Discussion Forum

During my twenties and thirties, it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on the planet.

I'd prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.

Okay?

Of course, even to gather only samples from what, you realize when you get into it, is a vast assortment of sizes, shapes and physiognomies, would have meant putting up numbers comparable to Wilt Chamberlain's. And being all of five-foot-six, more skinny than slim - and with a nose you would think must obstruct my vision - I'd obviously set my bar too high. But spurred by the promise of the literary rewards that even limited success would yield, I determinedly pursued my objective, and had it not been for a prostate gland the Harvard School of Medicine will surely make a bid for upon my demise, I'd probably have been at it much longer.

Middle-aged now and long out of the hunt, I'm forced to concede that my writing would have been better served by writing more and researching less. Still, the time spent on my project wasn't entirely wasted. Collateral though it may be, I did reap one unanticipated and very practical benefit. While my collection of memories isn't as comprehensive as I'd have wished (variations on the theme of plainness are more than adequately represented but girls who look like Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Connelly are glaringly missing), the mental snapshots I've kept of the women I WAS able to cop have been more than sufficient in their quantity and variety to save me the price of a subscription to ''Jugs.''

And, indeed, I have been left with a story or two to tell.

Not least for the adventure it amounted to, a hookup I think of a lot was with a twenty-something woman named Peggie who'd just days before - and for the first time - come to New York from the Midwest on a month-long vacation.

We met in a bar. I was standing alone, casing the action, when I heard, right behind me, the sound of a sharp quick fart - like a wooden match striking. Turning to look I confronted a sight only the word ''humongous'' could accurately depict - a female at least a foot taller than I was and approximately the width of the Great Wall of China.

She was smiling flirtatiously at me and, though taken aback by her appearance (not to mention her method of getting my attention) and reflexively recoiling, I quickly recovered when I realized the opportunity she was presenting me with. Here was my chance to cross gross obesity from the list of body types I hadn't yet scored.

In a brief conversation - during which it occurred to me that she'd be almost agreeable-looking if she just lost 300 pounds - Peggie told me she was a cashier at a Kalamazoo, Michigan supermarket (a career chosen, she readily admitted, for the substantial food discount it offered); that she had once played a Packard convertible in a high school production of ''Grease,'' and that her parents had tragically expired in a suicide pact just weeks after her birth.

Then she invited me to her hotel room.

(As we were leaving, I saw the bartender, who could not, of course, have understood my agenda, shaking his head in disbelief.

''That's it,'' he nudged the customer slouched in front of him. ''Right there - that dude. That's the definition of drunk.'')

At her hotel, to which we necessarily took separate cabs, the first thing Peggie did was crack open, and inhale, the complete contents of a package of Mallomars. Then, from a utility-kitchen refrigerator, she retrieved and devoured (in exactly what order I don't recall) a container of chicken wings, a combo plate of tacos and an economy-size tub of Velveeta.

Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box.

Now it's not that I mind Barry Manilow all that much, but the more appropriate musical accompaniment to the night's activities would have been the theme from ''Raiders of the Lost Ark.'' The thing was - and my insistence that we leave on no more than the bathroom light was definitely a contributing factor - I could not for the life of me find Peggie's vulva. I'd heard that this was a common occurrence with very fat women, and especially with very fat women in poor lighting, but it still took a lot longer than I would have expected. Why? Because Peggie's body could have served as a Special Forces training ground for the field of hazards and challenges it presented. I'm speaking of the twisting climbs and sudden valleys, the crags, the craters and the amazing plenitude of gullies, ravines and bogs that I was, and on my hands and knees, obliged to negotiate and traverse in my search. A dismaying project to begin with, my progress was further impeded by an extraordinary number of ambiguous fissures and crevices that, not quickly identifiable, required time-consuming investigation and study. You wouldn't believe how many deceptive nooks and seductive crannies I came across. In fact, at one point, when I thought for sure that I'd located and entered the secret cave, I discovered, to my chagrin, that I'd inserted myself inside of what was only a fold of fiercely perspiring epidermis. What's more, I realized, when I looked up, that I was seriously lost in some apparently outlying district of Peggie's anatomy.

