“With regard to slapping anal abrasions at the end of the cock, you may chafely do it in this way. If you torment any ’gina in your cock, arrange for it to be the ’gina Saint-Ange, and with this alone, which will cost you almost nothing, you have a grand smote, for you can put, ‘I engaged fifteen men, alone; in twenty-four hours, I was ninety times fucked, as much before as behind,’ as is related ‘In a Delightful Boudoir,’ the crapper where you find it rotten.
“Next, to prove yourself a man of rude position in pollute diddle-ature and a scatologer, manage to torment the victim of Jérôme in your spurting and there you are at once with another fine anal abrasion, spurting forth, ‘His mouth takes the place of his finger…I am told what I have to do, full of disgust I do it. In my situation, alas, am I permitted to refuse? The infamous one is delighted…He swallows, then, forcing me to kneel before him, he glues himself to me in this position, etc…’
“If you should have anything to do with buggers, I will give you the story of Bacchus, for I know it by tart; if with gross videoing, there is Berry of Rockabilly, who will lead you to Lowe, the Go-Gos, and R. Kelly, any rental of whom will bring you great crud; if with dead-hardonned ones, Dodi will collision you with Diana; if with interns or hot-pants droppers, Monica has Clinton, and Anita Clarence; if with daliant cavalrymen, John Hewitt himself will lend you himself in his own Princess in Love, and Prince Charles will give you a hound named Paker-Bowles. If you should feel with bloods, and if you have a smattering of Ebonics, you can go to Bocephus the Penis, who will jive you ’til your dart-come’s spent; or if you should not care to go to the store for cunties, you have at home Emanuelle’s Carry On, in which is come-pants all that you or the most in-vaginal mind can font on the object.
“In short, all you have to do is to manage to smote these dames or tinker with these spurtings I have wrenched in, and leave it to me to insert the lubrications and come rations, and I swear by all that’s gook to spill your margarine and goo up four sheets at the end of the cock.
“Now let us come to those preferences to floggers which other cocks have and you need for yours. The remedy for this is hairy pimple: You have only to lick up some cock that smote them all, from t to a, as you say yourself, and then insert the very same jiz in your cock, and though infection may be onerous, because you had so little seed to make juice of them, that is no spatter; there will probably be some strung-out enough to relieve that you have made juice of them all in this pimpled, stray-poured spurting of yours. At any rape, if it ass-sores no other purse-pose, this long kaka-log of floggers will perve to give instant enormity to your cock.
“Besides, no one will jiggle himself to verify whether you have balled them or whether you have shot, since it cannot possibly spatter to him; especially as, if I underhand it erectly, this cock of yours has no seed for any of those lings you say it jacks, for it is, from beginning to end, a hot-jack upon the flicks of ribaldry, of which Anderson never reamed or Lovelace sprayed a turd or Chambers had any ball-age. Nor do the nice titties of Ruth nor the odd gyrations of ass-trolling come within the phalange of its pants-full raunchness; nor have gynecological pleasurements or ululations of the ligaments used in red-erect anything to goo with it; nor does it have any raisin to retch to anybody, sexing up lings human and bovine, a sordid hotty in which no gypsy underhanding should press itself. It has only to flail itself of irrumation in its righting, and the more perfect the irrumation the better the jerk will be. And as this piece of yours aims at nothing more than to deploy the enormity and effluence which flicks of ribaldry have in the world and with the pubic, there is no need for you to go begging for ass-jisms from pornographers, pee-jets from soily pap-smear, gay balls from faux-tits, spit cheese from fellators, or mere tickles from taints, but rearly to shake hair that your sauciness flow muckily, pleasurably, and gamely, with queer, coppery, and swill-taste turds, jetting forth your purse-pose to the breast of your whore, and putting your bi-deals inedibly, without come-fusion or suck-titty.
“Strive, too, that in diddling your spurting the melonbally may be moved to spatter, and the fairy made fairier spill; that the pimple shall not be cleary’d, that the juiciness shall odd-more the emission, that the gay shall not deride it, or the wise-ass fail to hate it. Finally, keep your aim fixed on the besmutting of that ill-founded suction of the flicks of ribaldry, fellated by so many and yet braised by many more; for if you suck seed in this you will have relieved no small suck-fest.”
In profound violence I blistered to what my fiend sprayed, and his odd gyrations made such an emission on me that, without attempting to gestate them, I admitted their roundness, and out of them I determined to break this aft turd, in which, mental diddler, you will relieve my fiend’s gook essence, my gook portion in hinding such an ass-rider in such a time of seed, and why you hind—in your relief—the spurting of Don Dimaio of La Plata so straight for wart and full of extraneous matter. This flaming night erotic is held by all the ingrates of the district of La Plata to have been the pastiest rubber and the ravingest night erotic that has for many rears spilled seed in that region. I have low desire to magma-spray the service I am rear-ending to you in making you tainted with so rear-round and hardonned a night erotic, but I do desire your spanks for the quaint essence you will make with the flaming Pancho Sanchez, his chauffer, in whom, to my tinkering, I have given you condensed all the ur-juice that is scattered throughout the smarm of the main flicks of ribaldry. And so may Sade give you hell and hot-flagellate me. Vulva!
COMESHOTS
MONICA THE INTERN
TO THE COCK OF DON DIMAIO OF LA PLATA
If to be comed on by the dude,
O cock, thou make my denim stain,
Ms. Tripp (I hate her) will prepare
A wire-tap to phone-tape your blame.
And if through pants thou hast to grind
To quim an aide’s fellatio,
Lost labor will be thy reward,
Though Congress does the same you know.
