Tentacled Wife:

Camping by a roaring fire with my wife in the Islands, I take a swim from my wife's launch pad of a dock and belly flop into the water.

Overcome with fear in the ensuing twilight at my possible demise, I reach up to my wife's arm and pull her off of the dock while she shrieks naked in mid air to the below waters.

A jelly fish stings and clings to her face as she emerges from the shallow depths of the dock.  My wife cannot breathe with a jelly fish on her face, thus, emitting no vocalization.

She flails.

I clamber onto the dock from the shallow depths and run to call 9-11 at a pay phone after trying and failing to drag her limping and convulsing body onto the dock with a jelly fish firmly tentacled on her facial orifices.

"9-11."

"Yes?  Hello?  9-11?"

"Yes.  This Chinese 9-11 hot restauwant."

"Chinese restaurant!?"

"Yes.  What you like to owdah!?"

"No likie order nothing. I go now."

With no luck calling 9-11, I hustle back to the dock where I had left my wife and discover her to be missing in the waist deep water off of the dock.

A plump jellyfish squishes nearby standing with tentacles on the dock.  I kneel down next to the jellyfish on the dock sickened as it beckons me, or so it seems, with squishes and slurp sounds.

I kiss the jellyfish.

Suddenly, a shimmering devil in a blue dress appears where the jellyfish stood on the dock and a candle lit table is set without effort.

Out of the ether, I am standing on the dock dressed in a white, satin, summer suit with white, square toe shoes accompanied by a shimmering devil in a blue dress and spiked heels.

My devil and I sit and dine until midnight, which is when I shape shift into a tadpole and my devil in a blue dress shape shifts into Carey Grant or Humphrey Bogart: I can't tell which one as a tadpole!

Then: John Holmes walks down the hard, wooden planks of the dock, wisps Carey Grant or Humphrey Bogart of my betrothed shape shifted on the dock into his arms and carries it to shore, off of the dock and away to a boat house up a grassy incline.

So: I am writing this posthumously as a once lived tadpole, eaten by a grouper while I waft in the vapors and vortex that is thought of outer space and beyond without trace, like an erased chalk board.

Richard and Mario Forever in Love:

Richard Puller's jalopy idles at a red light on a notorious, corner destination for "Johns" and their prey.

A scantily clad woman saunters up to Richard's driver side window to seemingly ask him something.

"Excuse me, sir!"

"No!" Richard retorts.  "And I am not looking for a date."

"Well, excuse me, sir!  Neither am I!  I only wanted to ask you..."

"No date!  I tell you what...to get you off the streets, I will offer you a job scrubbing toilets in my motel.  What say you?"

"Oh yes!  Mr. Puller...!"

"Wait!  How did you know my name!?"

"Oh!  Mr. Puller ... all the girls know you if you know what I mean ... we hear all about it from Mario."

"Oh shit!"

The light turns green and Richard accelerates forward on his way home to his husband.

"Hello Mario!  I'm home."

Mario doesn't answer as Richard disrobes ready for his martini and cock sucking after a long day at the motel.

"Mario!?"

There is a moaning sound coming from the attic.  The moaning sound is distinctly female, it seems to Richard.

Richard ascends the steps to the attic drop ladder on the third floor and the sound is definitely female.

He ascends the ladder to the attic, opens the hatch and sees his husband Mario with a scantily clad woman in lingerie sucking his husband's cock.

"Mario!  How dare you!?"

"Oh shit!  I wasn't expecting you home so early..."

The woman reels and grabs her discarded garments off of the attic floor.

"Don't worry, dear!" Richard states to the woman who was sucking Mario's cock.  "I am willing to try anything once.  Why don't I come and join you two?"

"Oh!  That would be delightful, Richard," Mario, Richard's husband, states ecstatically to which the woman exclaims emphatically that she will not suck or fuck Richard after seeing polka dot discoloration on Richard's cock when Richard pulls down his pants in the attic with Mario, his husband, and the woman.

"Why not!?" Richard inquires of the woman.

"Because you are diseased.  Look at those polka dots on your pecker!"

"Those aren't polka dots!  A little discoloration and scabbing from pulling my meat or else Mario's teeth ... that's all!"

"Well, OK.  I'll settle this, Richard.  How about I call -tt-?"

"Who is -tt-?" the woman asks in the attic.