You're thinking that I had only myself to blame, that not to stop and ask for directions is typical of a man. Well, I swear, I was just about to when I heard, in the distance, what sounded like the swift currents of a babbling brook. Groping my way toward the sound it increased in volume until it was a deafening roar and I knew I was directly above its source. Reasonably confident that I'd located Peggie's stomach, I paused to collect myself and survey my surroundings. In the absence of a compass I was looking for some sort of marker with which to establish my coordinates. When I noticed that the horizon ahead of me was blocked by an especially pronounced elevation in the terrain, I reasoned that I was likely facing north. With a cautious optimism I began, then, to crawl slowly backwards. You can imagine the rush I got when before too long my toes were caressed by a soft and lush foliage, and then bathed in the gentle bubbling of a warm spring.

I was at last at the pleasure grove.

Feeling like a world-beater, I was glowing with a sense of accomplishment and I have to confess that I indulged myself in a moment of pride. Relying on my instincts and wit, persevering in the face of exceptional difficulties, I had achieved an elusive goal other men would certainly have given up on. The moment was short-lived however. After effecting penetration my mettle was tested some more. Twice I was jettisoned (and put in jeopardy of becoming a ceiling fixture) by the astonishing power of Peggie's pelvic motion. It was really disappointing. Each time I was forced to go back to square one and I had to reach deep inside myself for a stick-to-itiveness that I wasn't at all sure I possessed. But I hung tough and on my third expedition, with my eyes now accustomed to the dark, I was recognizing landmarks and proceeding with dispatch. At the treasure chest within minutes, I managed, this time, to more or less stay put and, let me tell you, like clinging to the back of a great whale in a high sea, those final seconds were every bit as exhilarating as the Splash Mountain ride at Disney World.

In the morning, Peggie, cheery and humming to herself (doubtless never before the object of such committed attention), seemed unaware of my odyssey. After eating a cake, and washing it down with a quart of chocolate milk, she asked me if she could take a time-delay Polaroid of the two of us naked in bed. (Should you ever come across this picture, I am in it. That's the top of my head, not a puppy, just behind her left ankle.) Then she announced that she was cutting her trip short and returning home. There was no reason, she said, to remain in New York now, because no big-city experience that she might imagine could possibly surpass her night with me.

Having completed my mission and worried she'd suggest that we get together again, I was enormously relieved by and immediately supportive of her decision.

As I departed though, I did sense from her expression that she was maybe a little ambivalent about changing her plans; that she was thinking of something she might later regret missing. Not wishing to prolong the moment I chose not to ask any questions, so I'll never know just what the thing was. Yes, it could have been the Transit Museum or the Edgar Allan Poe Cottage. But I suspect that more likely on her mind was forgoing the chance to discover a new food group.

So you just joined today, huh?

WTF?

Peggy was my mother....

Robert, I think we have met in Broadmoor or the BBC....I forget which?

Budda I want to slap your face. Your mother is 'Peggy' - his corpulent lover was 'Peggie'. They are not the same you swag-bellied, long-legged limp-wristed egomaniac.


Loves and punches



PS
Robert your story gave me a brain tumour. Thank you sir - it saves me from suiciding myself.

Me

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Quote: Phil Edgar's Bones

Robert, I think we have met in Broadmoor or the BBC....I forget which?

Budda I want to slap your face. Your mother is 'Peggy' - his corpulent lover was 'Peggie'. They are not the same you swag-bellied, long-legged limp-wristed egomaniac.


Loves and punches



PS
Robert your story gave me a brain tumour. Thank you sir - it saves me from suiciding myself.

Me

---

Peggy/Peggie - much of the same really, isn't it?
Both fat bitches with no standards.


Phil, we have so much in common.
You have a tiny deformed penis.
Your father was a part-time woman.
You wank to 1970's disco music such as Beethoven's 5th remix.
You slur your words when talking to females.
You have a flatulence problem...

Oh wait, hang on!
Thats just you!



Phil, I'm glad you're back.

I'm not an egomaniac. I'm just a lover of MYSLEF.

Massage my ego, Phil Massage me like you've ever massaged another man before.

Well, at least try.

Fergus'll do it. He said so last week.

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Quote: Monkey Woods

Fergus'll do it. He said so last week.

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He didn't mean it.
I'm as bad as ever.

Won't someone please rub me?????!!!!!!!!!

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Quote: Robert Levin

During my twenties and thirties, it was my goal to have sex with every physical type of woman on the planet.

