her, and attempting to align a right handed shocker.  Failure again; I just couldn’t easily get to the asshole with my pinky since it’s the most flaccid of all the fingers.  Now I was frustrated and consequently more aggressive, so I used my left hand to raise her legs to the “knees on shoulders” position.  I could see the vagina, I could see the asshole, I had my fingers properly situated, I went for it, I was giving her the Shocker… but she wasn’t shocked.  This is when I discovered the fundamental flaw of this technique: there is nothing shocking about half a pinky.  The bent ring finger impedance prevented full depth penetration and the vaginal stimulation emphasized vertical as opposed to horizontal expansion.  I understood at that moment, with my very sad pinky in her very sad butthole, that The Shocker is total bullshit.
                Thus, out of the ashes of defeat was born a new beast… my own creation… the ultimate violation… The Inverted Shadow Puppet.

if you have trouble viewing the image below, see it here at flickr. 

                The Inverted Shadow Puppet utilizes the ring and middle fingers in the stink, the thumb in the pink, and the pinky and index fingers for stabilization/leverage.  It is anatomically correct and can be performed from a variety of angles - none of which require exceptionally long extremities or freakish wrist/elbow flexibility.  I usually begin with standard middle and ring finger blasting of the vagina, wait until the juices have dripped south to sufficiently lubricate the asshole, and then transition to The Puppet.  My Shadow Puppet’s personality is feral and bloodthirsty; once I’ve achieved full rectal/vaginal infiltration, I release him on the unsuspecting female by pinching, pulling, and “chewing” her insides.  If done correctly, one should eventually feel the comforting warmth of feces on their fingertips.
                The Inverted Shadow Puppet is a shitty gift - your woman will not enjoy it.  In fact, a successful rectum ravaging requires her reluctance since its very purpose revolves around your cathartic power - not her pleasure.  If you aim to delight her, then remain boorishly behind in her vagina.  But if you aim to test her obedience, if you aim to push the boundaries of your control, then look beyond the vagina and into the stormy abyss of her anus.  When I hear her piglet squeals and then softly stroke my slimy Shadow Puppet across her sweaty cheek, I know unequivocally that the indoctrination is complete… I have her right where I want her.

if you have a trouble viewing the image below, see it here at flickr. 

                My bed was a veritable torture device.  My room was a hellish prison.  A chilling sweat coated my grey skin and an aching chasm replaced my intestines.  I tossed and turned violently for hours… haunted by her presence half a world away.  I can’t recall exactly how or when I stumbled across the “Koop Island Blues” video above, but I know her hypnotic influence was traumatizing; never had a witnessed such horrifying beauty, never had I seen a woman like Mia Jacob.
                Earlier in the night I obtained her name and location via the youtube video description and subsequently executed all known internet stalking methods.  First I tried googling a variety of key word combinations: “mia Jacob”, “mia jacob paris”, “mia jacob france”, “mia jacob nude”.  To my great dismay, after searching dozens of pages and hundreds of hits, I could find no further information on this spectacular specimen.  Then I tried facebook… no success.  Finally I turned to myspace… VICTORY!  Her profile is public:  25, single, 93 friends.  I closely analyzed her musical tastes, read all her comments, examined the comments of her top friends, and checked the comments of any friend that seemed to be replying to a comment she had left.  From this investigation, I concluded the following:

• Lack of google hits and a low myspace friend count reveal she isn’t yet famous
• Her musical tastes, disdain for television, and outgoing comments indicate a rather refined taste in the arts
• She speaks English, French, and German.  This isn’t rare in Paris, but I surmise she is well educated

                 By this point my insatiable desire for Mia Jacob was maddening.  I scoured the “koop island blues” director’s website, I tried other search engines, I went back to google (”mia Jacob married”, “mia Jacob sex”, “mia Jacob porn”, “mia jacob trip usa”).  Ultimately, god saw fit to spare me a second holy helping… Mia Jacob in hooker boots, Mia Jacob in a cowboy hat, Mia Jacob draped sensually around a fur coat, Mia Jacob SPEAKING:

                 Mia Jacob.  Mia Jacob.  Her milky skin and toned body render even the grandest marble statues into superfluous stone slabs.   The unblemished neck of a contemporary Princess Antoinette.  I numbingly salivate at the idea of such delicious lips - practically engineered for deep, sloppy, kissing.  Feline features with a provocative grace to match.  I could endlessly observe her seductively sucking on a cigarette.  Sitting at a Les Deux Maggots Café perhaps, scrutinizing her every detail as she watches the tourists with disgust (in a way only possible by a pompous Parisian).  I’d imagine her silky, soft, snug Vagina was hand sewn in heaven by Barthelemy Thimonnier and that it smells faintly of freshly fried blueberry crepes.
                Who is this phantom?  Where is she from?  What does she enjoy?  The very notion that she is an unassuming citizen of Paris lends itself to her appeal.  It’s tormenting to consider that on some random night I could encounter such a woman.  Given her tastes, given her style… she has to be an Artist!  Imagine the two of us sipping Don Julio while she educates me on proper shading technique.  No, no, given the elegance of her movements… she’s got to be a Ballerina!  Imagine how she could entertain me and our children with a grande jete through the living room.  No, no, it can’t be that obvious… she must be a Mathematician!  Imagine us discussing Singularity Theory while slowly swaying on a hammock under a gorgeous Tulum sunset.  Yes, a mathematician; we could express our love as an unbounded function of time and kisses (L(t,k)).
                Ma chère Mia, I predict you will stumble upon this amorous adoration.  Everyone googles themselves periodically and I’m well aware of your minimal world wide web presence… you don’t want us to stay trapped on the internet, do you? Come to me, let me come to you, let’s cum together.  The Visa is out of the money clip and the Travelocity page is set: Reagan to Charles de Gaulle.  “Angelo and Mia Jacob De La Vega”, has humanity ever yielded such auditory bliss?  My proposition is simple and extends to you alone; help me put down the product, teach me to lay off the Goose, stop my wandering from bed to bed to bed, let’s delete this disgusting site together.   

