Moblogging.
I am a goddess sculpture made of hardened feces. A hand grenade has been implanted inside my head. I need to write shit to cut the fuse off, otherwise I will explode, painting the walls a mountain lava of cracked and melted shit.
Peace of mind. That, I need.
I am masturbating in the bathroom; right hand fingering my brickphone, left hand fingering the sensitive pleasure center of my cunt. What’s wrong with mentioning the word masturbation? And why am I even masturbating?
I get some sort of quasi-peace of mind when I touch myself, or when someone touches me. In this moment, I only have sweet Pleasure caramelizing from my sex orifice, every touch, every stroke, middle finger circling my hardening clitoris, awakening my zen, my soul, my spirit. And in a brief moment I forget the shit-carved goddess. I forget my shit life. I forget my complicated shit-filled existence.
I close my eyes and moan. Close the eyes to cut the visuals and heighten the tactile sensation. I like touching; I like being touched. And in the art of fingering I achieve both. I mouth a stifled moan. I’m almost there… until someone bangs on the door.
“Titaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” It’s Keolo the Bratchild. “Tita tae ako!”
…
Come to think of it, if sex weren’t pleasurable—just the pleasure factor—humanity and the whole evolution of mankind wouldn’t exist.