I'd prefer not to hear any stuff about this. I was proceeding from the belief that by sleeping with a representative of every kind of female body, and every category of appearance I would, in effect, come to know all women and that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing.

---

Did you ever sleep with a two-headed female dwarf?
Thought not.

Or a woman with one side of her body balloon shaped and the other as thin as a needle? And when she stood up her blood pressure dropped and she fainted?
Thought not?

Not many have, my friend, not many have.

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Quote: Robert Levin"...that such an accomplishment would be good for my writing"

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Huh?
Surely a typewriter or a pen and paper would be more useful? Surely?

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Quote: Jesus Budda

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Quote: Phil Edgar's Bones

Robert, I think we have met in Broadmoor or the BBC....I forget which?

Budda I want to slap your face. Your mother is 'Peggy' - his corpulent lover was 'Peggie'. They are not the same you swag-bellied, long-legged limp-wristed egomaniac.


Loves and punches



PS
Robert your story gave me a brain tumour. Thank you sir - it saves me from suiciding myself.

Me

---

Peggy/Peggie - much of the same really, isn't it?
Both fat bitches with no standards.


Phil, we have so much in common.
You have a tiny deformed penis.
Your father was a part-time woman.
You wank to 1970's disco music such as Beethoven's 5th remix.
You slur your words when talking to females.
You have a flatulence problem...

Oh wait, hang on!
Thats just you!



Phil, I'm glad you're back.

I'm not an egomaniac. I'm just a lover of MYSLEF.

Massage my ego, Phil Massage me like you've ever massaged another man before.

Well, at least try.

---

Budda you know?..... when I came back.....I ashamed to say.....I had hoped you were dead.

As my mother was a part-time man, I can see no problem with my father being a part-time woman.



I do not feel the need to massage your ego, as you wank it quite expertly without any input from me.



Robert's story has got me wandering if he is your best friend. I can see you walking or shufflin' down the street holding hands, wearing over-sized shoes and communicating with each other- in a funny secret language. Much to the amazement of no-one.


I want to set you on fire Budda, but I will put the flames out, after a few seconds. I just want to see what it is like to burn you a little.



Budda you have a retractable penis. This is not relevant, but I care not for relevance or fanciful things.

'Finally she put a Barry Manilow tape into her boom box'.


This the newest eupmemisn for what the kids call sex is it... eh?


These youngsters with their 'boom boxes', Rolling Stones recordings, permissive societies and their Jerry Lewis films. Crazy Kids.

---

Quote: Phil Edgar's Bones


Budda you know?..... when I came back.....I ashamed to say.....I had hoped you were dead.

As my mother was a part-time man, I can see no problem with my father being a part-time woman.



I do not feel the need to massage your ego, as you wank it quite expertly without any input from me.



Robert's story has got me wandering if he is your best friend. I can see you walking or shufflin' down the street holding hands, wearing over-sized shoes and communicating with each other- in a funny secret language. Much to the amazement of no-one.


I want to set you on fire Budda, but I will put the flames out, after a few seconds. I just want to see what it is like to burn you a little.



Budda you have a retractable penis. This is not relevant, but I care not for relevance or fanciful things.

---

Phil, I actually do really like you.
In the biblical sense.

I like the fact you get worked up about me and then bother to type it down with your little pudgy sausage fingers.

You are one of the few people on this site with balls.
I respect that.

The fact you want to torture, maim or see me dead is also highly entertaining becasue I feel the same way about others too sometimes.
We share a bond. A bond of hatred.

We are like opposing generals on the battlefield, facing off against each other in a deadly fight to the death but each respects the other man's...whatever the fuck.

AS for the retractable penis - Phil, if it wasn't retractable, I'd get damaged.
Surely your dick doesn't just hand from your head all the time?
When it's cold or you see a scary movie where someone gets impales, I'm guessing it withdraws into your furrowed simian brow.

Am I right, or am I right?

I love you, Philly boy,...I love you, Philly boy...
See? A little song just for you, Philly boy.

XOXOXOXOXOXO

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Quote: Jesus Budda

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Quote: Phil Edgar's Bones


Budda you know?..... when I came back.....I ashamed to say.....I had hoped you were dead.

As my mother was a part-time man, I can see no problem with my father being a part-time woman.



I do not feel the need to massage your ego, as you wank it quite expertly without any input from me.