"My special request of my husband ... now beat it like the Jackson Five, bitch!" Richard states to the woman.

John Holmes' Synaptical Moment:

Gretchen slurps a cherry frappe from a big-sized, clear cup through a red straw at a table in an ice cream shop with her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend watches Gretchen slurp the remains of the frappe through a pink straw from the other side of a table near a patio and street among many tables where others sit on a hot afternoon in a vacation destination for women and sex.

Bikini clad women saunter off the front walk into the ice cream shop.

Gretchen puts her finished, frappe cup onto the table, smacks her gums licking her rose, blush lips and her bangs wisp in a flush of her breath from "cold brain."

She heaves a sigh amidst the cacophony of other frappe customers when she catches a glimpse of her boyfriend, John's crotch through his swim shorts.

John's crotch bulges as John attempts to place his hands on his lap to hide the bulge, it seems to Gretchen.

"You seem excited."

"Huh!?  What!?"

Gretchen indicates her boyfriend's bulge with her index finger.

"Oh!  You and your cherry frappe!  You want another!?  I'll pay."

"No.  I want your milky manhood for dessert," Gretchen says to John as she slides her hand under the plastic table cloth over the table to her boyfriend's crotch.

"Don't!  People might see," John exclaims abashed.

"Then, come on... make it to the women's room... I'll be there waiting..." Gretchen says as she rises from the table for restrooms through throngs of bikini clad women, all of whom John notices amidst ice cream machines whirring and women ordering cherry frappes at the counter while his pants bulge sitting at the table.

At a moment not too soon, John sees a woman with whom he went on a date once and he knows for prowess in sucking elixir out of cocks.

He lifts the woman's skirt as she passes the table where he sits just as Gretchen emerges from the women's room to see him lift the woman's skirt in the shop.

"Nice panties!" John exclaims when he lifts the woman's skirt, cums all over himself and the shop floor within two seconds amidst bikini clad women buying ice cream.

Everybody in the shop is enthralled and excited by the prospects of seeing John's pecker while eating ice cream that the bikini clad women undress themselves and John for an orgy when Gretchen and the other bikini clad women fuck John and each other with no other men in the shop.

Now, John has died of AIDS.

Man's Female Feces Fellatio Fetishes (as compiled into a narrative from news items on the subject):

I have a weapon with mass wielding power to blow loads all over the place and myself when I go out and get close to some real women, like within ten feet on a nice day!

I am a social suicide, load blower at a coffee shop in town.  I am not allowed there anymore after I lifted a woman's mini skirt while she waited at the coffee shop counter in line and an officer of the law nabbed me from behind.

Once, I am at a lingerie shop and tell a woman at the counter that I am shopping for a girlfriend.

I look around, pick up a pair of garters with panties, head to the changing rooms and try on panties and garter blowing a load in them at touches of silky cotton and lace.

First, I dispense a tampon in the changing room with which I plug my butt.

By the time the clerk gets back to me from up front and sees what I am doing, I am dressed and tell her I will put the panties and garters back on the shelf: that I didn't find anything to buy.

The tampon is still in my butt.

I put the panties on a shelf and start for the door as I see the buxom clerk behind me pick up the panties and garters and discover them soiled.

"You!  Come back here!"

I continue towards the door double stepping and I am out of the door to a shrieking cacophony of other buxom clerks coming out of their wardrobe closets stacking lingerie.

"Call police!" is all I hear as the door to the lingerie shop shuts behind me and I am on the streets running to an alley because I have to caca a tampon at that moment.

Squatting in an alley nearby the lingerie store in town and cacaing a tampon, I remove my boxers and wipe with the boxer shorts leaving the shorts on top of the caca'ed tampon and pull up my crusty pants.

However, the smell of caca-tampon is repulsive and I vomit on the boxer shorts over the caca in the alley as I hear sirens in the direction of the lingerie shop where I had been fondling my pecker into panties and garters.

I pull up my pants, remove my button down, white, Oxford shirt and don my tank top onto streets leaving the Oxford in the alley with boxers and caca after wiping puke off of my face with it.

Just when I think it safe around a corner on a street: I hear the distinct sound of a woman's shriek yelling "there he is!  Get him officers!"

Then, I lie and say: "not guilty."  Now, I am not allowed within ten feet on nice days!

