How many toes have you had in your mouth? I only ask because I recently had seven in mine, and if Iâm being honest, I experienced a sexy version of the law of diminishing returns at the point the second foot started sliding in.
Iâm getting ahead of myself. Iâve been having a bit of sports-themed sex with the joyless football commentator, Mark Lawrenson. I probably make it clear early on, that what I donât know about football would fill a football stadium. But I canât say that with any certainty, because Iâve no idea how big football stadia are, or what sport theyâre used for. But I do know that pondering the infinite, low-hanging sadness of Mark Lawrensonâs face brought out a fathering instinct in me. A fathering instinct that, perhaps unusually, involved running over to him and donking him on the forehead with my bell-end.
A cruel observer would say that Lawrensonâs head resembles a dozen severed pig faces that have been used for some months as boiler lagging. But thatâs not fair: Lawrensonâs jowl-laden visage rewards closer inspection by revealing deeper levels Â of sub-jowls, each more dour and unimpressed by the mysteries of the universe than the last. Were an insect to get lost in this fractal labyrinth of recursive jowls, it would find itself in an infinite hall of mirrors, beset from every angle by images of its own futility.This is the face where Mark lives. And Iâll tell you this much: Iâd have paid anywhere up to ÂŁ30 to pull off a spunk on it.
So, I sweet-talked a BBC Desk Technician out of his uniform, and inveigled my way to the underneath of Lawrensonâs desk during last nightâs match against . He seemed preoccupied with – yet entirely unimpressed by – the game that was going on, so I passed the time by pressing a 50 pence coin into his leg and making out with the imprint of Queen Elizabeth that lingered in the dough of his thigh meat. Above the lip of the desk, his mouth made a long sequence of plaintive, doom-laden honks, bereft of excitement and life. I tugged playfully at the loose skin around his knee-cap and expressed my excitement by pissing onto my stomach and spattering it around with my palms.
With a haunting melancholic hiss of lost opportunity, one of his shoes gasped its way off, and there it was: Mark Lawrensonâs left foot. The place on Mark Lawrenson’s body that is as far away as it is possible to get from his jowls – but even so, manages to look ponderously jowly. With crippling emotional distance, he hacked lumps out of my face with a jagged toenail. It was as though he was saying âI am the death of faith, of joy. I am the signpost at the end of human potential that says turn back, or die here, it matters not – there is nothing of value that can be achieved.â
I donât know if you’ve ever made love to someone who embodies misery, but it is liberating – nothing you can do will disappoint or upset them. Even a series of aggressive bites to Lawrensonâs corner-shop carrier bag nutsac merely seemed to confirm his suspicion that life is pointlessly cruel, and any end to it would be an ointment.
And so it was that I found chewing furiously on Mark Lawrensonâs flaccid dick and balls, screaming âItâs OK to be depressed, God knows, itâs the only sensible position when you consider the shit thatâs going on in the world. I mean, David Cameron, for fuckâs sake. Thereâs no reason to be happy. But youâre literally narrating a bunch of men having a consequence-free kickabout, and if you canât draw some pleasure from the whimsical tower of well-paid bullshit that your life has become, then perhaps you need to zorb into a furnace and let someone who can put on the vaguest show of giving a tiny shit.â Of course, having a dick and nuts in my mouth, it just came out as âmmpghâ.
With the rumble of a huge rock being rolled over a cave entrance, Lawrenson turned his head to face me, and with the dry moan of an air raid siren, he released out a plume of pink smoke from his dick. And I swear to you, reader – that smoke tasted like like the most delicious strawberries I have ever tasted.
By Jon âLogâ Blyth
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