Author: mengx001

Started from the bottom. Still at the bottom.

Breakup Text # 2 – Come All Ye Faithful

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A new writing series highlighting the ways we say goodbye to one another. 250 words or less. Sometimes, that is all it takes. These stories are works of fiction. Some are inspired by real events. [Main Page]

It’s not easy being told that your girlfriend of five years wants to break up with you, especially if you’re in the middle of cumming on her face.

Everything seemed to be great. We could anticipate each other’s moves. So why the fuck did I not see this coming? She told me she loved me in my car LESS THAN AN HOUR before she broke the bad news.

Here’s how it went down:

After we got home, we started getting frisky. She was finishing going down on me, stroking me off to finish the job. She always did it this way because it’s how I liked it. Soon my breathing became labored, and I readied myself for the climax. Just as I was about to give my last measure of devotion, she looked up at me (not stopping, mind you) and said, “I think I want to break up.”

What. The. Fuck.

At first, I thought she was lying, but her face said it all. I wanted to stop, but it was too late. I simultaneously ejaculated into her hair while barely getting out a look of overwhelming confusion, anger, and sadness. After cleaning up and talking, she left an hour later.

We did fuck again a few times after the breakup. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It was just sex. Every time we finished, she gave me the same look she gave me that day. That look said it all: I could never REALLY love you.

Commercial Breaks

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I could hear them screaming
as the bulkheads began
to unfasten

where is God when the masses
are thrown out to salt shake
for your own
past mistakes?

But hey –
the telephone bill is cheaper
and by this time next year,
we’ll all be rich or dead
and thank Christ for that.

I’m too tired to wait for either;
these commercial breaks take too long
man.

Breakup Text #1: Egyptian Cotton Sheets

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A new writing series highlighting the ways we say goodbye to one another. 250 words or less. Sometimes, that is all it takes. These stories are works of fiction. Some are inspired by real events. [Main Page]

“Then what the fuck are we doing here, Christine?” Paul was at his wit’s end. He didn’t know how to express how frustrated he was with her. He instinctively opened and closed his fists while he yelled at her, but thought better of it to act in the moment. She looked at him with a puzzled expression. The mascara ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“Answer me,” he said. His tone was firm, but he had at least stopped clenching his fists.

“I don’t know,” she said. I need more time. She did her best to look at him in the eyes. He never hit her before. She was worried he’d do it now. After all, if she told him the truth, it would crush him. She could tell he was more embarrassed than angry. Some serious macho bullshit bravado was on full display in their cramped apartment bedroom.

“I don’t have time. All I have is work and the answers to questions you’ve left unanswered for three months now.” He pointed at her as he gaveled his words. The spit flew out of his mouth onto the sheets they received as a wedding gift just six months ago.

She couldn’t tell him that the love was gone a long time ago. How long she could not tell. Sometime between the wedding ceremony and opening their wedding gifts. She wondered how long returns were for thousand-count Egyptian cotton sheets. She still had the receipt tucked away.

There Was a Time When Memes Were Kind

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…and their words inviting.

Remember when memes used to be fun? It seems like so long ago now.

I can almost remember a time before a majority of those seen pushed personal and political agenda. They were mostly about the lighter side of life. They were hilarious. Sure, those memes still exist, but they are far outweighed by the poorly executed ones I see littering my Facebook feed nowadays. Of course, I can even remember a time when the only humor you got online was through Kazaa or Limewire, or the occasional funny video you had to download on College Humor’s website. Those were the days – when life was somewhat simpler and a 256mb flash drive cost you the same as a 1TB version today.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so harsh for wanting to share stuff like political memes. It’s in our nature. The benefit is that it’s easier than ever to point out the assholes. We are just a product of Facebook fanaticism. It was inevitable that the growing popularity of memes would interest with one of the world’s favorite new pastimes: surfing Facebook.  Shit. People don’t even surf the net anymore. You go on Amazon to get exactly what you want, and immediately go back to Facebook. Maybe you did both simultaneously.

I can’t say that I am not a part of it. I am obsessed with logging onto Facebook. Why? Because I am not going to pretend to be that person that can “rise above it” and admit that they do not enjoy going on. Its Internet voyeurism at its finest. It’s the best fucking kind. I mean, seriously. Going onto Facebook and checking up on everyone is like going to a porn theater, except this one allows you to spill your filth all over the booth for free. The only thing that is required is a login.

