I aim to thrust myself against this life so hard,
And clasp it to me fiercely, leaving such a trace,
That when the sweetness of these days I must discard
The world will keep awhile the warmth of my embrace.

The sea, spread out across the globe so lavishly,
On stormy days my fitful memory will sustain,
And in its myriad, random motions ceaselessly
Preserve the acrid, salty, savour of my pain.

What will be left of me in heath and windswept coomb?
My blazing eyes will set the yellow gorse on fire,
And the cicada perched upon a sprig of broom
Will sound the depth and poignancy of my desire.

Each spring, in emerald meadows where the skylark sings,
In lanes and wayside ditches where wild flowers grow,
The tufted grass will tremble at the touch of unseen wings,
The phantoms of my hands that held them long ago.

My joy and restless passion will not die with me,
Nature will breathe me in, making of me a part
Of all that lives, while sorrowing humanity
Will hold the individual profile of my heart.

Anna de Noailles
Trans. Sebastian Hayes

Big Fat Pussy Girl

April 5, 2020

Hello. My name is tatiana de la tierra and I have a fat pussy.
I didn’t always know that that’s what I had. What I had was a creature between my legs that always wanted attention. She expected to be stroked and talked to. Demanded to be taken on outings. Insisted on being entertained. Roared until she was well-fed.
I took care of my panocha as well as I could. I became friends with her, got to know her well. I introduced her to my friends. Hi, I’m tatiana, and this is my pussy. Now don’t get me wrong, I protected my papaya. No soliciting, no door-to-door salesmen. But I let her go out, make acquaintances of her own. I took her to the movies—she liked Italian ones best. I took her to rock and roll concerts, to the beach—she loved playing in the ocean.
I petted her a lot, especially at night. She would get in bed with me and start whining. Hhhhhh touch me, touch me…So I touched her and touched her and touched her and touched her and TOUCHED her. And as she drifted off to sleep I would sing to her.
Pa-pa-pa-pa-panochita ven conmigo mamita….
And I fed her. She was a pretty hungry little cunt. I started simple, natural. Fingers. One, two, three, four. She always wanted more. It wasn’t about quantity, though, it was about quality and variety. So I had to go out hunting and gathering. I fed her: quartz crystals, Classic Coca-Cola bottles, Greek cucumbers, fat cocks, Italian eggplants, bones, tongues, lavender dildos, hands and fingers of all kinds, candles, and some odds-and-ends—a bottle of mosquito repellent, the head of a Mexican doll, my great great grandparent’s bedpost.
I kept my papaya satisfied to the best of my ability. But then something happened.
You see, my panocha was my panocha. I made all the decisions. I scripted all the permissions, directed the action, took responsibility for the results. And then this diesel dyke got a hold of her — this stone butch, she just took over. I had to give up the property rights at that point. Well, I wanted to. Because this woman, she could take care of me and my pussy all by herself.
This is what happened. Me, my cunt, and Margarita — that’s her name — we started getting intimate. And Margarita would say stuff to me, like, Ay mami, que rica que tu eres. And she’d be kissing on me and touching and swooning and I let her. And she’d be exploring me with her questions and with her tongue and with her nose and with her fingertips and when her fingers finally got there, right there to my cunt, ahí, ahí, Margarita said, Papayona, mira esta papaya tan sabrosa que tienes…Papayona.
Papayona. Big fat pussy. She said it. She named it. I didn’t just have any pussy. I had a big fat pussy. And this was a good thing. Papayona. Bigger, softer, better. Papayona. Wider, deeper, wetter. Panochota, 3X double-wide extra padded. Chochachona. Big fat pussy. Queen-size cunt. A whaler of a cunt, the cruise ship of cunts, the World Wide Web of cunts, the Cadillac of cunts, the castle of cunts, the eagle of cunts, the Jupiter of Cunts. Papayona. The Library of Congress of cunts. Papayona. The Disney World of Cunts. Papayona. The Sonora Matancera of Cunts.
Los invitamos a vivir emociones de otros tiempos. Señoras y Señores, Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the immense pleasure of presenting to you the Dean of Cunts, the world-wide famous Sonora Papayona with original arrangements and the best digital sound, con ustedes, la Sonora Papayona, the grand orchestral pussy of the 21st century.
Pa-pa-pa-papayona, que ricura chingona
Pa-pa-pa-panochota, una tremenda nota
Cho-cho-cho-chocha chochona que niñita tan mona
Big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl
Got the fattest shiniest pearl
Got the deepest oiliest well
Got the sweetest lingering smell
Got the prettiest prettiest shell
Got the prettiest prettiest shell
Big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl
Big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl, big fat pussy girl

tatiana de la tierra

her breast

April 5, 2020

He traced a blue vein along her breast as if it were a way to her heart.

