The Omen took my virginity.
I think the majority of the people who read this journal are familiar with my past life- a Naive Teenager making vague claims towards someday being a Creative Writing Div II but spending most of her time A. Chasing Tequila shots with Mikes Hard Lemonade, B. Dabbling in Theater/Community Council, C. Making out in Enfield, and D. Most Importantly D. writing about Sex for the Omen.
The Omen is an open submission forum and the longest running publication at Hampshire college. The credo is simple- they accept 2-D anything as long as you sign your name to it.
I was hardly more than a 2 year blip on the Omen readers' radar, but I admit to more than a little fondness for the time I spent writing my 700 words of nonsense. I might not have been particularly proud of anything I wrote, but I was proud to be grouped in with some fun, funny folks who blew off steam on a biweekly basis into this rag and took more shit for it than you could possibly imagine.
Omen kids are for the most part liberal and Left-Wing, but they as a whole refuse to drink the PC kool-aid that Hampshire tries to shove down their throats. They're not afraid to laugh at the Ludicrous or hear an opposing viewpoint or buy a gun. The Omen Loves Everyone, and that includes Republicans.
I regret that we didn't make it better. The editing was iffy at best during my time, and the layout was as good as it could be considering it got done in 24 hours, you never knew what was coming in, and it all had to be done on this G4 that I swear to god had it in for us. Sometimes it seemed foolish to take all this flak from a loud if small percentage of the campus for what was often garbage cover to cover. Lovable, often funny as fucking get out, but why did I waste hours of my day arguing with all comers over Erin's D&D tutorials?
Ah well. It's been a long time.
I was a member of staff for my two years at Hampshire, and wrote almost entirely about sex. Sometimes advice, sometimes rants, and when the muse struck me, Porn. My porn was a detailed graphic blend of fact and fiction centering around a girl named Laura who endured any number of awkward and/or humiliating sexual adventures at my hands. If I went back in time and renamed the column, I probably would have entitled it Satre of Sex. Or preferably, Sex against The Wall, but nobody would have gotten it. (Ok, Jeffrey Paternostro would have gotten it, but he's a pretentious bastard who referenced Pirandello in like his first article. Fucker.)
So last night, as I'm sitting in Lemmings bar waiting for the Cardinals/Tar Heels basketball game to come on, I read in Rebecca's journal that she's doing the Anniversary Layout with Benni. And in a fit of nostalgia, driven primarily by vodka, I decide to pen out the fastest porn perhaps ever produced. Which I'm cut/pasting into my journal for posterity. It was amusing to take my character, who's always had sex at Hampshire, into the wider world of big city dating. Very little has changed for her, poor thing.
I suggest not reading, particularly if you object to graphic, degrading, unhappy ending sex. Oh and by the way, this is far from the most offensive short I've written.
Without further ado:
We're all familiar with the game of last man standing, am I right? The name is fairly self-explanatory. Although if you find yourself where Laura is now- Lemmings Bar on a Saturday night, post White Sox/Mets, you might find yourself a bit too far removed from the concept of standing to really appreciate a fine analogy. (Or a shitty analogy. Fuck off.)
Laura is 3 sheets, nay 10 sheets no, forget sheets, whole fucking reams to the wind right now. But thanks to the only prudent decision she'll make all night (leaving the heels at home), she's winning Last Man Standing. Which has something of a different meaning in a bar than it does in a Kurosawa remake. It's a time honored little farce which plays out like a poker/go fish hybrid where each player is dealt essentially the same hand at the beginning of every game, but you may or may not choose to play with the same players on any given night and how many cards you can give/take is somewhat dependent on how many tequila shots you can put down.
Laura can put down plenty, and I think we all know she's the type who's looking for different players on a pretty regular basis.
You're in a bar. And this is Saturday, so everyone who's not already there with someone is looking for someone. So do you partner up go home early? Or do you wait for a better fish? What if you wait too long? When do you know it's too late? When do you give up and salvage what's left of your dignity and your pocket book?
Laura is dangerously close to winning Last Man Standing and so losing the Saturday Night Hookup. So she squares her shoulders, thrusts out her cleavage, and walks up to the dude ordering Glenlivet who beat her here.
"So..." she bites her lip in what could pass for fetching in some alternate universe. "I have a confession."