                 Addendum:  Oh well, it was worth a try.  For the first five days after this was posted, it appeared on page one of ”mia Jacob” google search results.  I received dozens of hits from France during that period and so I thought maybe it would find its way to Mia.  Unfortunately, someone has requested its removal from google… so now it doesn’t appear at all. That’s a reasonably strong indication that she has rejected my companionship.  Woe is me-a!!!

Below is an attempt at a “comic book style” depiction of my potential fate.  Drawing with the mouse is incredibly troublesome.  If I try something like this again, it’ll be after I buy a tablet… either that or I’ll need to triple my patience, double the resolution per frame, and use nothing but the photoshop pen tool.  For the ladies/banging I tried to mimic Kentaro Miura (berserk) and for Angelo De La Vega (me) I went for a sort of Goku/Itachi/Sasuke mixture.  The story probably won’t make sense unless you pay attention to the details. 

 You’ll need a monitor with decent resolution.  Scroll over the image to reveal the control buttons at the bottom which you can then use to navigate through the pages. 

If you have trouble viewing any of the images below (for example they display all red), see the slideshow here on flickr.

• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: I’m worried that I’m hurting your feelings
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: seriously
• SOME_SLUT: wha?
• SOME_SLUT: I don’t think you really care about feelings
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: You’ve got me all wrong
• SOME_SLUT: how so
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: We have fantastic chemistry as I’ve mentioned before, I really feel a connection with you. I really enjoy talking to you… and hanging out with you (although it probably seems like I just go there to have sex). But I don’t want to lead you on in any of the wrong ways… I’m just way laid back about all of this and I feel like maybe that’s not going over well with you.
• SOME_SLUT: what do you mean lead me on in any of the wrong ways?
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: I have to be very careful with how I say this
• SOME_SLUT: I like bluntness
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: Don’t get me wrong, I’m not out sleeping around… but I’m far from the boyfriend type also. I don’t know why, that’s just the way it’s been for years now. So it may look like I’m just coming over for sex - but thats not it all.
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: I just don’t want to hurt you… and if you think hooking up in the future might lead to that, then we should stop. I’d like to continue being friends and I don’t want to be just another asshole
• SOME_SLUT: well I appreciate your honesty….I don’t think you are the boyfriend type, you have made that clear….I am just not used to this sort of thing because honestly I am not the type of girl that has casual relationships….it might seem that way with you….continuing to sleep with someone is pretty intimate…and I can’t be hurt anymore….
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: So the ball is really in your court
• ANGELO_DELAVEGA: I’m glad we are talking about this
• SOME_SLUT: yess….mee 2…I am horrible with confrontation
• SOME_SLUT: I think I was highly skeptical from the beginning when you told me you just have “girls”, but don’t really date…but I think I enjoy ignoring all of those types of comments, and just waiting it out

     This conversation does no justice for the intelligence of this woman… unfortunately, despite my efforts, she didn’t know when to quit and it ended in an unnecessarily ugly cataclysm.
     Both the gradual pull out and my Gentle Honest Hand assumed that a girl would willingly recoil after accepting our grim predicament… WRONG  WRONG WRONG!!  These fucking stupid whores continued to pester me, continued to demand from me, and, most of all, continued to fan my disgust.  Some tried to tell me to put down the tequila and relax, others tried to tell me to put down my product and mature… HA!!  Plenty of time to relax and mature in the grave you sluts!!
     Naive women have forced out my compassionate nature and transformed me into a brutal bastard.   These masochistic whores bring it upon themselves by not readily acknowledging reality: I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU.  Pain is nature’s warning, but these brainless cunts have chosen to ignore their body’s senses and to illogically devise rationales for my conduct.  It’s not that “He’s just not that into you” as the book states, it’s that “He wasn’t that into you and now, because you’re a fucking idiot, he absolutely despises you“. 
     Consequently, I’ve abandoned the gradual pull out and the Gentle Honest Hand… now I burn bridges.  Now I inform them of everything that’s wrong with them.  Now I fuck their friends.  Now I tell them amusing tales about the holes I’ve banged.  Now I inflict frigid pain simply to save them from embarrassing themselves.  Of course, there are residuals when upsetting a female: the daily insulting text messages, and the drunken malicious voicemails from their friends, and the absurd gossip, and the craigslist postings.  All these post-apocalyptic frivolous antics do nothing but stroke my ego.  Again, the pitiful hoe mind doesn’t realize that her concerted efforts at damaging me do nothing but prove how important I am to her… how deeply I hurt her… how strongly she still cares about me.  Dim-witted bitches are so quick to criticize me in an effort to save face, but they forget the indomitable truth: I didn’t want you, not the other way around.
     So I didn’t belligerently grope her friend in the middle of a crowded dance floor because of attraction.  And I didn’t have my Dirty Hand rammed down her friend’s skinny jeans because I thought I was going to get laid.   No, I did these things precisely because it was her friend.  When she angrily confronted me about it and slapped me and called me an asshole and spit in my face, I took it quietly, accepted my fate, and knew that in the end, finger blasting her friend was the best thing I could have done for her.

If you have trouble viewing the image below, then you can see it here at flickr.