The Cure (and The Smiths (but only twice, briefly)) by Pablo Vision

It was more than embarrassing when she found that copy of Straight Men Who Love To Suck Cock. I asked her what part of 'straight men' did she find difficult to understand. But always digging up the past she had to mention the DVD of Shaving Private Ryan's Privates. How was I to know it was that sort of film? I found it prudent not to say that with her short cropped hair and muscular shoulders that she looks somewhat manly from behind, and that anal is more her thing than mine. Don't get me wrong, it is a nice tight fit and what have you, but afterwards the dangling condom, with the stuff on the inside and the stuff on the outside, is a pretty unpleasant sight. In my darkest moments I imagine sending a box of these to her mother. Without is, as always, so much better, but she is not so keen on what she calls the post-fuck oozing. So anyway, determined not to slip into a dark mood, I knew saying nothing at all was for the best. She can't be reasoned with when she gets like that. Far better to let her get over it in her own time, and in her own way.

Her own time turned out to be about three weeks, and her own way was somewhat surprising, and more than a little uncomfortable. But that's women for you. I had done all the rights things, flowers and all that shit. Lots of giving too. And tact. Not once did I explain that the probing and meandering licks of my tongue were more to do with avoiding the little balls of toilet tissue attached to her flaps, than any effort to do what I thought might be pleasing. Better that, though, than when she has used those wipes. The smell and the taste remind me of babies, and that seems an altogether wrong thing to be thinking about when doing that. Really very badly wrong. Jesus-ass-fucking-Christ, I called out when she stuck her finger inside. Her telling me to relax, when all I could think of was that I was going to shit all over the bed, that she should cut her fucking nails, and that Marlon Brando is an absolute fucking bastard. If she hadn't started stroking me with her other hand, I think I might have hit the bloody bitch. So anyway, the feeling of needing a shit subsided - probably just another false alarm - and it started feeling pretty good. And then it was the rabbit. Fucking hell, I can tell you that girth hurts far more than length – it was like she was trying to drive a ten-ton truck up there. She just said I had done turds with greater girth. Not that she watches me shit or anything, but sometimes they just will not go away. Sort of like that whale that got stuck in the Thames. (And that was another time I got in the shit with her, so to speak. Not wanting to leave these beasts swimming around in the bowl, I had put a clear plastic food bag over my hand – like a glove – grabbed the uncooperative turd(s), used my other hand to pull the bag over and inside out, before tying it closed. Must have put about forty of these things in the bin outside, before the day she caught me, red-handed, carrying what looked like goldfish won at the fair. Only with a brown sausage-shaped fish, rather than one that was gold and fish-shaped. Fucking hell, sometimes I wonder why I make any effort at all. If only God had invented men with tits, there wouldn't have to be this unreasonableness to contend with.) So, getting back to the current debacle, after screaming like a stuck pig for a while, again it seemed stupid not to see the thing through. Seemed like the damage had already been done, you know. So she was saying all this stuff about how I liked having a big hard cock up me while this stuff spurts out. But not in the usual way. More smooth rather than all jolty. And it continued to stick up proudly without going down. And the stupid cow saw this as confirmation of some sort of inclination, as she pulled me off once more.

So moving swiftly from the [inconsistently] past tense to the present, here I am, all spent out. Twice [as previously stated]. With this fucking thing stuck up my ass. She tries to take it out – but my sphincter is in no mood at all for allowing the head of the thing to cause that unnatural, and fucking painful, kind of stretching again. Of course I can't go to work with it in. Fuck knows what that would look like. And I don't think they have any special chairs. Even though they have taken to employing all kinds of spazzers there. Some kind of stupid equality thing. But there is no way I can bring myself to have it removed. Not now I know how much it hurts. She says that maybe I could shit it out, when the time comes. And starts going on about how big my turds are again. She's absolutely loving this. Asks me if I want to watch Gaylord Of The Ringpieces while I am waiting. I cautiously try and ease the thing out, but just end up setting off the twisting churning motion inside, and that stupid, almost clockwork-like, noise. This is ridiculous she says, and violently pulls it out. And taking advantage of my painful preoccupation she then puts the fucking thing in my mouth. But (!!!!FUCK!!!!) not before I glance in horror at the little wedge of dark crap caught in the ridge under the head. Consider yourself cured she says before storming out of the room. Something to chew on I suppose…


Anonymous said...

this is disgusting.

pablo vision said...

exquisite prose, profoundly moving, hauntingly beautiful, and – in a world seemingly obsessed with sinful filth - a genuinely uplifting tale of redemption.


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