Suds And Bubbly

sofia bubbly

Had a bottle or two. Found one in the middle of night soaking in the hotel tub still full of bath water. The label was floating next to suds. A bottle of bubbly in the tub among suds.

It’s these women and these images of corruption. Just see below. If only my uncle (or any other unknown relative) were at the least this generous. Oh, what life must be like. The They consume. Like little pieces of Disney (world not land). Imagine that your furniture could take on the form and image of this little stamp. Like some thing out of Star Trek. Buy a piece of the sun while your at it. Allow some wise and well-off girl control your destiny. Oh, how the pussy is so expensive–especially when it’s buying. Speaking of which. How many pussies have I seen only to conclude, in general terms, that they are all the same. I mean, detail is where the devil does his best work. Or? If only Mel Gibson would realise that. In general terms the believers have not spent enough time investigating pussy and they maybe correct because such detail can and will either ruin you or the ideas you wish to leave behind.

Calculate the women. I counted twenty-three women over the last ten years. Can that be true? If so, you are a slut or you are dysfunctional in love. It’s a conservative estimate. I’m conservative not because of (the) bragging rights but because I said ten years ago, or, better put, realised ten years ago that I had a problem with women. I gave into the idea that the only purpose for a man to be with a woman was love. Prior to such a realisation, I fought it. Hence my (pseudo) explanation why men are so promiscuous. It simply takes too many men too long to realise what love is. It is a far-off assumption to think that I now know what love is. Certainly it has enhanced the experience over the last ten years.

The twenty-four women I have concluded were all in detail different. Some had looks to die for. They crossed all t’s and dotted all i’s in their pearly books of beauty. Others had bodies that teased my cock to irreverence. and caused my mind(lessness) to wonder too often into pits of ecstasy where coals burn forever but give off no heat. Two of them had faces that caused some men to mock and jest and those men missed out on a strangle that could make a statue shoot a load. There were a few more who were completely stupid when it came to remembering anything, even where the cock goes but I thought my role as teacher (in that case) finally had its calling. There were short legs and long legs. There were breast feeders and mama-girls, swallowers and spitters. There were conversationalists who could talk their way to the US presidency and others who I couldn’t wait to talk to afterwards–only so that it would finally end. This burn. This injection. The French pain. The confrontationists demanded all of my debate skills and the silent ones who graciously whispered they to do it to them again. Of all the differences and (eclectic?) the differences and the paradoxes and dichotomy one thing made them (all) the same. Their pussies. Along with the confusion of love I also stopped trying to examine (empirically) their pussies.

Immediately after my first time I thought it was my holy-grail–like a quest to find and document the differences. I know I drove women crazy with that. it pushed some away and attracted others like a steel past, magnet, gravity, etc. I spent hours down there–only to be brought up for a breadth because of Her want of something concrete. It usually took a few months, once even two years, till I realised I had discovered everything. It was then time to move on.

Was it then time to move on?

And so… I put some effort into it–always with the next one in a start gate. It was a winter day when I finally realised my fortieth year had come and gone and I was still thinking about silly things. There was snow everywhere and the Germanins couldn’t for a moment put down their individual self declaration of a RIGHT to high speed on their beautiful autobahns and one rammed the rear of my MBW at about seventy eight mph. I was in a hospital for four days with a broken collar-bone, a pinched nerve on my left elbow and two toes amputated. I suppose that was my moment of truth but I was wrong. For about four months after that accident my then girlfriend ceased to see my cock. At first it was fine. She asked what had changed me and I told her I just wanted to make her happy. After the first month of fingering and licking her, a period she said after we broke up with a big smile, she would never forget, she asked me why I no longer penetrated her. I told her to ease the inquiry. I was having some problems. You know. Erection problems. She bought it for about three weeks. Then she said, apologetically, I was making her very happy, that she had never orgasmed so much with a man before, but she I probably didn’t love her any more. I told her that it wasn’t true and for the first time in my life I tried, from the bottom of my soul to say those three words. The word I had to say to a woman because she can’t see through what is today only a transaction. So much for the generations born of the lie and uselessness of romantic love industrialised. Yet I did say them. For the voice can be no different than a recording. Edison you genius.


  • Loss after car wreck
  • Self induced pain
  • Ecstasy thereof
  • Vagina as ersatz
  • Love as elixir
  • Failure to find it is another example of reciprocity
  • Love is a transaction
  • Romantic love can only be a hoax (played on who?)

Full Stop.