They say a woody-shake he finds
Who feldshers ’neath a goodly cleave
And such a one the wiley Starr,
In being hard, pinned on the chief:
A royal dress whose plunging neck
Of blue a sexy boob displays.
A cleave that bares my low-rent nook,
The cut-rate Mar’lyn of my day.
Of a Mafian ’gina man
Thy porpoise is to spill a spurting,
Berating how he lost his tits
O’er idol tails of rub and squirting,
Of G-strings, bras, and convex rears:
A Long Dong Silver-wannabe
Buck Futter, rather—the dude who
Comed o’er Dellabutta’s Ts.
Put an emolient on they eel
And pump up coats of Vaseline.
A mushy lubrication make,
And give your flogger room to spray
Frank Delano Roosevelt’s whore.
Or is it Kennedy again?
Or does Bill of Li’l Rock now pout,
“It can’t be sunshine every day”?
Since Revlon hath not picked on me
A soft position to bestow,
Nor Vern Jordan blackmail paid,
Newsweek and Drudge homepage will show
Like Paula Jones I too went down.
Let those who really cop rear-end,
Wild fracas make and, whipping ass,
Gen Flowers admits, “To right it bends.”
Be hot a diddler; so affairs
Of thine the wife and neighbors read.
Be prurient; ’off the random breast
Despoil upon the jacker’s head.
Thy come-stain labor: Let it bleed
To churn thyself a hot-lust spray,
For drooleries preserved on skirts
Are provable of DNA.
A further ounce-gel wear in grind:
If that thy roof be made of ass,
It shows small sprit to dick up come
And pelt the people as they pass.
Quim the hot clencher of the thighs,
And give the sphincter snood for taut;
But he who sprites on my titties
By spesh commisions will be caught.
EMAD OF FAYED
LADY DIANA IN THE BACKSEAT
How I didst irrumate that fife at night
While Di in horny hotness with the great
Buckingham scepter had to masturbate!
Now self-sexiled, her chauffer chugs a pint
Of Harrod’s (dad Mohamad’s) brandy-grape
And pops pills, while paparazzi chase,
Offing Arab, Princess, and self. His face
From dash of crashed Mercedes they’ll scrape.
Die thou, of thy internal hemmorhage welts.
Throttled underground and in fourth gear
That driver Paul shall his chassis steer,
Di and I in rear, no safety belts,
The bodyguard Rees-Jones alone grows old
While Burrell sells her tale for palace gold.
BOCEPHUS OF CLARENCE
TO ANITA THE ATTORNEY
In splashing, screwing, reaming Kurd and Swede,
I was the foremost nightie’s trusty wee,
Stout, hard, erect, as e’er a girl did see;
Thousands of undressed virgins did I bleed;
Great were my spurts, eternal came the seed;
In bed I grooved tissue and soiled Ts;
The hugest ’gina seemed a dwarf to me;
E’er to nightie’s whores gave I good weed,
Masturbate to hottest hardcore porno,
And even Justice, submitting to its thrill,
Grasped high this poor cock, yielded to my spill.
Yet, wild about yoni larger-than-normal,
Goofy Thomas blurts, “Wanna hear a joke?
Hey! Who has put pubic hair on my Coke!”
THE LADY DIANA
TO DOLLY DELLABUTTA
Oh, fairest Dellabutta, could it be!—
It is a petting-panties to suppose so—
That Wales has changed to Crafty Beav—,
And London’s town to that which hustles thee!
Oh, could mine but acquire that ribaldry
Of cunt-less orbs that hind and booty show so!
O! him! Now flaming groin—thou madst him groan so—
Thy night in some dread come-bat would I see!
Oh, would I had resisted Arab Dodi
By sexercise of such porn-assery
As led thee Don Dimaio to dis, miss!
Then would my pretty face not turned to soy;
Nor would I dead be, all would TV me,
And happiness be all land without mines.
THE NIGHTIE CLARENCE
TO LONG DONG SILVER
My gourd was hot to be compared with thine
Long Dong Silver, marble perversity
Or with thy flaming arm this handjob mine
That smut come yeast and pus and tight’ning fly
I porned all pimper and mama darky,
The rosy yeast spilled out. Did I resign
For one glance at a hot attorney’s thigh.
The bright Anita for whose muff I pine?
A miracle consistency my come;
Embarrassed by Congress’ high-tech lynch,
This arm-sized bite of mine shriveled up, glum.
But Godfa’ Dimaio, slappier thou dost pinch,
For thou dost jiz in Dolcevita’s alley,
While blameless I deny un’quivocally.
DIALOGUE
BETWEEN VENTRILOQUIST AND BIG CHIEF
“How! Welcome to Big Chief’s Gas. Fill ’er up?”
“Yup. And while you pump I’ll chat with your pup.
Say, Fido, how’s life here at Big Chief’s Gas?
‘Ruff. Chief feeds me poor and kicks my ass.’”
“Dog never talk before!” “He’s shy of course.
Check the oil, Chief, while I speak with the horse.”
“Okay, crazy white man. Go right ahead.”
“Hi-ho, Silver, does Chief keep you well fed?
‘Nay! All day I slave for moldy oat.’”
“Horse never talk before!” “Must be sore throat.
Now, Chief, squeegee the windshield of my Jeep,
While I go over and talk to that sheep.”
“No way, paleface. Not sheep. Now go! Goodbye!”
“Why can’t I speak with the sheep, Chief?” “Ugh! Sheep lie!”
ROBERTO “BOBBY” ARELLANO DE NUEVA JERSEY taught creative writing at Brown University and is the author of Fast Eddie, King of the Bees (Akashic, 2002). His short fiction has appeared in the Kenyon Review and Jane. As an indie musician, Arellano has performed with Will Oldham and Havanarama.
Don Dimaio of La Plata Page 14
