The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 2: Extreme Sex

Jennifer complained today that I, David, fucked her very intensely, and that the power of the pressure on her clitoris therefore led to considerable cursing and protests. Basically, fucking is done by taking one’s huge cock and using it with tremendous force and expertise. Jennifer tells David that she appreciates the atavistic bellows and roars, just as he feels that this is the point of the exercise, to surrender focus on utility, the exchangeable unit of measurement, the unit of pleasure or whatever, and exist the intensity of which Lyotard writes in his “evil book”, the absolutely unique irreplaceable.

Part of the point of the stories earlier about the deplorably inadequate exes is to demonstrate that none of these had mastered the art of fucking, or of general humanity, but got by through exploiting mental illness. This is why they were never loved. For example, French Little Billy Blond, who assiduously reads these blogs, can go fuck himself, and sleep with dust and memories. Jennifer tells us that he uses a form of Fleshlight. But these are for lonely, pathetic, older men, so we naturally ask ourselves why does Mr. Blond have one? In fact she now tells me that he has more than one. He has three, one for each orifice that he recognizes

It should not be forgotten that, in nature, it is not necessarily an animal’s right to fuck. Jennifer says that Blond once abused a frail gay man and was bottled, he phoned the police: that’s just weak. Low quality males, or females, are often rejected, and this is no problem to the better animals, since, let’s face facts, what the fuck are the rejected specimens going to do about it? The best should fuck, the rest can fuck off and die. Dysgenic fertility is already a huge problem.  Scumbags breed most readily.

I, Jennifer, mistook Principle #2 to mean that constant complaining during sex was not only good, but a turn on for David. I would say no, stop, you’re hurting me, when inside I was gushing with vaginal fluids. The more excited I got, the more biting the complaints became, such as saying, oh, you asshole. I came to learn over time that complaints were not necessary to keep this particular male member erect and that, indeed, almost the opposite was true. The more excitement I expressed, the more passion I felt, the more I continued to complain. One time David told me to shut up and slapped me across the face. That really excited me, so much so that I instantly stopped complaining. Indeed, he was harder than ever, a true lightning rod of unbridled pleasure.

Jennifer writes as though I don’t slap her around pretty much all the time, as one does, and as I just did a round dozen times while bruising myself around the os pubis, and producing a symphony of sluttishness from her frail form. She writes as though she would not be enormously pissed off if I refrained from so doing. Anyway, if men with small dicks breed, we will ultimately see an accursed race of humans who develop midget wangs. The clitoris will become insufferably arrogant, and Jennifer will be able to crush me (I, Jennifer, am related to the Incredible Hulk, which enables me to wind David quite severely when I lie flat on top of him); whereas now, with my use of the techniques of extreme sex, I am able to lift her by the goddamn snatch with one hand and hold her up in the air, which really does provoke cursing, even if my grip gets all slippery on account of the enhanced flow of secretions.

Again, with extreme sex, Jennifer is obsessed by showering before i eat her out, since the vagina is assumed to smell and taste funny, which it doesn’t. There is no particular pong attributable to the snatch. I attribute that particular piece of bullshit to religions, even influencing atheists such as Jennifer, since it influences the whole of society. The Christian pedo rapists, and other practitioners of retarded voodoo, disapprove of the snatch as being a residence of devils and general naughtiness. She also seriously believes that I give a shit if she happens to be bleeding like a stuck pig. As a vegan, I appreciate the nutritional supplement, and am not obliged to chew coal for iron.

Really, it is impossible to be more extreme than I have been. But I’ve never met a man who would eat me out and earn what used to be called their “red wings” by lesbians, the term having been used once by Hells Angels, though the latter are more advanced than the lesbian community. Maybe this is because I was a lesbian for a while, women shying away from blood like most straight men. However, it is common practice for lesbians to perform oral sex on each while one, or both, has a yeast infection. No, the cottage cheese discharge is no breakfast treat. Some lesbians even put their yeast discharge into glass vials and display them on the mantelpieces in their homes. The scent emanates from the vials like a sweet perfume in the nicer homes of such cities as San Francisco. I have turned my nose on the whole mess, and tell David he can lick me anytime. We were going to ask some lesbians in the grocery store, but David bottled out when they stared at his trousers, licking their lips and giggling inanely. The excitable one started running round in circles.