Greg Sellers
journal entry: Notes from Neruda’s Ghost – 25 January 2020

Environmentalism

April 5, 2020

The environment is a shared concern, and we should be glad that it has come to the top of the agenda now, while there is still something to be done. It has been presented as a divisive issue, about which we do not discuss, but we fight. Environmentalism has therefore acquired all the hall-marks of a left-wing cause: a class of victims (future generations), an enlightened vanguard who fights for them (the eco-warriors), powerful philistines who exploit them (the capitalists), and endless opportunities to express resentment against the successful, the wealthy and the West.

The cause recruits the intelectuals, with facts and theories carelessly bandied about, and activism is encouraged. Environmentalism is something you join, and for many young people it has the quasi-redemptive and identity-bestowing character of the twentieth-century revolutions. When led by a child it generates a collective hysteria comparable to that of the millenarian enthusiasms of mediaeval Europe.

However, the cause of the environment is not, in itself, a left-wing cause at all. It is not about ‘liberating’ or empowering the victim, but about safeguarding resources. It is not about ‘progress’ or ‘equality’ but about conservation and equilibrium. Its following may be young and dishevelled; but that is largely because people in suits have failed to realise where their real interests, and their real values, lie. Environmentalists may seem opposed to capitalism, but – if they understood matters correctly – they would be far more opposed to socialism, with its gargantuan, uncorrectable and state-controlled projects, than to the ethos of free enterprise.

Indeed, environmentalism is the quintessential conservative cause, the most vivid instance in the world as we know it, of that partnership between the dead, the living and the unborn that Burke defended as the conservative archetype. Its fundamental aim is not to bring about some radical reordering of society. Its attitude to private property is, or ought to be, positive – for it is only private ownership that confers responsibility for the environment as opposed to the unqualified right to exploit it, a right whose effect we saw in the ruined landscapes and poisoned waterways of the former Soviet empire, and which we see today in the polluted rivers, destroyed landscapes and airless cities of China. Its cause is local attachment not global control, and it stands against globalisation in all its forms, not least that advocated by environmentalists themselves, whose aim is to fit us to a world-wide agenda of prohibitions.

Roger Scruton
Environmentalism is the quintessential conservative cause

writing sprints

April 5, 2020

My writing routine is often to write quickly for short periods of time. I call these writing sprints and I love announcing them on Twitter. I encourage others to go try writing (or whatever task they have) for intense non-interrupted sessions of a half-hour or an hour. People are amazed at what they get done. Of course, sometimes I have so much to do that I can’t take those breaks between sprints and it turns into a sort of sprinting marathon. Which can be productive, but frakkin’ exhausting.

Jane Espenson
Interviewed by Neal Broverman for Advocate.com, 27th October 2011

Use me. Like a pen uses ink to write something. Beautiful. Original. Interminable. Write until your heart is spilled completely on the page for me to examine. Until there is no ink left to write with…Write to me about love and tragedy and painfully gorgeous moments. Hand in hand. Flesh on flesh. Mouth on mouth. Love and sin.

heart of the storm

April 5, 2020

I think I’ve eaten the heart of the storm. I’m such a beast and feed greedily, but this has never happened before. I shall become the ghost of that savage gale and roar across the moor like a wild thing.

It began at age nine or ten, my foot fetish. Anna, a neighbourhood teen, was to act as childminder one evening when my mum was out. I remember being in pajamas and lying on the floor. Anna sitting on the sofa kept prodding and tickling me with her bare feet. Somehow my pajama pants ended up half-way down my thighs and she caressed my little erection, using the soles of her feet on the shaft, then her toes, gently on the head. While she stimulated me with one foot, she placed the other over my face and told me to kiss it and suck the toes.

I did.

‘I love my feet to be kissed,’ she said. ‘I like it when you clean them with your tongue. D’you like my playing footsie with your thing?’

I couldn’t answer, couldn’t speak. Her foot rubbing me made something happen – like an explosion in my head. My body spasmed ten, eleven times and, terrified by this, I pushed her foot away and grabbed my jerking erection.

I’d cum for the first time. There was no sperm, just that unexpected and involuntary, almost spastic motion – frightening, but very pleasurable.

‘That’s not fair,’ Anna said. ‘You’ve got to suck my toes some more.’

So I did.

And when I was in bed later that night, remembering the taste of her feet, I became hard again. I rubbed myself imagining my hands as Anna’s feet. This time when I came I just lay there and enjoyed it. From that time to this, feet have dominated my fantasies –

Paul Owen
This Little Piggy: confessions from the shoe trade

For Everyone

April 5, 2020