“I like storytelling”
I like storytelling –
Nothing tickles my taint more than a metaphorical deep throat, an allegorical licking and sucking of whetted tongue. The orator’s sweet annalingus—deep prodding of dirty, yet very human places. The phallus of fantasy, fable, and fiction that penetrates and thrusts into the fleshy folds of my mind. Excites the anatomy, erects my attention, and fondles my focus.
They take me to the safe and dangerous worlds. Introduce me to innocent and naughty strangers. Touch me in the familiar and unfamiliar zones. Whisper to me words wrought by light and dark matters of the fleshes that come in a sundry of shapes and sizes. They teach me the vicissitudes of life’s many vices and virtues. Be it from those nebulous realms vast as an ocean, or some crystalized razor’s edge tight as the pursed lips of the Vestal virgins.
I’m whipped into submission and obedience by the quick and furious lashings of diction, rhetoric, and wit. Worked into lather by an unbridled raconteur and her lascivious language, her prose-porn, her curvy, sweaty, sticky ethos, her horny irony, and seductive syntax.
I rub and grind against the pulpy pages. I slide myself into her thick inky belles-lettres, whetted by passion, desire, and love. I explore her rough and smooth white peaks and valleys, dimpled in black curls and lines. I dip within the holes exposed and exploited of emotions raw, wild and naked but finely trimmed. I escape within her ecstasy. Tremble within her vulnerable treats. Manipulated, jerked and caressed until I come to the highest senses of literary lunacy. I gush and succumb to the orgasmic crescendo of climatic catharsis. Roused in bated breath, a shiver, then release. I soften, giggling, tingling, and then repeat.