Cunt ~ Matthew Coleman

October 23, 2007

that
one
solitary
word that
evokes such images –
memories of lust,
of desire
of need
of madness.
Memories
of fingers finding folds,
of light touches
of rubbing
of caressing
of the tongue slipping
and sliding
over skin and
tasting.

CUNT 
and its hot heat.
CUNT
and its sumptuous sensations.
CUNT
and its erupting ecstasy.
CUNT –
that one
solitary
word
and its
mental erection
and then
the ejaculation
of its imagery.
 

I fucked a Norwegian woman in a lift
one night
when it was late
(this is a true story, no bullshit).
It was a respectable lift,
a bourgeois lift,
an Oslo lift.
It was a lift
within the apartment block where this woman and myself lived.
(This woman was my girlfriend at the time,
my first love).
It was a lift with a large mirror inside
and I watched on,
with her hips in my hands,
as I fucked her savagely from behind.
Her eyes were shut tight
as she gasped and
rocked back and forth.
I fucked her hard and fast until she quickly came
and then I pulled out and
she pulled me off until I came.
I then looked down to
see that there were come drops
forming a little puddle
on the floor.
The next morning
when I got the lift
from our floor
down to the ground floor
it suddenly stopped –
an old woman with a fur coat on
stepped inside the lift
with a pedigree pup on a lead.
I looked at the woman’s back
and then at her dog and
then back at her back and
then down at the stain on the floor,
my stain on the floor.
The door slowly shut
and as the three of us
went down
to the ground floor
the dog began sniffing and then
licking
at the dried up patch of come.
I covered my mouth up
and laughed into my hand
whilst watching that little
doggy tongue
lapping at my come.

The moral of the story is to
never let a pedigree pup lick a lift floor
now matter how bourgeois it is.

OK, I have gotten myself mixed up with putting on a literary festival, of sorts, that will be running upon the edge of the first ever London Literary Festival.

Fuck it, we thought, why not shake shit up and put on something of our own at the same time – give the bastards something to think about.

Anyway, if you know of anyone / group who would be interested in doing something on one of the nights then send word, for good or ill –

The only conditions for entry are that it must be literary, it must be within the M25, and it must be taking place between the 29th of June and the 13th of July 2007. We’d particularly like independent publishers and booksellers and schools to get involved, but everyone is invited.

See the website and spread the word. I want this thing around like crabs in a brothel!!!!!!

Onwards, always.

http://londonlitplus.com/about

Never go down on a stranger no matter how sensational her snatch must be whilst barely covered with a skirt.

 Never go down on a stranger no matter how inviting those tight and tanned thighs look in the lingering low light of the boozer.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how seductivethose eyes look at you from afar. 

Never go down on a stranger no matter how well you get on with her after she’s slowly strolled up and began talking to you with ease.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how many times her fingers brush against your arm arousing that subtle sensation in your balls.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how many drinks you knock back to the point where you’re both pissed out of your head.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how quickly it is that you’re back at her place in the lingering low light of her bedroom.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how hard your cock is whilst pressed against her with you on top.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how round and firm her tits are in the putty palm of your hand.  

Never go down on a stranger no matter how good the putty palm of her hand gently slides over the protruding prick in your pants. 

Never go down on a stranger no matter how seductively she slurs in your ear: “Go down on me big boy..” 

Never go down on a stranger between the dark shadows of her thighs as my old man once told me about Pete, one of his Mod mates when he was growing up in Brighton years ago…  

“So one night Pete is all suited and booted and razzled with this bird he met at a club and he’s making her laugh like the right jack the lad that he is. Back at her place and the pair of ‘em were on her bed rolling round and giggling and touching each other up when Pete gets a hunger on to go down on her. He asks her if he can, like the gentleman that he is, and she’s like: “Nah, you can’t, you can’t, just put it in me, go on, I’m right ready for you now..”  

And Pete’s like: “Nah, come on, I wanna go down on you. Yeah, I got a right ‘ol hunger for it..”  

Eventually Pete wins cause he’s a right charmer with the ladies and then he gets down there between her thighs and he makes a right feast out of her gash. She tastes a little heavy to Pete, like a bit on the iron side, but he puts this down to all that Guinness he’dknocked back earlier.  

Soon she’s all wet. She’s soaking in fact, and it’s all smeared around her snatch and all over Pete’s mouth and his tongue and he’s loving it thinking he’s some kind of fucking Casanova. After he’s had his fill he finally gets up and then puts it in her and they have a right lovely fuck.  

Next morning Pete wakes up with a bladder full and has to get up for a piss. And so he’s standing there pissing into the toilet bowel whilst yawning and rubbing his face and then he’s like “what the fuck?” cause his face feels all freaky and flakey and stuff is falling off of it into the bowl of piss below him.  

So he finishes his slash and shakes himself off and then turns around to look at himself in the mirror, and I ain’t kidding you here but he’s got this dried blood-like beard all over his chops cause that bird was on her time of the fucking month…” 

Anyway, never go down on a stranger cause my old man told me that horrible story and I reckon he’s right.