Extreme sex, it must be noted, does not require an extreme cock or extreme pussy, but we do not really know what women with gaping vaginas and men with small cocks do to get off in an extreme fashion. Quite frankly we don’t want to know. It’s like whether the crack babies are laughing or screaming; who cares?

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The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 1: Extreme Shitting

Another collaboration with Jennifer S. Chesler.  This is a very instructive piece. As the reader may recall, my previous technique for her involved a particularly brutal face fuck. Sadly, this technique, though highly enjoyable for me, did not actually work, no feces was produced, and she’s such a good girl that she hardly puked. She pissed on me later but that is not germane to the issue, I’m just boasting, really.

The Philosophy of Extremism, Principle 1:  Extreme Shitting

The primary goal of the philosophy of extremism is to aid in the elimination of feces. Technique #1 is my personal favorite, one akin to an asana in yoga. I sit on the toilet and push as hard as I can out of my bowels. There might be considerable, but low, grunts emitted. At this point, if the shit has not at least crowned (crowning is the most important sign of a satisfactory bowel movement, though in certain circumstances the crown, due to constipation, stays in one place, fixed as it were, in the anal opening), it becomes necessary to release your breath completely, almost as though you are giving up on the shit completely. Then after you’ve caught your breath, push hard and you will feel the crown, in all its glory, turned into a large mass of feces, or, when constipated, a series of rock hard turds in succession, plopping away merrily into the toilet as you flush, stomach emptied.

David recalls an experience that profoundly traumatized him. He had eaten Swedish bread that is basically unleavened, and served in round cakes. He had eaten a whole two pounds of this garbage together with a hard mature cheese, only one pound of this. The shit-baby took two days of labor. He was obliged to hold the ring and raise his whole body with his hands while screaming curses and praying to Baphomet to at least abort and torture the foul fetuses of Xian scam as some consolation. When the shit came he swore to never suffer constipation again unless heroin was involved.

The person we elsewhere refer to as Backsplash admonished David for his profane language during the whole proceedings. Since the feces, so David assures me, was monochromatic, the bitch should have kept her mouth, as well as her anal gob, firmly closed.

Tight pussy slut, Part II

#vanillamakesmeSICK

Tight pussy slut, Part II

Little whore thinks she’s a big girl, she’s not a big girl at all but when i come into her Daddy’s a big boy and she’s gasping and grunting and groaning so I tell her, you like that don’t you, you can scream for help, nobody gonna hear you, nobody gonna care. I’m running it in and outta her so she’s pushed around, legs flapping like branches in a hurricane. Look in daddy’s eyes i tell her as she lies there whimpering, so i pull the ass all the way up and bang her, moving her round like a rag doll and driving the jackhammer in hard. Where’s mommy, I want my mommy, she whines so I tell her she has no mommy now and she can sleep in daddy’s bed all the time. She gets real excited and the juice is squirting out of her covering my dick and stomach area she gets so goddamn wet. I love that little tight pussy slut.

Ginger Ale is the best, Canada Dry Ginger Ale is my favorite, diet of course. When Daddy fucks me in my sleep he wakes me up to rinse off, a big grin on his face between my legs, and a soda in his hand. Daddy’s hands are so big. He can hold a can in one hand. O, Daddy, what’s the white stuff between my legs? Why aren’t you doing this to mommy instead? Then he gets angry – I told you mommy’s dead.

I shoot my load deep in her, she says I’m pushing her womb up into her stomach so i yell what the fuck you know about wombs, you little whore, what they been telling you in school?. Jennifer lies there later, waiting for her rape soda. It makes her so happy.

David McLean, Part II

David McLean, Part II

David rams his thick, long porcelain cock into my nickel hole of a cunt. He goes in so far. Oh god, I think, he’s hitting my womb. I can’t take it, I say to him. He thrusts himself into me as hard as he can and tells me I’m a big girl. No, Daddy, I say, you’re such a big man, and I’m just a little girl. This excites him so much that he thrusts deeper than I’ve been penetrated ever before, grunting like an animal on top of me. His breath quickens. Grab my ass, he says. He takes my ass in his hands, as I take his in mine. You’re a big girl now, he says. Where’s mommy? Where’s mommy? Why don’t you do this to her? Mommy is dead, David says, you can sleep in mommy’s bed every night now; you’re making Daddy very happy. He thrusts in even further. No, I can’t take it any deeper. I’m out of breath. He pulls out and sticks his cock halfway into me. Praise the lord, I whisper to myself, he has listened. David’s breath quickens. You’re such a good girl, he says to me. I squeeze his ass harder. The next thing I know he’s heaving himself in and out of me. I don’t mind anymore. It feels so good. His breathing is so heavy and fast as he ejaculates a large amount of semen into my nickel hole. It’s dripping out of me until he stops the flow of come coming out of me with his underwear. I’ve got to piss, I say. I’ll come with you, he says.