Snorkeling: I saw 4-5 trout the length of my fore

arm and a snapping turtle along with some leaches and frogs and a stinging spider (for whom I did a crawl) swim up to me checking me out snorkeling in the their pond(s).

I don't disturb them.  Maybe I chase a fish or two and was not about to touch the snapping turtle in its habitat on a pond bottom...

Paranoid Reasoning:

People(s) are lurking in shadows of the Internet and throughout life's blind spots, which can result in loss of anything and everything from freedom to manhandled by police or thugs at home or out on any given day or at any moment.

They are out there and they are not there to help.

They are out to get you.

Be paranoid!

PROFESSIONALISM? HA!

A patient sits in the waiting room of the shot clinic where he, the patient, has been frequenting at least twice per month (if not: once per week) for eleven years to receive so called psychiatric "professionalism."

The forty year old patient was diagnosed with "schizophrenia" in 1996 and frequents the clinic where he awaits the nurse to call him in to a room for a shot in the buttocks, the which he has received at behest of the State for eleven years without fail other than on one occasion due to mitigating circumstances.

He sits in the shot clinic waiting room with his leashed dog awaiting the nurse to emerge from down the hall and summon him for his shot.

Two other male patients, who are about the same age as the patient with the dog, wait in chairs opposite the patient with the dog.  A staff member emerges from the locked door of an office, strides up to the patient with the dog in traversing the corridor of the second floor clinic waiting room and confronts the patient with the dog about the dog.

"Excuse me, sir, but is that a pet therapy dog?"

The male patient with the dog turns his head and looks at the fifty something brunette with a weight problem wearing what can only be a moo-moo, black in color, and says to "take it up with my doctor."

"OK.  So, your doctor knows about it?"

"Yes."

"OK.  Thank you."

"Yes.  Thank you," the man retorts sneeringly.

Later, he thinks of ways the conversation with the staff member should have gone.  Maybe he should have said when the dumpy staff member asked him whether his dog was a pet therapy dog ...

"Excuse me!  Do I know you?" or "Are you?"

Recently, staff were laid off at the clinic and subsequently new staff were employed who don't know that the male patient with the dog has been frequenting the same clinic for eleven years at least twice per month, if not: more frequently.

There was an incident several years previous to the scenario described above with the staff member who questions the patient about the dog without seemingly knowing that "to understand a person, walk a mile in their shoes" means "mind your own fucking business" because one never knows what another person knows.

In an incident several years previous to the above scenario on August 19, 2013, the man entered the clinic with his dog during July of 2008 for the first time since a recent hospitalization incurred by a suicide attempt and was confronted by a fifty something, female staff member who also wore a moo-moo type dress.

"Excuse me, sir! ... Hey, I am addressing you, sir ..." the female staff member in 2008 barked at the patient with the dog as he entered the second floor shot clinic door from the stairwell where the staff member addressing him was descending the steps and opening the now shut, stairwell door behind the man.

"Sir!  I'm talking to you ... don't walk away from me when I'm talking to you," she barks behind the man with the dog emerging from the staircase.

The man turns to face the woman.

"You can't have dogs in this building.  Is that a pet therapy dog?"

"Take it up with my doctor!" the man retorts to the woman staff member.

"But, I'm taking it up with you!"

"Well, I'm going to get my shot," the man responds and turns to walk down the corridor with his dog for the shot clinic waiting room only to see the staff member who addressed him so rudely storm into the office in the waiting room and then out of the stairwell door at the opposite end of the corridor from which the man and questioning, staff member had entered the waiting room for the clinic.

What "professionalism" is there if staff at the clinic don't realize that the male, forty something, diagnosed "schizophrenia" patient visits a children's ward of the clinic's psychiatric hospital to which he had been sent as an adult on an adult ward at least six times over the years? 

The forty old, male patient visits the children's ward at the clinic's psychiatric hospital as well as five different nursing homes with his trained, pet therapy dog and has visited for at least 150 visits over the years because the man volunteers in lieu of not being able to secure a paying job due to the stigmatizing of his diagnosis in that staff at the clinic epitomize stigma of a patient with schizophrenia by addressing patients in commands and orders rather than introductions and niceties, as if staff are in control ingesting five laxatives and taking a five mile hike!

Whatever happened to inquiring about the weather when initiating discourse with a person whom one has never met before in life?