whatever.
Oh, and although I made all of this up, I did include one true story: the thing that Johnny told me about getting head in a movie theater. I took a few artistic liberties, including the line, “Now THAT’S what I call buttered popcorn!” Johnny might be pissed. Not sure I care.
I also have another one ready to go. Apparently I’m good at writing about sex. It takes me no time and it just feels like a head-dump, proving that my brain has nothing in it but cocks and pussies and cocks that go into pussies. Some people have fireworks going off in their heads when they get ideas, but I think I get cocks going off. BOOM, there’s an idea, and the inside of my head just got coated in jizz.
Okay, it’s so wrong that the idea of a guy cumming inside of my brain just got me horny, but it did. I stopped writing between this paragraph and the last and pulled off my pants and panties and rubbed my clit until I came. It didn’t take long at all. And now I’m sitting in a wet spot on my couch. LOL, I have wet spots everywhere. My favorite is the one that’s soaked into the bathroom wallpaper six feet off the ground. People ask about that one all the time when they come and visit. I told my dad that I went into the bathroom while holding a Filet O’ Fish and tripped over the rug and slapped it into the wall and that the stain was from the tartar sauce that soaked into the plaster. I guess he figured it was too stupid to make up, so now he always comments on it. I’ve got to rip down that wallpaper. I can’t have my dad commenting on something my pussy made.
But anyway, the new project is going to be called Talking Dirty . It feels so ballsy to me that I wish I had a nutsack so I could talk in depth about it being ballsy. It’s going to be my stories. Like: MY stories. My life reads like porn, and I could have had a reality show back in college that would have made pussies everywhere wet and made thousands of cocks rise to attention and fire off a seven-second salute six seconds later. So I’m writing them down. Diary format, like the way I write in here. Talking about guys putting their dicks in my pussy. Talking about taking cum in my mouth. Somehow, that seems pretty scary, but if people like it and it goes, I could write them forever and rub my pussy every other sentence.
Sam’s cool with it, like a total trooper. He says that as long as I don’t do other guys now, he doesn’t care what I did in the past, or if I tell the world.
Yeah, I guess I do love the guy.
S T O R Y I D E A S
STORIES TO TELL IN FUTURE Talking Dirty volumes:
The one with the angry cab driver -
That one night when I was out in the club and stuck that lipstick up my pussy because I was drunk — mention how no cleaner gets out lipstick, the Scotch Guard joke (“use Teflon coating!”), and then when he was chasing Brooke and I fucked the gearshift… mention the fuzzy dice thing and about how he chased us with that dildo.
The one with two guys except one wasn't really a guy -
Be sure to mention Dinah Shore and that phone call to 911.
The one with the chunky cum -
How I panicked and said, “That’s not oatmeal!” and didn’t understand what he was saying because I thought that Sharpie was stuck up his ass and that he was panicking, but that it was just his normal routine. Remember the bit about how I wanted to call 911 again, and 911 was like, “Is that you again, Autumn?” while he was yelling at me that he couldn’t go to the emergency room again so soon after getting that thing stuck. Also note: Wilford Brimley reference.
The one with the guy who dirty talked in Elmo's voice -
This is a maybe. There might be a trademark violation.
The one with the helium tank -
“Make me fly, baby!”
“I can feel it bubbling up into my stomach!”
And that bit about when the rubber end thing broke off in Betty’s ass and we got all panicky.
F E B R U A R Y 28
DIDN’T HAVE A GREAT
Oh, and although I made all of this up, I did include one true story: the thing that Johnny told me about getting head in a movie theater. I took a few artistic liberties, including the line, “Now THAT’S what I call buttered popcorn!” Johnny might be pissed. Not sure I care.
I also have another one ready to go. Apparently I’m good at writing about sex. It takes me no time and it just feels like a head-dump, proving that my brain has nothing in it but cocks and pussies and cocks that go into pussies. Some people have fireworks going off in their heads when they get ideas, but I think I get cocks going off. BOOM, there’s an idea, and the inside of my head just got coated in jizz.
Okay, it’s so wrong that the idea of a guy cumming inside of my brain just got me horny, but it did. I stopped writing between this paragraph and the last and pulled off my pants and panties and rubbed my clit until I came. It didn’t take long at all. And now I’m sitting in a wet spot on my couch. LOL, I have wet spots everywhere. My favorite is the one that’s soaked into the bathroom wallpaper six feet off the ground. People ask about that one all the time when they come and visit. I told my dad that I went into the bathroom while holding a Filet O’ Fish and tripped over the rug and slapped it into the wall and that the stain was from the tartar sauce that soaked into the plaster. I guess he figured it was too stupid to make up, so now he always comments on it. I’ve got to rip down that wallpaper. I can’t have my dad commenting on something my pussy made.
But anyway, the new project is going to be called Talking Dirty . It feels so ballsy to me that I wish I had a nutsack so I could talk in depth about it being ballsy. It’s going to be my stories. Like: MY stories. My life reads like porn, and I could have had a reality show back in college that would have made pussies everywhere wet and made thousands of cocks rise to attention and fire off a seven-second salute six seconds later. So I’m writing them down. Diary format, like the way I write in here. Talking about guys putting their dicks in my pussy. Talking about taking cum in my mouth. Somehow, that seems pretty scary, but if people like it and it goes, I could write them forever and rub my pussy every other sentence.
Sam’s cool with it, like a total trooper. He says that as long as I don’t do other guys now, he doesn’t care what I did in the past, or if I tell the world.
Yeah, I guess I do love the guy.
S T O R Y I D E A S
STORIES TO TELL IN FUTURE Talking Dirty volumes:
The one with the angry cab driver -
That one night when I was out in the club and stuck that lipstick up my pussy because I was drunk — mention how no cleaner gets out lipstick, the Scotch Guard joke (“use Teflon coating!”), and then when he was chasing Brooke and I fucked the gearshift… mention the fuzzy dice thing and about how he chased us with that dildo.
The one with two guys except one wasn't really a guy -
Be sure to mention Dinah Shore and that phone call to 911.
The one with the chunky cum -
How I panicked and said, “That’s not oatmeal!” and didn’t understand what he was saying because I thought that Sharpie was stuck up his ass and that he was panicking, but that it was just his normal routine. Remember the bit about how I wanted to call 911 again, and 911 was like, “Is that you again, Autumn?” while he was yelling at me that he couldn’t go to the emergency room again so soon after getting that thing stuck. Also note: Wilford Brimley reference.
The one with the guy who dirty talked in Elmo's voice -
This is a maybe. There might be a trademark violation.
The one with the helium tank -
“Make me fly, baby!”
“I can feel it bubbling up into my stomach!”
And that bit about when the rubber end thing broke off in Betty’s ass and we got all panicky.
F E B R U A R Y 28
DIDN’T HAVE A GREAT
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