Ich liebe ~ Karen Welsh

 

Ich liebe
Ich liebe
Ich liebe
das Saugen des Hahns
Ich liebe
Ich liebe
Ich liebe
das Saugen des Hahns

Blow ~ Chris Major

Around the back,
amongst chip trays
and coke cans
he gropes under
tight clothing.
Unzips;
jerks her head,
roughly shoves it
‘tween glossed lips,
his mate already
pounding away.
 
Expertly done,
no gagging,
just the odd moan;
and as a mobile phone
flashes ‘MUM’
amongst gum
and tampons,
an airway is
finally established…………………

GrInDhOuSe

An homage to exploitation B-movie thrillers that combines two feature-length segments into one double-bill designed to replicate the grind house theatergoing experience of the 70s and 80s. In “Death Proof,” a psycho named Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell) stalks and kills beautiful women with his car. In “Planet Terror,” a small-town sheriffs’ department has to deal with an outbreak of murderous, infected people called “sickos.” A gun-legged woman named Cherry (Rose McGowan) and her martial arts-wielding partner (Freddy Rodriguez) take on the zombie army. The two films will be fused together by fake movie trailers

new # of SVG

Marquis-de-Chalfont

https://savagemanners.wordpress.com/2007/05/19/a-night-in-kings-cross-marquis-de-chalfont/ 

Steve Vermillion

https://savagemanners.wordpress.com/2007/05/21/coward-steve-vermillion-2/

COWARD ~ Steve Vermillion

This is what it feels like. This is what a girl can do, what testosterone does. You look…you look twice, and that’s it. It is disrespect, a challenge. Your nose, his nose, smashed like a grape; like a blood red strawberry…. Blood everywhere: Down the new moustache,into the teeth, over the tongue and onto the lips and chin… What the fuck? What’s happening?Two strangers, passer’s by, exchanging looks, and I don’t mean that in one moment you looked like him and he like you; something worse, more sinister, you simply glanced toward one another. That’s it… That’s the whole of it!

One punches the other in the face. It does not matter. You cup your nose in your palm, or he holds his nose in his palm…a face covered in a single impulsive hand; the sudden taste of warm salty blood, and for what? You think for just one moment that you should have only looked at the pavement, the pubs or the shops, never at the stranger walking with his mates…Something challenging about it…something to prove.

One of you fires one fist, then another. You crumple, drop to the floor, more than bleeding, but a fucking coward if you don’t stand up and go at him, knowing though, that you may only return bleeding, hurting, all the more wounded, lying again upon the street under the fleeting lights.

“You fuckin’ wanker, go on, look at me again!” Your nose hurts as much as dying but your mates only look on, no longer friends, but daring you, pleading with you for revenge, though their fists lie open at their sides.

“You fuckin’ wanker, if you look at me again you’re a dead man!” You rise to one knee. You keep your head down out of shame or some kind of planned surprise, preparing to fight back. Seconds go by, maybe minutes, but you do not rise.

The guy walks away from you and you want to smash him from behind. You want to charge him and you know that your mates are watching you and wondering what you’re going to do and you say, out loud: “I’m gonna kick the shit out of him.” You look round for a weapon, a piece of wood, a blade, a rock, anything, but there is nothing but your balls. And what is left of them?

That’s what it’s like. It’s what the boys do. Give’m’a pint. Give‘m’ a game… Give‘m’Leeds United. They will rot in prison, covered in their own faeces, as well as suffer a random look, a smile, a supposed challenge, or stranger.

All waiting like loaded guns, cross-bows, swords and shields… Been there ten thousand years: Casual, common, routine as sex with a drunken teen. Come on, look at me, show me your fucking face and I’ll knock it off…I’ll fucking dust you mate…Come on!”

Only thing worse is walking your bird back: Walking her home and some guy decides, on a moment’s impulse, to pinch her arse as he passes by. He’s a big fellow, a giant. She goes mental, looking at you, spitting, insisting, and demanding that you teach that cunt a lesson.

“That fuckin’ prick pinched my arse! What you gonna do about it?” What sex you were expecting disappears. You look back… The bloke, even bigger now than when he passed by, looks invincible. From somewhere in your survival instinct you think: “Let it go”. Still, you come after him, ready to commit suicide. Pussy or death, and you choose death…You always do…always will.

