Date: Thu, 29 Aug 2002 22:06:00 EDT
From: ManheimEins@aol.com
Subject: Joy of Self Abuse, Part II

Now where was I? Oh, yeah. Living in that small apartment in an old house
which had been chopped up into small units. Across the hall from me are
still the meanest-looking women I have ever seen. They scare the shit
out of me. When I was a little kid the bigger boys during recess, would
grab ahold of me, throw me to the ground, and pull my pants down
exposing my shorts. What was worse was they did it when there were some
girls around to witness the pantsing and who would titter. I guess they
would have left me alone after the first time they did it but that day I
had worn some shorts that had little red hearts all over them. My
mother's Valentine's day gift to me. From then on, the boys had to see
what I was wearing.

Well, I get the same feeling of about to be panted everytime I run into one
ofthe Valkyries in the hall. I just can't win with those babes. One day
someone punched my apartment buzzer and I asked who it was. Response: "It's
the police." So I buzzed them in wondering if I had been caught crossing
against the traffic light. I opened the door to the outside hallway as the
policeman -- make that policewoman -- came up the steps. She came over to me
and said the department had received a complaint about the motorcycles which
were parked on the front porch. As I had mentioned in a previous expose of my
sex life, the hogs belonged to the diesels. I figured that the landlord had
finally got up enough courage to do something about it. I explained to the
policewoman that the bikes belonged to the apartment across the hall. She
walked over and knocked on the door. It was soon opened by the head big girl
who took one look at the cop and said, "Hi, Spike, what are you doing here?"
Wouldn't you know it; old friends! End of complaint handling; bikes still on
the porch and Spike becomes an often visitor to join whatever goes on in that
apartment.


Back to my sex life or lack thereof. I got busy on the net in the chat rooms
and finally hooked up with a guy whose profile made him an Adonis, Apollo, and
Superman all molded into one hunk of maleness. We played footsie over the net,
chatting, chatting, chatting and finally getting down to the business of
setting up a meeting to cool our respective over-heated loins. To meet:
Saturday night, The Tin Bird bar, 10:00 PM. By the way, his name was Van.
Anyway, Van was to be wearing a red cashmere pullover sweater. ( That should
had clued me in right away. But hang on.) On the stroke of ten I waltzed into
the bar and spotted a guy with THE SWEATER ON, sitting at the bar. He was fat,
bald, and just a mess. Adonis my ass. I turned right around and tippy-toed my
hot little body right out of there and home. No more blind dates for me.

But my sex life has not been confined to my dextrous hand, although the two of
them, my dick and my right hand, are getting to know each other quite well. I
did read somewhere, probably on a toilet stall wall, that if you use you left
hand and turn it upside down, you get somewhat the sensation of someone
beating your meat for you. Doesn't work. One of the bizarre ways I read about
in getting off was to put your hard cock between the mattress and box springs
and fuck away. I don't believe it for one minute. Probably some goon putting
us on.

I did have one night of joint bliss with a fellow I met at the opera one
night. No, he was not one of the spear carriers. We met at the mezzanine bar
during intermission. One thing led to another and he went home with me. I had
a boner all the way home. He was/is a nice guy. No Adonis or Apollo, just a
clean cut (circumsized, too) American Dude. It was a Saturday night so there
was no rush to get up the next morning. We had a very good time and gave the
other just what was wanted and needed. The denoumont came when he was leaving.
I walked with him out my door as I was going to pick up my Sunday Paper. Just
then the door from the den across from me opened up and the head butch herself
was there. She took one look at my friend and said," Larry, what the hell are
you doing here?" Gulp, Larry works in her office. She went on to put us both
down by hinting that we had been touching pee-pees, which we had. Larry left,
I picked up my paper, went back inside, closed the door and never heard or saw
Larry again. Sic transit whatever.

One day I came home from work and picked up my mail from my mail box. However,
not all was for me. One was for a Deborah Haskins and the apartment number was
that of the dreaded clan across from me. Deborah, how nice. A behemoth
imbodying the worst features of both sexes is name Deborah. I could hardly
wait to give her the letter. I went upstairs and knocked on their door, real
innocent look on my face. Their door opened and it was one of the lesser
troglodytes. When I explained what had happened she said, "Oh, yes, that's for
Teddy." So the big one is named Deborah but is called Teddy. How nice. The
next time I saw "Teddy" in the flesh (lots of it, too)I said, "Hi Debbie, how
are things in Dallas?" It took her a couple nano-seconds to respond but she
did. She just shook her head and called me her favorite name: Pervert. I
grabbed my crotch with my fist and said, "Don't you wish you had this to play
with?" She told me to stick it in my ear and went in slamming her door.


Just to be a mean bastard, I'm thinking of having a plaster cast made of my
hard cock and giving it to her to Christmas. I might even have it made double
ended so that she could invite one of her harpies to be pronged on the other
end.
Well, time will tell.