Coal Tar and Ben-Gay



Lately I have been suffering bouts of insomnia and started a love affair with (La Fee Verte) Absinthe. I use it to relax but I am beginning to suspect that I am visioning things untrue. A pontarlier (reservoir glass) with a green liquid cascading the aroma of licorice. I slugged back another hit of the essence. My entire being now hooked to the ravishing of this drink. Like out of body happenings, I experience feelings of seeing things on the walls and the ceilings of my mind. Some call me mad; some call me eccentric.

It had been but a couple of years now, that my sweet Alice had stepped into coal tar and become stuck. Then
being swept afar by a trolley that caught her on the front cow-catcher. Now I was wallowing in my melancholia. I was often accused of pushing her in front of the street car. The last few years I have noticed a change in my regimented masturbation routine.

I have to say that I have come to regard masturbation as somewhat of a mushy experience. My latest lover, a cored-out Crimson Sweet watermelon fresh from a marketplace. This variety having seeds that mesh well with my foreskin. I never purchased a melon unless it passed the thump test for ripeness and succulents. I usually apply Ben-Gay analgesic on my penis before plugging the meat. It helps to ward away the chill as my penis slides in and gets that feeling of a moist silken twat. 

Also smitten by the musical works of Felix Mendelssohn, frequently boffing my cello using shoestrings and my penis as a bow. My favorite works being A Midsummer Night's Dream overture in E major. Usually after melon season in Georgia. When really frisky, I tap dance as I fiddle the cello.

In her life, Alice wasn't a floozy, she just wasn't very choosy. While many in town were coming down with flea infestation, she was anointing crabs to the townsfolk and spreading hooping caucuses. Her favorite habitat was at the tractor pulling were she gave cheers for Farmalls and John Deere.

Now after my morning apropos, of coffee and hit of rum. I sojourn to my keep of books, nestled in an alcove, two blocks from the Court House square.

***

The tide was up and the fog lay a heavy quilt, it was like a sponge that wallowed about my bookshop door. When the fog burned off, it was the furtive of nights. It was the glaring of days; if the trees grew leaves... then it would be Spring. Unfortunately it was Autumn and frost was on the sod in Savannah Town, and a stench of the surreal lingered about my shop. It was like a fragrance of cadavers, the moths that lay about my desk. I pushed them aside as I lit the lights.

I was besotted by her beauty as she was accompanied by a bray of the winds with a whiff, as if the La Brea Tar Pits were outside my door. My cockerel giving me (a cock-a doodle-doo) notice. The penis within my britches giving rise as my testicles gnawed at my thighs. Her maw drooling as she sighted the buttons of my trousers.

She appeared in my shop, scantly dressed in the best of habits for the mid-twentieth century. With the grace of a lady but the pallor of someone just passed. With a hustle to her bustle and a satchel of medallions in the form of tomes, she naught-ied up to my desk with a curtsy, then smiled. Pulling out a script, she put the woo-do on me with shapely hips and protruding nips as I, in my woolgathering, was trying to pull myself back together. The shimmy's anointed me with a voice, her shoulders blanketed by a shawl and her bodice imprisoning her near-to escaping bosom.

Undulating with a sinuous wavelike motion, her ample hips and full figure were causing me to sip more of the Absinthe. My vision was blurring as I asked, "Is that you Alice, you picked a fine time to rut with the hogs?"

On closer inspection I saw she was wore ghostly ashes as if from the grave crematorium, reeking the stench of asphalt and tar.What remained of her garments fell off, exposing her twat and snarly-clit. Her maiden-flower tarnished with goo resembling the pan drippings of a monk with green puke. Her swollen elongated tits etching scratchings on the hardwood. Rising-and-falling, swaying side-to-side in smooth alternation of her poetic convulsion.

She was hunching on my leg and rubbing her clit against the fabric of my trousers, causing me a rash. Pulling my britches down, her clit then wrapped around my waist like a python in rut. Her cunt in iteration as her vulva nibbled at my cock. Cold hands moved across my chest has her lips suckled my nipples. Juices began to drip from my cock anticipating what would come.

The door of the shop flew open and rails appeared on the floor, and I in my nakedness heard the clanging of the trolley. The cockerel squawking, its cock-a-doddle-doo.

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