Snickerfodder

Archive for August 2010

 

Four years ago, following a particularly stressful few weeks, I had a meltdown.  In a fit of rage, in the ultimate-‘I’ll-show-YOU!’ bout of masochism The Viv could muster, 

 

 

I took a lover.

  

 

Though completely out of character for me, I found myself trolling the usual pick-up haunts.  After three or four passes, I screwed my courage to the sticking point and approached the vendors of pleasure.  It was easy pickins; there was quite the selection — all seemingly teasing and enticing me.    

  

For a brief moment, a little voice screamed in my head,

 

 

Harlot!” 

 

 

Jezebel!”   

  

 

 

Another little voice whispered,

 

 

 “Hippocrite!” 

 

 

 

 Long have I disdained those who engage in all manner of deviant behavior.  Long ago, I made a solemn vow

 

Yet, here was I, eager — nay! — determined to partake in utter debauchery, in breaking the bonds of that sacred vow.

  

It didn’t take me long to size up the many vying for my affections; I knew I would take home the tallest, the longest, the sexiest — the one who could fire my pleasure all night long…and every ecstasy-filled day thereafter.   

 

 

 

Vows be damned!   

 

 

 

Though I found the pimp’s wardrobe to be contrary to stereotype (pimps now wear nametags?), I paid for my lover without guilt; without conscience; with nary a thought for my husband and children. 

 

My lover and I engaged in a hot, torrid têteà-tête, we two — a night of pure unadulterated passion I’ve never before known was possible.  

 

Our first coupling left me breathless, and as I gave my body to him over and over again, I knew there was no turning back. 

 

From then on, my every breath would be for my lover; my every waking moment would be spent pining, yearning, for him to fill me up in such a way that no other man could sate. 

 

I couldn’t help myself.  At long last, I’d found the ecstasy to my agony — the yin to my yang — and I fell truly, madly, deeply, in love with the seductively smoldering Irishman Nick…O’Tine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Happy Birthday, Ray!

 

 

 

 

The Viv loves Ray Bradbury.

 

Just not quite as much as this lusty chick:

 

 

 

 

Were The Viv to have met this big, dumb sonofabitch instead of The Dingus, she and this fucker would’a wed.

 

They would’a fuckin’ written their own fuckin’ wedding vows.

 

But then they would’a fuckin’ forgotten their own fuckin’ lines and fucked up the whole fuckin’ thing.

 

Fuckin’ Tony would’a been the fuckin’ minister, and you can goddam bet it would’a been really fuckin’ hot that day, and there would’a been no bullshit or fuckin’ yelling allowed — even by the fuckin’ wedding couple, for fuck’s sake.

 

After the fuckin’ wedding, the fuckin’ Viv and her fuckin’ goddam groom would’a fuckin’ driven off in their state-of-the-fuckin’-art MinnieWinnie. 

 

At the fuckin’ twenty-year-juncture of their fuckin’ marriage — when their brains were for shit and the shit hit the fan– they’d’ve had to fuckin’ call that sonofabitch Tony to throw in the fuckin’ towel, once and for fuckin’ all, slammin’ the door on their fuckin’ marriage.

 

The Winnebago Man would end up a god-damned hermit livin’ in some fuckin’ mountain cabin with a fuckin’ pit bull named after the fuckin’ Bhudda.

  

Fuck.