On impulse, you turn… in silence, attempting the element of surprise, but he, aside from his inhuman biceps, has big ears…he hears your very first step…hears you coming, and he is ready. Instead of pinching your arse his fist stops you like bricks and mortar. You fall. You fail, and your girl looks as though you’d decided to be laid out where you had once stood…as though her honour was as of little importance to you as, say, skid marks in pants. You look up, from the street; pleading, appealing to her, as though saying, “Wasn’t that gallant of me?” But she turns away just as the giant who knocked you down keeps astride of his mates and never looks back. Your girl, this Goliath, walk their separate ways and you are alone…alone, half conscious and no better than had you been a coward.

You realize that you are no Achilles, no Ulysses. Not Stephan Deadalus himself. You lie alone on the street…

You want to shout to her, even to him, that you have not given in, nor retreated and are not a coward… But you have, in your fall, twisted your knee…a knee incapable now of allowing you to stand upright, though you remain full of fight, even of suicide, and strangely, still wanting that promised sex. “Come back”, you want to shout, your mouth full of blood with the now glassine taste of your own teeth. It is then that you realize that it is not your knee, your face, your nose, nor anything somatic. It is cowardice and common sense that keeps you hugging the pavement…hugging the ground for warmth or comfort as though night itself had arms and a blanket…enough to care for you in your absence…

Fancy a bit of SVG???

A Night in Kings Cross ~ Marquis de Chalfont

It was 4.00am on Sunday morning and I was drunk. I was inside a small Kings Cross gaming room playing the pokies. With my first ten dollars the machine paid out, one hundred and fifty smackeroonies, which was mine to spend how I wanted? After collecting my winnings from a sleepy-faced teller an association of thoughts made me think of getting a brass. Yes, that’s what I needed, a sexual experience without any emotional ties to celebrate my good fortune.
     I staggered towards William Street. It was late now, not so many people around, just the aimless and the hardcore and those with nowhere else to go. Most of the hookers had gone home for the night.  Then I saw one, an Asian girl, strutting her stuff in the shadows, head held high. I approached.
       “Looking for a lady?” asked a husky voice.
“How much?”
“Fifty.”
I nodded.
The prostitute looked me up and down, “Okay, young boy, you follow me.”
Again I clocked the husky voice, but nothing untoward registered in mind, and I followed like a lost puppy.
      The brass took me to a smart looking block of private flats at the bottom of Bayswater road. Moments later we were inside a dimly lit apartment. The girl asked if I would like a drink. So far the business of paying for sex had been a civilised affair. I sat back in my chair and relaxed,
“Got any beers?”
      The woman pulled a face and tottered to a small kitsch mini-bar, which stood in one corner of the room, “No beer. That stuff make you fat!”
I noticed for the first time how strong her accent was, very south-east Asian, possibly Thai or Filipino, but it was hard to pinpoint exactly. She probably hadn’t lived in Australia for that long, I mused somewhat absentminded.
“You like Gin & Tonic?”
“Fine with me.”
     Once the brass had fixed the drinks, we sat and made small talk. It was the usual intros. Where are you from, what do you do? As we chatted I gave her the once over. She was tall for a slope and skinny, with a small bum and big breasts. She was wearing layers of foundation, plenty of mascara, lipstick, eyeliner, etc. In fact everything about her was slightly exaggerated.
 When my drink was half-finished the girl picked it up,
“We go bedroom now.”
    Once in the boudoir the girl undressed, revealing black suspenders, bra and knickers. Class, I thought as I dropped my jeans and cast off my tee-shirt. I sat down on the bed and the brass knelt in front of me and went straight to work. I was still fairly drunk, and despite an effective technique, I knew the girl would have to work hard to earn her fifty dollars.
     At one point I slipped a hand inside the prostie’s bra and gave one of her breasts a firm squeeze. The breast was solid like it was made out of cement, but I kept on squeezing. The girl stopped sucking and flipped her bra off. The breasts popped out and didn’t move, stone tits, a plastic surgery job without a doubt.  I leaned over and sucked on a nipple, but it felt weird, like sucking an ice-cream cone or something.
      After a while of the breast feeling and cock-sucking business I decided to be more assertive. I slid a hand down to the suspenders and slid a finger inside. Suddenly the brass jumped up, causing her hair to slide to one side, a wig,
“You wan full sex?” She gasped.
What a stupid question, “Yeah.”
“You sure wan full sex with girl like me?”
Another stupid question, “Yeah.”
      With that the brass produced a condom and expertly slid it onto my cock. Then she rolled onto her back, slid her knickers off, and opened her legs. I looked at what was in front of me and suddenly felt like an actor in some x-rated scene from an obscure B-Movie. In a scene like this I would look directly into a camera and say something like, “Well, what would you do folks?”
     In front of me was a small, limp, pathetic looking cock, shrunken balls and shaved pubic area. Before I could react the brass grabbed my cock and stuck it straight up her arse. She/he was already lubed up and it slipped all the way in, and despite some lingering reservations I soon hit a steady and sure rhythm.  As I did the small withered cock gradually spurred into action and rose to the occasion. At one point I grabbed it and gave it a tug. Strangely, it wasn’t a turn off.  I’d never had sex with a transsexual before, never even contemplated it, but life firsts are life firsts no matter how bizarre. Ah well, in for a penny in for a pound,’ I sighed as I pumped away.
     After I came, grunting and collapsing onto a bed of cement tits, the transsexual straddled me and finished off by hand. This move somewhat disgusted me, but I’d always wondered what it must feel like to receive a face load of cum, and it wasn’t long before I found out. I closed my mouth because despite everything I didn’t fancy swallowing any man juice, and moments later a splatter of warm sticky substance frosted my face. Immediately afterwards I was repulsed by the whole kinky episode. I rushed into the bathroom and splashed water all over my face, found a dressing gown, and wiped most of the shit onto that.  Then I returned to the bedroom and re-dressed in world record time.
        The transsexual lay on the bed murmuring something about how wonderful it had all been, and for a split-second I thought about committing murder in cold blood. It could be done quite easily, I ruminated, but instead I just left without saying goodbye.