 

 

Fragments came today, again

Fragments came today, the third written but first published of all Jennifer S. Chesler’s novels, This has the form of an anthology but functions as an aleatory novel, in that she randomly ordered the texts originally, while I, who edited the book, was obliged to reorder and add new pieces. The interconnection of the pieces is both thematic & linguistic, & unifies the novel regardless of the exigencies of ordering.

This reordering was particularly necessary since she wasted 18 years with a literary agent who was most definitely not a writer, & seems to have been very poorly suited to his job.

The book is a splendid piece of work & deserves recognition for its innovative nature. Topics covered are dog sex in the Phoenix area, the stupidity of the average American, piss fucks, & the author’s mental illness & poverty (caused by a dodgy upbringing in a hostile family environment &, later, a life among worthless scumbags).

Here it is at Amazon.

Here it is at Barnes & Noble.

& here it is at Google Books.

 

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Cockwombles a-comin’

We received today The Natural History of the Cockwomble, to our great delight. The book is now approved for Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Ingram etc. It will; not be on the Apple bookstore since they themselves are egregious cockwombles, not unlike Jennifer’s shitty psychiatrist, who is exposed in his full moronic glory within the pages of this august tome.

The book is loitering at Lulu, waiting for you to solicit it. Here it is, & here we are too, admiring it.

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transnan

This is the first piece from The Philosophy of Extremism III. See below for the other books we have done.

Transnan

Tammy’s mother had been weird. She had started as Tammy’s father, until she decided to change gender. She did absolutely nothing in the way of operations and so forth. She didn’t even stop shaving and was almost always to be seen masturbating on her porch, wearing only a tunic that covered very little, topped with a cute lace ruffle. I found it embarrassing to be her grandchild. At the age of fourteen, however, I found myself constantly wet whenever I witnessed her antics. She was convinced that i was a boy.

I guess by now you know that I appear in three volumes of The Philosophy of Extremism. Sometimes I think that it not my large body (I weigh between 520 and 840 lbs., or so they say) but my mother that got me into this horrible trilogy. The authors contacted me after reading about the dead firemen who had tried to carry me to the potty in my trailer. But I really think that they were only interested in Dan, my simultaneously disgusting yet beautiful Nan/dad. S/he did have beautiful long legs, it’s true, but her breath was dreadful. I couldn’t even speak to her without averting my head. She started to sit on the front porch of my trailer in her tunic, masturbating like it was Vegas, roulette never smelled so bad.

My Nan was Tammy’s dad. It was sort of exciting. She would call her huge penis her strap-on and tell me that I was a good girl. One time I rode it. But I’m a boy, Nan, I (equally confused) screamed. The report from CPS stigmatized our entire family as “retarded fuckwads” and they told Judge Adams that they “really didn’t care” what happened. So transfixed was the judge by Tammy that he said that she was just Jennifer’s mom anyway, and he would have both authors imprisoned for being naughty, but Harriet was reconciled with him now, took it like a really big girl, and was always wet. He declared them innocent, complimented David on his cock, and discussed spanking with him and Jennifer for six hours while the stenographer wept.

Jennifer was incredibly turned on as she had a fetish for spanking (Duh) that dates back to early childhood, when she did things to her brother that bode ill for her nieces. David was pretty much general purpose, and would get off on anything that did not involve backsplash, a strange phenomenon involving anal sex, poo-poo, and ending in not bothering to clean the sink, after all it wasn’t his fucking apartment and he didn’t make the sac shitty in the first place.

By this point we have no idea where this is going. Nan, and even Judge Adams, had experienced it too. Backsplash was everywhere. It seems like every book we read had taken our experience and sullied it even further. Without further ado, we encourage the reader to buy the previous books, where this story ends in Hermaphrodite Squares. (Daddy wants to fuck now.)