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Saturday 17th March 2007.

I have just arrived home from work and feel the need to masturbate,the urge is steadily growing as i sit here in the dim light, the whirling of the plastic machine plays a tattoo to my aging tapestry,my cock,is hanging free within easy reach flaccid just waiting to be stroked into life, maybe a glimpse of all the treasures held on thus machine would make the beat rise and the sap hit a point of no return,each movement brings a jingle of the bell.
The dilemma is a battle to be fought over eight months, today the jingle wins and the thought of a glimpse of a plump cunt keeps my fingers steady on the keyboard.The prize is certainly worth fighting for along the crooked journey twisted up in thorns, enduring nettles growing amongst the barbed wire kisses, lurching in front of my path. Walking in bare feet, i feel the sand,not between my toes more simply in the palm of my hand i rub softly imaginning the salty taste of a worn nipples free hanging.Today
Saint Patrick's Day and in the flowing black gold i will be out wishing in amongst the little people a cock would appear and the gold would turn white shoot spray,alas i fear not,however i am going to see the " Undertones " and regress back to teenage kicks when the spiders seemed more gruesome yet easy to handle more black and white boxed in clover wrapped up in indigo ribbons instead, today the rainbow of shades lie in wait camouflaged beyond the reaching of hands,innocent strokes long gone in dusty covers haunted in the flash light gleam woven into the tapestry..what word would i like on my tombstone..maybe masturbator..would people stop in dread or simply wish gosh there goes a happy lad looking back on their life and wonder where has the richness gone of self luv...

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bichoose
bichoose

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