Blank stare here.
"I'm cheering for the Mets."
Incase you obnoxious Yankees aren't aware, this is sacrilege.
"Any chance I could buy you another and bribe your forgiveness?"
This the man understands. More liquor. And the potential of a girl with a serious oral fixation.
"I'm Jeremy." Does it matter?
An hour later and she finds herself pressed against the wall at the Damen El stop, an eager hand slipping underneath her Amy Winehouse t-shirt. He kisses like a girl. Full lips and more lip than tongue let alone teeth and she's surprised there isn't a hint of cherry lipgloss. And he's cradling her breast when she'd really appreciate it if he gave her nipple a good pinch and woke her up a bit. Bored, and not wanting to be rude, she shifts her hips forward, grabbing his ass and pulling him against her. Not hard enough for her liking, she inserts her hand between them, and (how do men wear their pants so loose without a belt?) down the rabbit hole as it were.
He moans and whimpers and breathes in a way that makes her worry he's asthmatic. "Don't you want to wait until we get to my apartment baby? My roommates will be asleep, it's only in Logan Square."
That means far away. Even though it's March it's all of 38 degrees outside and the only thing that's keeping her from calling a cab is the heat lamps above her and poverty.
She sits him down on the somehow magically hygienically clean bench and kneels in front of him, undoing his Dockers. "That's a no."
She wants a glass of water, her mouth isn't wet enough, but she puts her right hand on his shaft and begins to slowly stroke him as she tongues his balls. She laves, she sucks, she nuzzles, and then her mouth and fingers are enveloping his whole cock. She moves to the head, licking the ridge underneath, quickening the pace of her hands. She likes the graduation of his noise repertoire from tiny kicked puppy to wolf on the prairie and before she knows it there's more than a little bit of salty goo dripping out the left side of her mouth. She smiles, sits back on her heels, and then leans forward to kiss him. He moves his mouth aside. She frowns. Tries again. He pulls back.
"I have a spare toothbrush at my house."
In the distance, she can see the light of the train, but it's going in the wrong direction. Towards her house. No wait, the right direction.
"Have a good night Jeremy."
She stands up and walks away, regretting a lack of heels or even spurs. She doesn't have anything to clack angrily on the wooden platform.
In other news... life continues. Back to Biology.
The Omen is an open submission forum and the longest running publication at Hampshire college. The credo is simple- they accept 2-D anything as long as you sign your name to it.
I was hardly more than a 2 year blip on the Omen readers' radar, but I admit to more than a little fondness for the time I spent writing my 700 words of nonsense. I might not have been particularly proud of anything I wrote, but I was proud to be grouped in with some fun, funny folks who blew off steam on a biweekly basis into this rag and took more shit for it than you could possibly imagine.
Omen kids are for the most part liberal and Left-Wing, but they as a whole refuse to drink the PC kool-aid that Hampshire tries to shove down their throats. They're not afraid to laugh at the Ludicrous or hear an opposing viewpoint or buy a gun. The Omen Loves Everyone, and that includes Republicans.
I regret that we didn't make it better. The editing was iffy at best during my time, and the layout was as good as it could be considering it got done in 24 hours, you never knew what was coming in, and it all had to be done on this G4 that I swear to god had it in for us. Sometimes it seemed foolish to take all this flak from a loud if small percentage of the campus for what was often garbage cover to cover. Lovable, often funny as fucking get out, but why did I waste hours of my day arguing with all comers over Erin's D&D tutorials?
Ah well. It's been a long time.
I was a member of staff for my two years at Hampshire, and wrote almost entirely about sex. Sometimes advice, sometimes rants, and when the muse struck me, Porn. My porn was a detailed graphic blend of fact and fiction centering around a girl named Laura who endured any number of awkward and/or humiliating sexual adventures at my hands. If I went back in time and renamed the column, I probably would have entitled it Satre of Sex. Or preferably, Sex against The Wall, but nobody would have gotten it. (Ok, Jeffrey Paternostro would have gotten it, but he's a pretentious bastard who referenced Pirandello in like his first article. Fucker.)