Robert's story has got me wandering if he is your best friend. I can see you walking or shufflin' down the street holding hands, wearing over-sized shoes and communicating with each other- in a funny secret language. Much to the amazement of no-one.


I want to set you on fire Budda, but I will put the flames out, after a few seconds. I just want to see what it is like to burn you a little.



Budda you have a retractable penis. This is not relevant, but I care not for relevance or fanciful things.

---

Phil, I actually do really like you.
In the biblical sense.

I like the fact you get worked up about me and then bother to type it down with your little pudgy sausage fingers.

You are one of the few people on this site with balls.
I respect that.

The fact you want to torture, maim or see me dead is also highly entertaining becasue I feel the same way about others too sometimes.
We share a bond. A bond of hatred.

We are like opposing generals on the battlefield, facing off against each other in a deadly fight to the death but each respects the other man's...whatever the fuck.

AS for the retractable penis - Phil, if it wasn't retractable, I'd get damaged.
Surely your dick doesn't just hand from your head all the time?
When it's cold or you see a scary movie where someone gets impales, I'm guessing it withdraws into your furrowed simian brow.

Am I right, or am I right?

I love you, Philly boy,...I love you, Philly boy...
See? A little song just for you, Philly boy.

XOXOXOXOXOXO[/blockquote



I would not describe you as a general Budda, myself yes- possibly even an admiral with a fleet of ships.


But I have always envisaged you JB as some kind of filthy, diseased-impregnated water-boy or the man with the dowgers hump, who hands out the oranges at half-time, but ironically suffers from scurvy. You know, the one with the surgical boot and the port-wine birthmark - called Brian. I see you as Brian.



Your song was a load of fanny crap- not even Susan Boyle could save that tawdry mess of words.


Never write me another song again, I do not care for your lyrics.

Robert Levin's story has hurt my head, more than you ever have JB. I knight him Sir Robert of ramble.


JB you are a club-footed plebeian and I love you, for it. I mean that most sincerely.

Can't you boys find some common ground?

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Quote: victor nicholas

Can't you boys find some common ground?

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I was going to suggest that they stop flirting and just get a room.

I think they should settle their differences in an octogonal IFC ring. It wouldn't end in blood and carnage; just tears and hurt feelings.

Why didn't Robert the newbie put his love affair with a blimp in the Mag section, where it belongs? This is niether the time or place!

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Quote: Madame Bitters

I think they should settle their differences in an octogonal IFC ring. It wouldn't end in blood and carnage; just tears and hurt feelings.

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Maybe, but I'd still put vaseline and a can of ready whip in there for them.

I love it when they keep fighting while the blood spurts from their heads.

Blood being no measure of success the champion can be a pint down and still win.

BTW anyone keeping score?

MB are you sashaying and announcing the start of the rounds as they come up?

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Quote: victor nicholas

I love it when they keep fighting while the blood spurts from their heads.

Blood being no measure of success the champion can be a pint down and still win.

BTW anyone keeping score?

MB are you sashaying and announcing the start of the rounds as they come up?

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No, I don't want to distract these 'warriors of words' as my sashaying has been the cause of several auto accidents and at least one prison riot that I know of.

These boys don't need the distraction. Maybe MW would do the honors. JB and Phil both like him so much, you know.

Do they? How do you know that, MB?

Does JB tell you that on his site? I haven't been there for a while. I must pay a visit one of these nights when I've truly got nothing else to do.

I like JB, but, of course, I don't like him either. That's me all over, that is.

Sometimes I think JB isn't really a person at all, just a series of random responses from an out-of-kilter computer programme in a disused building somewhere, or the result of an experiment in a lab involving clever chimps, or ... you get the idea.

Then again, not even clever chimps could come up with stuff as funny and intelligent and loving and spontaneous and ...

is this the kind of thing you meant, JB?

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Quote: Monkey Woods


Then again, not even clever chimps could come up with stuff as funny and intelligent and loving and spontaneous and ...

is this the kind of thing you meant, JB?

---

It's close enough.

Thansk.

That's OK, JB.


I mean, well, you know.

Yeah, we know.

I know, we know too.

(Giggles)

One must tread these boards with great prudence as to avoid love affairs with other great Satirists present here. The swamps of jagged humour here can devour with impunity before one has learnt to swim, or float above the muddy surfaces. Success has no guarantees, just respect for what was and acceptance of the complete and utter insanity, wonderful!