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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
o  	The 'Bookshelf collection' offers a very wide variety of  o
o  stories. They have been submitted by people from all over the  o
o  world.  Also from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups).   There is no  o
o  particular  order  other than offering them to you in  alpha-  o
o  betical directories.                                           o
o  	I don’t believe in categorizing things. "I don’t want to  o
o  be typed therefore I don’t type things myself."  I think it’s  o
o  a lot more fun to browse around and find  'little'  surprises  o
o  that you might not have even thought of looking for.           o
o   	Lest we forget!!!   This story was produced as adult en-  o
o tertainment and should not be read by minors.   Kristen         o
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o

Fear and Loathing in my Pants (weird)
by Anonymous


It was a day much like any other..  Fuck, it was a day of slow, 
seething boredom.  The obtuse quality of sameness; it gyrates 
crazily in one's soul like a schizophrenic dancer.  The 
somnambulistic anthem of humanity's quotidian downfall.  The relief, 
it comes as pain, and excruciating pleasure so quick as to be 
infinitesimal.  The fear that the pleasure will never end transforms 
pain into something greater, something that reaches out and slaps 
the sameness in the face with a big wet cock.
Yes, the sex. The organ grinding wail of a million bleeding monkeys.  
The clutching of rag doll approximation of love, and the sound of 
tearing cloth.
When she walked in on my day, the city burned with napalm sex.  The 
pleasure was already over by the time I saw her eyes.  It had flown 
onto a telephone wire and strangled on the sound of a thousand empty 
voices, proclaiming their existence with inane fucking promises.
Eyes are mirrors, not windows.  Eyes are meant to be torn asunder, 
squamous with blood and pain, and thrown to the floor while the 
naked brain is revealed to the light of day.
She could have used some makeup.  Her face was an impressionist's 
rendering of Hiroshima, rife with decaying culture.  Enigmatic
would be a nice word to use, but the word was purely and lividly, 
"uncouth."
Nothing moved or worked right on her, she was a fugue among waltzes, 
and her apathy was written in letters of sweat and acne on her face.  
The sex that day, was in the air, thick with exudations of human 
fear, reeking with the feces of souls lost in an age of rape.  The 
jubilant wail of triumph never came that day, it never would.
There was a transaction.  It was apparent, naked, cold, unmystery 
that fought with the need for life, however momentary, and life won.  
We went to a hot room a cockroach's run across, and bargained 
clumsily with our lust for the better part of an hour.
Throughout the night she was rhythm's antithesis.  She clutched and 
wailed and bumped like moaning barges of garbage on some stinking 
river.  She needed pain tonight to pay for her life.  With what 
would the payment be made?  More of life, and death.  Life 
everlasting was dripping from her sex, pungent with entropy's 
metaphysical funk.  Though I was naked and bleeding, she assaulted 
me again and again, her nails ripping skin from my head, my brain 
twisting inside, hoping for death and freedom.  Her breasts pummeled 
me with womanhood's giving evil.  Every moment was anger captured in 
flesh; mammalian rituals of dissolution.
When at last the moment of penultimate pain came, I forgot her.  I 
forgot her eyes on the floor, staring at me.  I forgot the clamor of 
my brain talking, constantly driving me into my inner world of filth 
and blasphemy, my inner temple of biblical figures caked in 
excrement and dried blood.
I forgot her name..  And she was gone.  The sameness closed about me 
with a thunderous stillness, like a shadow of the angel of death.  
And nothing, nothing was different.
I slept.