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  1. matwoolf
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    matwoolf Contributing Member Contributor

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    Ten Years

    Discussion in '10th Anniversary Contest' started by matwoolf, Jun 10, 2016.

    Ten Years

    1400 words



    It is…

    kind of crazy to entertain in my own competition, but for the record, all things begin with me, with a cold coffee, a string of code on a screen, a dream to inspire the disabled.

    Jenny left me that same morning. Perhaps I thank her for our good fortune?

    ‘You Dylan, you are an utter spastic,’ she said in her English voice.

    ‘Darling chiquita, does it not seem reasonable to maintain speed, the rhythms of those chiseled actors on our widescreen?’ I replied, 'remember, I am in training,’ I said, and reached for the remote control. My money-shot spiraled into her golden dreadlocks.

    ‘Dickhead,’ she said.

    ‘Ha,’ I replied, ‘I am ready for more of your pleasure,’ I said, and she now has left me forever. Now, now this Jenny, now mortgages somewhere in the far east of anglia, Norwich, Connecticut, Chepstow, I don’t fucking know...

    The point was this, and why, as I discussed with that Jenny at high speed, once, and so many times, upon her haunches, why why why why, why not me, and not that John Holmes, or mister Bruce Wang? A man, me, born in the blaze of the Bey Blade era, needed an outlet to role play, to bondage in scat, in rabies in women’s clothing, in a diaper if necessary – and an avenue to scripture my curiosities in the lustish arts of eyes, and ears and asses, and assholes on fire. Furthermore, I required audience for my Betamax collection discovered in a dumpster, at least. Frankly, I was very good at sex, I said to Jenny.

    I moaned at midnight, moaned man style out of the window. What could be better than the dream of mine, to host a website crammed with the extra sexy people looking at my dicks, aside a man’s chronicle that lured the loveliest toward my boudoir?

    ‘I gotta go, I gotta go get ‘em all,’ I said to the white chocolate mice lined in my pocket, in my vision. What could be better than making love to me?

    Most things are probably better than that. Pragmatic, and business me understands a non-binary agenda, though as I said in committee forum, I hate the writing most of all, mostly words in good order I hate, and hate the writers, the worms, the bedrooms, the bureaus, breath, the books on their breath, the books they lick, tongues stuck to the words. I mean who in this day and age even boasts a book when we have screens for pleasure? Immersed in my philosophy, I was roused by her voice of some reason,

    ‘Get your elbow off of that fast forward button,’ said Jenny, ‘and for once, my shit face, my darling potato face, do please decelerate in your thrust. Can we, can we not watch anything else, ever?’ she once said, exhausted. God dammit, how she breathed.

    I rolled away, rolled a jay.

    ‘Go on, babe, go now watch your “Countryman VHS.”’ I said, and patted her, somewhere.

    That’s all she ever wanted really, to watch alone back then the second highest grossing Jamaican feature film in history, Jenny. Lithe Jamaican men rushed into surf, shampoo commercials roused her likewise. I was very much on the revolving swing, and in love, and the metaphor to this Jenny woman, and her sister, and the other lady professionals, and as alluded, my collection, my dumpster found collection, the greatest ever discovered stash of pornography in the New York State hemisphere, the greatest ever.

    Ah yes, my love for flesh, how I lost Jenny, and how I came to found the Writer Forum.

    Thing was, I borrowed two thou from Pops, insurance broker Westside Beach, and had a plan, sat in his shed at my home, illuminated in an on-line bid frenzy, wore Hawaiian shirt open, my tie dye jockstrap bespoke and tight-fitting. Days of memory, Mommy in the house up-garden, prepared milkshakes, the sprinkler down the yard fizzed like a soda. Cockaball.com on-line never appeared as a merely cheap investment at 1500$, whilst Buttlore.org remained out of my league at four. But, as my finger reached for return, a Japsan bid two thou and one dollars, the face of it, a man on game. I was left, flounder and no cock. Only writerforum.com - the hulk - languished, leaf or slug on a market, the black slug at eighty bucks, and remaining – at half price. You could not make this up. I laughed and I bought it all.

    Early members of the forum, college buddies, guys from the tit club, and old guys in prison, enjoyed that, the wild anecdote on my home screen. For three years we subsisted, traded hand-held footage: momma’s frott, her thumbs; the ex-girlfriends of other men, revenge entertainment down the beach towel, and incognito solos, we shared it all. Clips became so numerous I developed tags and sub-categories. Genre went the fat man at bath time, the butt, a fat fanny in his face when personal taste was more toward agricultural environments, a prairie per se, or boys in a slurry, for example. I explained all this preference and matters of opinion upon the popular Developmental thread. For this reason, the back-room side of things evolved a complexity of its own shading; and the original headings - exist today if you look very closely, alongside those memories of mine. Technician buddies, look for yourselves, remember Mechanics, remember the Collaboration thread, heh heh. My old favourite, the Progress Journals with Clara?

    We were a happy and satisfied community of male, and, or on-line cam masturbators.

    Then, the one Tuesday everything changed. I awoke, screaming pain radiated from my groin somehow. And somehow, how, if I knew I would provide diagrams, somehow I had tied a knot in the thing, knotted my own penis, said the doctor. We rushed to the best hospital room in the state, and under local anaesthetic, my member unravelled naturally, and over the course of one week toward former dimensions. Emotion would take time to heal. I was nineteen years old by now, a mature individual. The local community children visited our ward, consoled in the Halloween outfits, the first time I heard his name.

    ‘Harry Potter,’ said the kiddies as one voice, and I saw the evangelical shine, the glee in eyes. I got home determined to change ways and opened a new sub-category, called it the Harry Potter for the Children thread.

    A changed man, and also, let me remind you a victim to ridicule among the visualist crew, the manscum of my yesteryears. Yet, one by one I imposed ban orders on their fists of filth, and one evening, coaxed into a new thread, I viewed personally Harry Potter, the Movie at the movies.

    I became as Potter, produced twelve, extra categories, Gryffendor, Huffbubble, and Hermione’s Minge, the fluff broke a great spark of controversy, and finally I came, online publicly once, and for all time, was forced to eject the last of the so-called jock squad Mohicans. Sure I missed the guys, but later came proof, as WF revenues sky-rocketed on to, and through the decade. I up-scaled to room-share, and bought the guitar.

    But know there is more to my life story than a wizard’s cloak indoors. I got myself thinking maybe the blue I see in the sky is maybe not the blue you see – out of doors, you get me, my honeys? I got to thinking about planets and space, monkeys in space, about crazy asteroids of apes beating sticks instead of stones.

    …Around the same time WF became the spectacular hot property, described as the go to suppository that crowns the amateur Speculative Fiction scene of today’s retardant market. Home to America’s unemployed and the sick and the ill, and me too, I continue on top, humbled by you, my people’s ever-lasting appreciation, and admiration of my profile, the checks of goodwill; ironic too, how the good old boys finally returned to my side. Let by-gones be gone, the time fly in the wind, I said to those wankers, created Debate room for old-fashioned, the old buggers, my school of group perversion. I thank the rest of you all for ten years at our top table. Here’s to one thousand years of a scientific progression through keen, and selective breeding.

    Till then

    Your Dylan.
     
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