dictionary corner ~ Karen Welsh

bored, bor·ing, bores, the-beat

verb (used with object)

1.	to weary by dullness, tedious repetition, unwelcome attentions, etc.: The Beat bored me.

–noun

2.	a dull, tiresome, or uncongenial person.

3.	a cause of ennui or petty annoyance: repetitious tasks that are a bore to do.

This site was once an exciting place to visit…sadly; it’s now in the same league of an
ARGOS catalogue. (Sorry Sean) Stop posting bootcamp bollocks.

In Sumeria ~ Elizabeth Rose

I don’t know how, but they knew she would wait. Like some compliant virgin with busy fingers exploring, yearning to know how it could feel, no longer mindful of the white handkerchiefs in auntie’s grasp. Neither was deluded by her “Perhaps!” as though their fates were waxen, imprinted with the scent of apples. He said “I always get what I want” The shadows of ram’s horns follow his sundown smile as he leaves. Fuck, she loved a compliment, especially when the outlines were so badly chalked! He was far too young for her. But, she emanated sex; I guess that was part of her charm. She had always had this inside her. Her sexuality danced like the death of a bull by the matador’s sword. An impermanent strength impaled her desire. A lie smiled on her lips.  

She would welcome him this day. There had been opportunity before but she had been unwilling until the allotted time drew near, embroiled in fortune and fantasy. She thought him an arroyo, eager to learn; her Dumuzi. It would be delicious, deserved and would betray. As always; wine flowed, a ritualistic ascent to some barren grounds and augural display. Blood and red thirst quenched, making precious the faces of those cheated. Innocent hollows passed by like slaughtered ghosts. The two laughed, teacher and disciple. Their laughter resounded, making the moments slowed and her need painfully beguiling. 

He did not disappoint. Her experience expected inattentive hands like shovels against crusted earth, but he knew her, breathed her; grew into her with the lucidity of water. And his warmth? Oh so gentle. She felt starving as he filled her, she drank so deeply. She wanted him further, harder, but, he had not yet matured enough to understand the pleasure this could bring to a woman. He imagined the horrors she had told him in silence from afar. He could not unchain the link like he could unhook her single handed; his hunger vivid as hers. His stamina won a worthy contender.  

This could be no first time tryst; their understanding locked as tightly as his hold and she had to return his gifts. She lifted herself and lowered onto him. His marbled surface made her strength shatter in his appreciative gaze and so she followed his form, rubbing the edges away so the picture moved outside the frame. She dug her toes deeper into the lion’s mane, tasted some fossilized tablet. They echoed amongst cobwebbed beams. She had to show him what she knew, make her world fertile once again. He spoke pleasure in the swell and looked through her into their pasts. Both learned the silence of the future. They sweated, and came together.  

Afterwards, they talked. He teased a curl and her lips as she left. Only after the moment has passed and the unmistakable arms were lost in the tide of the day, she realised his beauty. His arrogance made him, I guess. Hers was undone; sculpted back from where she lay, loosened. She went to her husband, aglow; renewed. She had to discover what relics remained; buried deep in the loam. As she undressed again, her cast shadow is horned and searching, making her brighter. One failed drawing, ready to be over ridden. His gift: her different medium.

More SVG!! lucky boys’n’girls!!