The Wonder of Women By Charles E.J. Moulton

I have always been psychic. Feeling people. Spiritually, I mean. I go into a room and immediately feel the atmosphere. If it’s good, I am flying, baby. If it’s bad, I am down to the ground.

To top that off, I admire the female anima, the suave caress of the female soul, the force that inspires us to create art, make music, make love, write poems.

Often, when I sit in the bus, and a beautiful woman comes and sits down, that female anima comes gleaming and glittering over at me. So, ever so subtily and carefully, I study her, looking at the curve of her breasts, the swaying of her buttcheeks, her lips and how they would feel around my hard cock. In my mind, I spread that girls legs, lick her pussy only to shove my hard dick into her throbbing clit. I have made love to hundreds of women in my mind like that, squirting cum into their hot and willing mouths.

But it isn’t just their bodies that arouse me. In fact, it’s the anima that raises my prick: that endearing magic of elegance, eloquence and arrogance that signifies the female spirit. We men love to obey them, kiss them, unwrap them and fuck them until they beg for more. Their beauty is endless and therefore endless in arousal, always begging for more. The female energy invites you into endless copulation, just as endless as the soul is endless in conciousness.

Wonder, oh, the wonder of wonderful women.

As I was sitting in the bus today, not only did I study the girl that came up and sat opposite me, the curve of her boobies and the swaying of her arse. I also imagined what it would be like to be her, have a hot and bothered male with a growing cock studying you like a meaty and marinated steak.

Then I closed my eyes. I imagined myself not having a penis, but a vagina. Then I imagined having round hips, big tits and erect nipples. I imagined myself making myself up every day, choosing a bra and panties and a skirt and then walking out in high heels and having all those men rubberneckin’ me, looking at my tight butt, dreaming of sticking their fat schlongs in my hot little fanny.

I imagined what it felt like to have that long hard dick shoved into me like I had shoved my cock into dozens of pussies before.

Had I been my dream fuck, having my stern rod catapulted into my hot cunt, what would I have felt? How does it feel to have a long hot banana shooting up and out of your crack?

As I sat there, fantasizing about my dream fuck, I realized that, believing in reincarnation, that I might have been a woman in a previous life, with all that entails, the ups and the downs, the periods and the hormonal outbursts.

And I realized that sex connects souls. It focuses two people’s emotions with one purpose: symbiosis. Unity. The act that binds a couple, at best, produces a baby. Sex is nature’s necessity, a foundation for our survival. It is peaceful and built into our DNA.

I believe in reincarnation, in the existance of the afterlife and in a concious and emotional God that put his energy into everyone’s emotions: a source we can tap into whenever we want. A source we need no religion to find.


I also believe in logic.

What was before the big bang and where does the universe end? Microcosmos vs. Macrocosmos? These questions have one answer: a divine intelligence.

I also believe in Jesus’ resurrection.

Jesus chose a woman to spread the word of his resurrection: Mary Magdalene.

There were more gospels that were not published. The patriarchal priesthood would have been out of a job if the anima had ruled as it would have deserved.

The male priests grabbed the trophy of priesthood, although women clearly were wiser.

Adam and Eve’s shame was their downfall. Or does an animal feel ashamed when creating a baby? So why do humans love babies but discard how they are made?

Sex is kissing, hugging, loving.

Why do we cheer in movies when someone is killed and cringe when they make love?

Weren’t we taught to love one another?

Violence is sin.

Faithful sex is not.

Think about it.

It’s just simple logic.


Fingering Lohan By Roger Leatherwood

The music and strobes worked into my mind and stirred up the tequila and I fell against the bar and bumped the driver. He was worse off and he laughed, and spit onto the front of his shirt and wandered towards the door.

There was light in the other room from a jellyfish blinking at 320+ BPM scanning in blue then red then yellow over everyone and I pushed against the redhead ahead of me and a tray fell; glasses rang on the linoleum and she turned and her dress opened up and she had no underwear on and I felt her ass up and then I realized the driver was pulling her in the other direction and she laughed too but never looked at me.

The loud music laid onto the beats behind me and I was pushed by two club girls, one with a sequin bra trying to get to the door, too hot and too noisy and I was sweating out the toxins and weaving.

I handed my tall shot glass to this cute brunette in front of me with short hair and a snap brim and she put her arm over my shoulder and kissed me and tongue tasted tequila and she felt the front of my pants and my erection, then pushed against me by someone behind her, the driver from earlier, who had lost the redhead again.

The redhead had pale skin and a white dress with slits down one side and undone buttons. Someone else was whispering in her ear, a big guy with a black goatee and a denim jacket and sunglasses. She just laughed at him but I couldn’t hear it over the thumps and the swinshas coming from all corners or the murmur, the ahhhs or the yeahs cutting through the music. The girl with the hat pulled me past Guido to the front and we breathed the cigarette smoke and the condensation from bodies collecting outside under the awning. Flashes from 580EXIIs burned the corners of my peripheral vision and Hat turned me to the door, then:

The redhead rushed out like a sluice gate surrounded by three large people and they rushed through us and then Hat was pulling me along into a towncar. The others including Goatee got in the one behind us and I was pushed in the backseat racing up to the red light and turning right without stopping, sitting next to Hat and across from the redhead.

Redhead giggled and pulled the hat off my companion and then revealed a bottle of Remy Martin Club out of an ice bucket in the armrest. “This is service,” I said and she poured it into a pair of flat weighted glasses that sat in a cubby in the leather. She opened her legs and showed her pussy, pink and bald, no doubt a real redhead because the pale inner godhead glowed in the streetlights as they washed forward and back as we drove.

“I brought you a diversion,” Hat now no hat said and turned to rub my thigh then my crotch, then reached over and pushed the thighs of the redhead wider.

Suddenly serious she asked, “You like pussy?”

“Where we going?”

“To the next club.”

“I don’t know,” the redhead said.

“Too many people were looking and no one was dancing.”

“I was lonely,” she said and offered herself in the back seat. I reached over and put my hand on her thigh, moved up and stuck my fingers inside the edges of her lips – she was dry and hot. Shaven with the stubble of a job poorly done, an amateur in a hurry without proper concentration. I placed my fingers carefully on her clit and began to message it between my fingers, moving in an inch and bringing it out, from inside. She gasped and Hat no hat switched to the other side and kissed Redhead while I fingered her, looked down and pulled her dress farther up her waist showing her stomach, watching me. Watching my fingers inside the redhead creases.

The brandy sploshed in the glasses as we ran along a warehouse district and began to weave through cars going in the other direction. I looked into Redhead’s eyes but her eyes were closed. She reached for a glass and drank, still lost in her private darkness and Hat pulled my hand with hers, a strong thin set of fingers harder in, “fuck her so she can feel it,” and then the car stopped.

“Wanna drink?” she asked. Redhead turned and looked through the windshield. There were blue lights ahead and a line and the door opened and I grabbed the other Remy and walked over through the line. The heartbeat of the sound system bled through the street and Goatee had joined us from the car behind and led Redhead by the arm – poised carefully on her silk forearm towards the door.

The hipsters in black dresses and Wasteland stripes moved like taffy to let them pass. At the rope the guy with the brick wall looked at me and said, “We have policy,” and glanced at Hat no hat, who looked back at me, shrugged and said “Sorry – we know some people in here” and they left me outside without a cover.

I walked up and turned and was three blocks off La Cienega after all and I found a strip joint and I told the guy behind the counter and he believed me, saying some girls did that all the time.