Well, first blog. I don't really do blogs. I'm just going to put a thing I wrote. I don't really know what you'd call it, but I suppose it fits MicroFiction. It's called "Dirty Pretty Things"
"I'm going to warn you, I'm not very talented" You tell her. Self-deprecation can be a very useful tool, if you use it right. It's easy to surpass low expectations. You just have to make sure you shit on yourself just right. Too much and you just end up a pathetic sob-story jerk off blah, blah, blah, but too little and her expectations will be just high enough to ruin all that effort you just put into taking off your shirt as she tugs on your belt, saying "I don't care. Any dick is better than my ex." She's succinct. You admire that. As she deftly slinks out of her dress, a sexy little black number, you take a moment to take in the subtlety of her luscious frame. She's tall, and thin. Maybe even a little too thing. Her thighs are toned, and don't meet until they reach your goal, that little trimmed little patch of flesh, covered with nothing more than a half an inch wide and three inch long patch of light blond hair. You force your eyes to continue their ascent, past her flat stomach with it's own focal point trying to steal it's own attention, above her slightly visible ribcage, pausing only to lust after her small, firm breasts, each adorned with a perfect dark nipple. You avoid looking at her face. She could be anyone, as long as you don't look at her face. An astronaut. Your first grade teacher. The hot doctor who stitched your nose after that drunk fight at the bar last month. You don't care. You just want to get your fucking boxers off so you can destroy any remaining semblance of respect you may have for her ivory flesh. Because that's all this is about. Destruction. As you slam into her soft flesh, her bent over and panting, you think of anything, everything else just to prolong this as long as possible, to stretch out each and every second you can steal from the clock on the wall. Even if that clock is already an hour and a half slow. You think of presidents. Geography. Pets. Roadkill. Fruit. Your shit hole of a job. Anything but the heat you're slamming away at with such vigor. You learn to block out the sound of her moans. The sound of flesh colliding with flesh. Her frantic breathing. It all becomes static. White noise. Eventually, silence. And then you blow.
And then you say to her "tell me again I'm an asshole." And she does. And You leave.
And you hate yourself a little more with each girl. You get used to it.
"I'm going to warn you, I'm not very talented" You tell her. Self-deprecation can be a very useful tool, if you use it right. It's easy to surpass low expectations. You just have to make sure you shit on yourself just right. Too much and you just end up a pathetic sob-story jerk off blah, blah, blah, but too little and her expectations will be just high enough to ruin all that effort you just put into taking off your shirt as she tugs on your belt, saying "I don't care. Any dick is better than my ex." She's succinct. You admire that. As she deftly slinks out of her dress, a sexy little black number, you take a moment to take in the subtlety of her luscious frame. She's tall, and thin. Maybe even a little too thing. Her thighs are toned, and don't meet until they reach your goal, that little trimmed little patch of flesh, covered with nothing more than a half an inch wide and three inch long patch of light blond hair. You force your eyes to continue their ascent, past her flat stomach with it's own focal point trying to steal it's own attention, above her slightly visible ribcage, pausing only to lust after her small, firm breasts, each adorned with a perfect dark nipple. You avoid looking at her face. She could be anyone, as long as you don't look at her face. An astronaut. Your first grade teacher. The hot doctor who stitched your nose after that drunk fight at the bar last month. You don't care. You just want to get your fucking boxers off so you can destroy any remaining semblance of respect you may have for her ivory flesh. Because that's all this is about. Destruction. As you slam into her soft flesh, her bent over and panting, you think of anything, everything else just to prolong this as long as possible, to stretch out each and every second you can steal from the clock on the wall. Even if that clock is already an hour and a half slow. You think of presidents. Geography. Pets. Roadkill. Fruit. Your shit hole of a job. Anything but the heat you're slamming away at with such vigor. You learn to block out the sound of her moans. The sound of flesh colliding with flesh. Her frantic breathing. It all becomes static. White noise. Eventually, silence. And then you blow.
And then you say to her "tell me again I'm an asshole." And she does. And You leave.
And you hate yourself a little more with each girl. You get used to it.