Author Topic: Erotic Memoirs of Dennis Reynolds.  (Read 769 times)

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Green Man

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Erotic Memoirs of Dennis Reynolds.
« on: October 18, 2008, 02:04:47 PM »
Chapter 1: Memoirs with a Geisha

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It was a karaoke soiree, and I had finished singing a ferocious version of Astley’s “Together Forever.” Many boneable damsels were in attendance, yet my gaze kept drifting back to a matronly Japanese woman, smiling at me from behind a large paper fan. There was something undeniably alluring about this maiden, even with the faint moustache and the eye patch.

This Geisha queen gave me a come-hither wink (I think it was a wink, it’s hard to tell with eye patches), and in an instant I was by her side. As I got closer I realized she was a good deal older than I thought, and smelled of halibut. Old halibut. Still, it’s hard to listen to your brain when your loins won’t stop screaming. “Let’s get out of here,” I said, and we hailed a carriage.

Back at my place, I peeled the clearance sticker off of the skull-shaped Halloween candle I had recently purchased and let it blaze. We made an iTunes playlist of some favorite songs from both my high school days (”No Diggity” by Blackstreet) and her high school days (”Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” by The Andrews Sisters). I dimmed the lights, turned down the bed, and helped her out of her kimono. Laying my eyes upon what seemed like miles of naked flesh, I opted to blow the candle out.

In the darkness, she whispered in my ear, “Promise you won’t fall in love with me.” I agreed, though I knew it was a promise I was soon to break. Nestled in her ample bosom, I became a child again. Nestled in her ample womb, I became a man.

The pumpkin-scented candle did little to mask the pungent olfactory brew of sweat, fear, Asian spices, and lady water. Her gutteral moans awakened a beast in me, and I pounded away like some sort of jackhammer/jackrabbit crossbreed that I’ll call a Jackhambit. Legs and arms bent this way and that, testicles akimbo, my heart pounded in my skull as I felt the levees break. She cried out as she punched a hole in my headboard, her orgasm(s?) like a baptism for my junk.

We collapsed in each other’s arms, neither of us quite sure what to say. I made some small talk about how I thought Ken Watanabe was a good actor, but the conversation went nowhere fast. I went to the bathroom and by the time I emerged, she was in the kimono again and placing the chopsticks back in her hair. I could not mask my sorrow.

“I told you not to fall in love with me,” she whispered, caressing my cheek.

She snapped her eye patch back into place and assured me that she’d call. But the look in her eye told a different tale. She slipped into her orthopedic shoes, and stepped into the night. As I watched her walk away, her salt-and-pepper hair blowing in the Philadelphia wind, I knew I wouldn’t be hearing from this temptress any time soon.

Chapter 2: Like a Virgin

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We stumbled into my erotic lair, lips entangled, drunk on lust and Jägermeister. I began to undress. Off came my parka, my scarf, my sweater, my button-down, my undershirt, my corduroys, my boots, my gloves, and my hunting hat. Whilst it was a cold night, I admit I should have layered less. I eased her back onto the bed. “The room is spinning,” she sighed.

“Yes,” I replied. “I know.”

She abruptly jumped up and rushed to the restroom, the gentle sounds of vomit meeting bathtub doing little to quell the fire in my nether regions.

Upon her return thirty minutes later, I removed my last article of clothing — my long underwear. She gasped. Breathtaking, I must have looked — bathed in the warm, soothing glow of the black-on-blonde pornography playing on my television. Her thirst for me then reached unquenchable levels, as she reached into her purse and began drinking rather quickly from a flask.

I reached over and turned on the Greatest Hits of PM Dawn, hoping to set her adrift on memory bliss. She quickly turned it off, as I gathered she wanted to focus all of her senses on me. She closed her eyes, looked afar, and mumbled, “Just put it in me.”

“My dear,” I replied. “I am already in you.” So in tune were we.

“Say my name,” she whispered listlessly, but alas, I had no idea what it was. She began to weep. Tears of immense pleasure, I have no doubt. “Is that the spot?” I inquired. She remained silent. I immediately understood. Words could not express the eroticism of our time together.

So I stayed silent as well, her tears mingling with my sweat, whilst the rhythmic sounds of waves from the water bed calmly sloshed with mine every thrust. Three minutes later, I was in a deep slumber, resting in the sweet cocoon of knowledge that I had been her first, and that surely she would remember this night forever.

Chapter 3: Knight Ride Her

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It was the devil’s hour, and a companion and I were twelve mugfulls of mead into our journey to Medieval Times. (More accurately — our journey to the themed restaurant known as Medieval Times, located one mile west of Giants Stadium in Lyndhurst, New Jersey.) The lusty barmaid presented me with a thirteenth mug, but my eyes craved the two jugs** imprisoned by her blouse, yearning to be set free.

**Readers note: When I say “jugs” here, I am talking about her breasts.

“Milady,” I asked. “Do not think my advances too forward, but…wouldst thou like to bang?”

She slapped me across the face, hard, and her wedding ring left a heart-shaped bruise. I shrugged, and returned my gaze to the spirited joust taking place on the blood-soaked Astroturf below. The battle was amusing enough, to be sure. But the heart wants what the heart wants. And so, dear readers, does the wang. Thus, my belly full of brandywine and several oversized turkey legs, I stumbled after my maiden fair, hoping all the while that she would let down the drawbridge between me and her quivering chick parts.

I found her in the supply room, refilling mustard jars. There, in the harsh light of a neon non-alcoholic beer sign, I popped my pants off and unsheathed my sword.**

**Readers note: When I say “sword” here, I am talking about my penis.

She did not permit me to get medieval on her ass, and in fact I am not legally permitted to return to Lyndhurst, New Jersey. But the highest law of the land cannot keep my thoughts from traveling there on summer nights, Excalibur in hand.

Chapter 4: Cirque du So Laid

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‘Twas my junior year of high school, and I escorted my sweetheart Virginia (a sadly appropriate name) to the local circus. It was a beautiful night, and naturally I attempted to fingerbang her upon the ferris wheel. When she declined, I took back the funnel cake I had purchased for her and headed into the night to find another fly honey to soothe the savage beast in my pants. Little did I know what (I’d) lay ahead…

The moon was as full as my testicles, and it shone brightly upon two words that would forever change my perception of beauty and love: FREAK SHOW. My curiosity piqued, I pulled back the tent and entered to find myself face-to-three-feet-above-face with a shapely midget. “While you’re down there…” I cooed, and I didn’t need to finish my sentence.

Before I had time to question what was happening, the Bearded Lady waddled up beside me. Her moustache tickled my nose as she lapped the powdered sugar off my lips like a hungry kitten. A hungry kitten with a full beard.

Have you ever done it on a trapeze? Highly recommended.

Every turn under the big top led to another sexual adventure. A woman with no limbs scared me at first, but she was as harmless as she was armless. A clown juggled my balls. The sword swallower lived up to her title. The Siamese twins and I were inseparable.

Oh yeah. I also banged a tiger. That’s right. A tiger.