This One Goes Out To...
... all my lady readers. Yes, you, the ladies. Because thanks to you (I guess) CityFist is now ranked number one in this google search. So thanks, raunchyfat girls, my wonderful readers. Each and every one of you.
And not just of all of you as individual girls, either. But to all of each of you: to all those monstrous lardchambers, to every single one of those innumerable stones, to each stretch of blubber wrapped around you, your vast thighs, juggernaut breasts, and the flabby cheeks under your eyes, to each of those chunks of chub you bring home - to I, Fist - each time you click over here. Not just to the thin person inside of you, the one waiting to come out. This one goes out to the whole of you.
You know, you raunchyfat girls, my ladies, sometimes, the eye likes to picture you, as you lumber about the globe each and every day: every ten minutes cooling off in some internet cafe, for a surf and a snack, or sinking further into your squeaky swivel chair, as the intern goes past your office at a sneak (reciting their usual prayer: to avoid your lunch time order, of five hot dogs, two cokes, and a double cheese burger). The long black clothing worn loose, the whatever-it-is excuse, the gay friends who you just *so* love, the huff and the puff, you know the stuff - whatever any slurs the eye can think of.
But at night, the little fat of the eyelids falls down upon the eyes. It snuggles up against the egg-perfect surface. Blinds the simple whites, the blue and black. Then the blood on each of the lids back - the purple spread, the dots of colour, the lines of deep red - form images instead, shapes driven by the bang of the pulse, the incessant tide of dark bloody wants, and the empty space in the bed echoes with lacks, and the memory is gone of whatever it is I, Fist, grope for here in the office each day, and as your tiny vaginas descend through the ceiling, your anonymous breasts bob up and down at the window, and your fats fly about all over the place, filling the loneliness, one thing becomes clear: what counts is the raunchiness.
And not just of all of you as individual girls, either. But to all of each of you: to all those monstrous lardchambers, to every single one of those innumerable stones, to each stretch of blubber wrapped around you, your vast thighs, juggernaut breasts, and the flabby cheeks under your eyes, to each of those chunks of chub you bring home - to I, Fist - each time you click over here. Not just to the thin person inside of you, the one waiting to come out. This one goes out to the whole of you.
You know, you raunchyfat girls, my ladies, sometimes, the eye likes to picture you, as you lumber about the globe each and every day: every ten minutes cooling off in some internet cafe, for a surf and a snack, or sinking further into your squeaky swivel chair, as the intern goes past your office at a sneak (reciting their usual prayer: to avoid your lunch time order, of five hot dogs, two cokes, and a double cheese burger). The long black clothing worn loose, the whatever-it-is excuse, the gay friends who you just *so* love, the huff and the puff, you know the stuff - whatever any slurs the eye can think of.
But at night, the little fat of the eyelids falls down upon the eyes. It snuggles up against the egg-perfect surface. Blinds the simple whites, the blue and black. Then the blood on each of the lids back - the purple spread, the dots of colour, the lines of deep red - form images instead, shapes driven by the bang of the pulse, the incessant tide of dark bloody wants, and the empty space in the bed echoes with lacks, and the memory is gone of whatever it is I, Fist, grope for here in the office each day, and as your tiny vaginas descend through the ceiling, your anonymous breasts bob up and down at the window, and your fats fly about all over the place, filling the loneliness, one thing becomes clear: what counts is the raunchiness.
posted by Fist at 18:21
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