I’m Sick to Death of Not Writing P**N

(Sorry, about that; I try never to be afraid of writing anything, but I’m trying to keep the number of spam visitors down to a dull roar, so the word that rhymes with “Corn” will not be allowed here.  Oh, by the way, this is X, or at least NC-17, rated content here, but not p**n, never p**n.  This is a family site.)


She threw down Jack Daniel’s like it was pineapple/orange koolaid on a hot summer day.

“What are  you lookin’ at?”

“A reasonably attractive woman who likes her booze.”

“Says the man who adds ice and water to his bourbon.”

“I like my whiskey cold and my women stupid.”

“You look like you’d like to be fucking an 83-year old Chinese midget woman.”

You look like you’re all pissed off that I’m not in your mouth already.”

“Goddammit!”  She slammed her empty glass on the bar and pulled me off my stool.  83 seconds later I was balls deep in her in the women’s bathroom.

17 minutes after that, she was squeezing back into her leather pants.  “Now what are you looking at,”  she asked.

“I’m looking for the tattoo that says ‘Run, run away as fast as you can!'”

She grabbed me and kissed me, but there was fear in her eyes.  I saw us in the mirror behind her; there was someone, who looked a little like me, kissing a woman way too beautiful for him, and there was the same fear in his eyes.

“By the way,” she said, “your mom should really ease up a little; she’ll end up breaking something off someone one of these days.”

“My mom’s gone, but I’m betting you already knew that I won’t hold that against you.”

“You can’t be afraid in life; you have to say it.  Sometimes it backfires, sometimes it doesn’t.”

“You mean like me calling you ‘reasonably attractive’ and knowing it would get me laid?”

“Yeah, like that, asshole,” she answered with a smile.  “Sorry about your mom, by the way.  I’m sure she was a great lady.”

“The sweetest ever.  She tried to make me a nice person, but then I ran into troublesome women and southern whiskey, and here I am.”

We walked back into the bar.  She drank me under the table for 3 hours.  We walked back to her place.  I banged her under the kitchen table for 3 hours.

*We lived happily ever after.*


I’ve always liked the idea of writing smutty stuff, but, you know, people that I know (and some I may meet in the future) will read this someday, people I’d like to have a decent opinion of me, not think I’m some sort of sex-crazed pervert with wicked thoughts about what I’d like to do to and with women, fabulously willing women.  Not unwilling women; that would be a serial killer novel, wouldn’t it?

By the way, nearly all of us are sex-crazed perverts somewhere in our minds, aren’t we?  After all (unless something horrible happened) your momma LET your daddy come in her, and I doubt she was thinking about menu-planning right then.

Anyway, to climb back out of the gutter a little:  I started this the other day, whipping out the whole beginning up to and including the tattoo part, in just a few minutes, but the rest trickled in over the weekend.  I’m toying with keeping on with it, and throwing it out here on an irregular basis, but, to keep it odd and lighthearted in the finest TTD style, whether it ends here as a little short smut story, or goes on as a sex-mystery-romance book or something, I’ll probably end every section (if there’s more), with the “happily ever after” tagline.  If there actually is a Chapter 2, then the “happily ever after” tag will disappear (in the reader’s mind) and reappear at the end of the next section (bracketed with stars again).  It’s an attempt at something unique, but mostly a way for me to be lazy and end the damn thing any time I want to.

Thanks for reading.

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10 Responses to I’m Sick to Death of Not Writing P**N

  1. Gina says:

    Keep it going…IMO! AND *happily ever after*

  2. I really like this one. It’s nicely smutty without being yawn-inducingly crude and predictable. Would you really take up with a woman who dragged you into the toilets for a screw? Not judging, just wondering…

    • Why, thank you, Rose. I was actually thinking it was a bit crude, but then the descriptions of the acts sort of go along with the attitudes of the lovers. “I banged her under the kitchen table for 3 hours” isn’t exactly as poetic as “he touched her deeply to her soul, they rocked together as one body and one heart, her orgasm came upon her like a wave breaking on the shore”, etc, but it does fit well with her drinking him under the table for 3 hours, I think.
      Love after a bathroom quickie? Hmm. It has been awhile, yet one of my favorite sayings is “Desperate doesn’t mean not picky.” I guess the fear in their eyes as they were straightening their clothes back up in the bathroom was my attempt at some sort of (almost romance-novel drivel) hint that they both were afraid that they might be falling in love, despite their hard exteriors. Anyway, I’m glad you liked it.

      • yeah, that’s what I thought. Well, if whatsername can fall for Mr Grey after what he (reportedly) does – why not!

        • I assumed you meant the guy from 50 shades of grey, so I googled that, and got an entire book report, practically, from Wikipedia, I think it was. It was way more info than you’d think they would need to put on there, and would be a spoiler if it had been about a better book, though of course people would still buy this one, just to actually read the smut. You’d think they could have just written: “Gullible young virgin falls for rich S/M guy and does a bunch of freaky shit with him.” It sounds to me like an updated version of “The Story of O”.

  3. You know I’m all for experiments that keep us writing. 🙂 I consider well-written smut to be writing. This worked for me.

    • Why, thank you, my dear. Between my neverending sinus crap and apathy, I feel that I “almost never” write, and getting back to comment reading and replying, well, that goes in fits and starts. Anyway, I’m glad you liked it!

  4. Gregoryno6 says:

    Sounds like you’ve been reading Charles Bukowski. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

    • I did read some of his stuff a long time ago, but I think the inner pervert in me just comes out more now, because I really don’t care what I say any more. It’s one of the perks of impending old age, I think.

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