So last night, as I'm sitting in Lemmings bar waiting for the Cardinals/Tar Heels basketball game to come on, I read in Rebecca's journal that she's doing the Anniversary Layout with Benni. And in a fit of nostalgia, driven primarily by vodka, I decide to pen out the fastest porn perhaps ever produced. Which I'm cut/pasting into my journal for posterity. It was amusing to take my character, who's always had sex at Hampshire, into the wider world of big city dating. Very little has changed for her, poor thing.
I suggest not reading, particularly if you object to graphic, degrading, unhappy ending sex. Oh and by the way, this is far from the most offensive short I've written.
Without further ado:
We're all familiar with the game of last man standing, am I right? The name is fairly self-explanatory. Although if you find yourself where Laura is now- Lemmings Bar on a Saturday night, post White Sox/Mets, you might find yourself a bit too far removed from the concept of standing to really appreciate a fine analogy. (Or a shitty analogy. Fuck off.)
Laura is 3 sheets, nay 10 sheets no, forget sheets, whole fucking reams to the wind right now. But thanks to the only prudent decision she'll make all night (leaving the heels at home), she's winning Last Man Standing. Which has something of a different meaning in a bar than it does in a Kurosawa remake. It's a time honored little farce which plays out like a poker/go fish hybrid where each player is dealt essentially the same hand at the beginning of every game, but you may or may not choose to play with the same players on any given night and how many cards you can give/take is somewhat dependent on how many tequila shots you can put down.
Laura can put down plenty, and I think we all know she's the type who's looking for different players on a pretty regular basis.
You're in a bar. And this is Saturday, so everyone who's not already there with someone is looking for someone. So do you partner up go home early? Or do you wait for a better fish? What if you wait too long? When do you know it's too late? When do you give up and salvage what's left of your dignity and your pocket book?
Laura is dangerously close to winning Last Man Standing and so losing the Saturday Night Hookup. So she squares her shoulders, thrusts out her cleavage, and walks up to the dude ordering Glenlivet who beat her here.
"So..." she bites her lip in what could pass for fetching in some alternate universe. "I have a confession."
Blank stare here.
"I'm cheering for the Mets."
Incase you obnoxious Yankees aren't aware, this is sacrilege.
"Any chance I could buy you another and bribe your forgiveness?"
This the man understands. More liquor. And the potential of a girl with a serious oral fixation.
"I'm Jeremy." Does it matter?
An hour later and she finds herself pressed against the wall at the Damen El stop, an eager hand slipping underneath her Amy Winehouse t-shirt. He kisses like a girl. Full lips and more lip than tongue let alone teeth and she's surprised there isn't a hint of cherry lipgloss. And he's cradling her breast when she'd really appreciate it if he gave her nipple a good pinch and woke her up a bit. Bored, and not wanting to be rude, she shifts her hips forward, grabbing his ass and pulling him against her. Not hard enough for her liking, she inserts her hand between them, and (how do men wear their pants so loose without a belt?) down the rabbit hole as it were.
He moans and whimpers and breathes in a way that makes her worry he's asthmatic. "Don't you want to wait until we get to my apartment baby? My roommates will be asleep, it's only in Logan Square."
That means far away. Even though it's March it's all of 38 degrees outside and the only thing that's keeping her from calling a cab is the heat lamps above her and poverty.
She sits him down on the somehow magically hygienically clean bench and kneels in front of him, undoing his Dockers. "That's a no."
She wants a glass of water, her mouth isn't wet enough, but she puts her right hand on his shaft and begins to slowly stroke him as she tongues his balls. She laves, she sucks, she nuzzles, and then her mouth and fingers are enveloping his whole cock. She moves to the head, licking the ridge underneath, quickening the pace of her hands. She likes the graduation of his noise repertoire from tiny kicked puppy to wolf on the prairie and before she knows it there's more than a little bit of salty goo dripping out the left side of her mouth. She smiles, sits back on her heels, and then leans forward to kiss him. He moves his mouth aside. She frowns. Tries again. He pulls back.
"I have a spare toothbrush at my house."
In the distance, she can see the light of the train, but it's going in the wrong direction. Towards her house. No wait, the right direction.
"Have a good night Jeremy."
She stands up and walks away, regretting a lack of heels or even spurs. She doesn't have anything to clack angrily on the wooden platform.
In other news... life continues. Back to Biology.