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MONDAY, JULY 04, 2011
 
  
So I'm at a Cafe, and I have the biggest urge to play with myself, and there's no reason why, and I cannot bring myself to think of one for the time being. And let me tell you, this never happens.

It reminds me of this one time when it was pouring rain, I was at a bus stop, wet up to my knickers, and when a man passed me by with his arms full of about a dozen umbrellas I simply got wet with no sick thought in my mind at all.

Us, girls, we always get wet, for no particular reason at all. You have a preference? I'd be glad to hear.

I think it's funny, you see, my friend he asks me, do you masturbate? I say no, because I actually don't. I usually have a lover or two, and it's the deed they do. But when he asked me this question I just happened to have made myself cum not too long ago you see, and that is very very rare for a girl like me. So I told him my experience, because that is exactly what I'd call it, an 'experience', a 'moment', an 'epiphany',a 'jiffy', 'two shakes of a lambs tale'. And it goes a little something like this: ( about a little girl like me) (who) (told a young curious boy like him) (not expecting that it would turn into a narrative flabbergasting sort of buffoonery tale) ...
Any who,

I awake to snow curling on my window sill. I lay completely still, comfortable, and unbelievably warm because my register is on, and it is located right beside my bed. I crawl out of my covers, and turn the radio on, and what do you know it is a woman's voice talking about Beethoven!~Anywho, she is talking of the way he plays, I crouch down, and listen intently to the details of this unique legend, and the lady on the radio talk's persistently of the way he would use the piano: not a steady heavenly kind of way, but with a violent pound of the finger's trudging the key's back and forth to the rhythm of his miraculous mad mind...leaving other pianists speechless, breathless, completely traumatized, and never wanting to lay a finger on their own piano's. "I can't believe someone could be so violent with their instrument!" "How remarkably Wrong!" (something like that), some of them would say. After that endearing brief lecture on Beethoven's rough fingers, and solid harry knuckles, I cuddle back into bed, and let him play me a symphony. I cannot recall which one it was (and would it not be better if i knew,hum.) They're all the same. It starts off slow with a steady hum to your humdrum while it beats off of a rippled equilibrium into a expedition of musical instruments with new, fresh/astray/ frail melodies, and then BAM! It's as if the climax was the beginning, and you thought it was the end, but it seems to go on into a musical uproar of sound, and timid loveliness, and it keep's on going, and you are completely confused, and absorbed because you cannot tell the climax from the fickle orgasm. And I'm blown away by the thought of Beethoven hovering over the piano like a mad scientist over a heaping pot of lava, and I'm laying on my back with my eyes closed with my head thrown back, and my legs sprawled across my bed that I have just made. And that makes me come. (I'm not talking about 'that' just yet) (I have not yet succumb to 'that').

So you see, I open my eyes, beethoven dilly-dallying in my ears like liquid honey, and I see the two pigeons that I always see sitting on my window sill, covered in snow,(what a serene image!) they flutter off my window sill with D'ebris of snow flaking in the air like twinkles of star dust being removed from the silky atmosphere... Water misting in my eyes, the liquid honey from my ears flows down into my panties... And I come..

And that is what I told him.
Comments

Hogan

Hogan

I really don't know what to say....

Graycard

Graycard

Edit honey! Plurals don't use apostrophes, and just about every one in this article has one. So call me anal, it's a huge distraction, and takes very little time. My second sentence again, in your version: plural's don't use apostrophe's. Get it?

Graycard

Graycard

PS Listen to the sostenuto in the 9th, I forget which movement. It's exactly the rhythm of an ecstatic fuck down the homestretch.



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