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We get it.
They are just a means to further personify one’s personal stance on an issue. The 2nd Amendment/Guns rights/vehemently pro military ones are the worst. I get it. I am very pro military too. I happen to have worked for the Navy, and currently work for a nonprofit supporting the Navy. If you are friended with somebody on Facebook, you certainly don’t need several hundred memes about your right to carry a gun to get the message across. We get it. Loud and clear.

Don’t even get me started on inspirational quotes. Instead of arguing over them, I decided to make my own:

MattEngMotivation5

Sometimes when I am having a particularly bad day and see some stupid bullshit posted on my feed as I am trying to relax, I have to keep myself from wanting to shove that video shared from Tasty down your goddamn throat. Have you ever actually tried that cooking tutorial or are you just sharing it? Jesus Christ.

I guess what I am trying to say is that I have unfollowed (but not defriended) more people in the last year than I have gained through Facebook. I won’t unfriend them – we all need friends, right?

Follow all of my motivations by Following me on Instagram.

Sloth – PART I

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Part of the Seven Deadly Sins Short Story Series. What is it?

This is the story of Cliff and Sarah.
The story format is Instructable.

Part I

How to Ruin Your Relationship

Hello instructable users! Are you in a stable relationship and are looking to royally fuck it up? Are you tired of people giving you “life hacks,” when they themselves can’t seem to put a pair of pants on alone?

Then look no further. Thanks to my asshole husband (soon to be ex-husband), I have a step by step process of how to ruin your relationship together. I’ll show you how somebody can go from an ambitious and upstart “man-of-the-century” to fat, alcoholic, degenerate who can’t pay his phone bell. For the sake of protecting his name for the next round of our lawyers and child custody, I will call my husband “Cliff.” Why? Because that’s what he fucking fell off of over the last six months.

My name is Sarah. This is my life instructable.

Materials:

  • A once-ambitious man/woman (for this scenario, we will use “Cliff”)
  • Real life people problems
  • A child
  • A high-powered job or profession
  • Home mortgage
  • Copious quantities of alcohol
  • A sizeable severance package


Step 1: Meet a Significant Other

800px-Under_the_veil

The first step is the most important of all! It might seem obvious, but I want to be as thorough as possible for this instructable. I think those are the ones that get the most votes, after all.

Anyways, it’s important for this process to find somebody and fall in love with them. You don’t necessarily have to get married to them, but it surely helps. That is what Cliff and I did a mere eight months after meeting each other in a coffee shop. More on that later. I thought we married for love. I never thought it was for “convenience.” That should have been my first warning sign. Unfortunately, that is an entirely different instructable.

As a side note to this first step, I want to tell you: Don’t have a favorite song. Just don’t. Don’t listen to it. Don’t dance to one at your wedding ceremony. It’s the first thing you’ll do as a married couple, but the last thing you will want to remember. Once it’s over, you will end up hearing it in your car in the days and months ahead (see the final step if you want to spoil it.) For your sake and your sanity, don’t have a favorite song. Our song was “God Only Knows” by The Beach Boys. Fucker.

Step 2: Make Lots of Money to Complicate Things

424px-Sweat_suit_is_not_equal_to_business_suit

Okay. So you have a new man or lady in your life. Things are going great. Every kiss was new. Every fuck was a new feeling and sensation you knew couldn’t get any better. You were right.

The honeymoon period has a way of putting a haze over your eyes to the realities of the situation at hand. Everything was going smoothly in our new marriage. At the time, Cliff was a hedge fund manager at a big fancy company in Washington, D.C. I was just a barista who handed him his venti latte every morning at 7:30am sharp. Every morning. Remember that.

Once we got married, I had the option to “take a break” and finish school. His salary allowed us to find a new place in the city. It was my dream home. I was literally living the dream. For a failed grad student working at a Starbucks, I felt like I was married to Prince Charming. He swept me off my feet in that first year. I had time to pursue cooking, go to school, and be there when Cliff got home from work. Part of me felt like a 1950s housewife, which I secretly resented.

Step 3: Have a Baby

24062012-Son_pied_entre_mes_doigts_(7438753628)

If you really want to screw things up, why not add a baby to the mix?

As a result of the fairytale, I got lazy about birth control and got pregnant when I didn’t want to. I was too busy being a homemaker and student, I guess. We were married and very happy on the surface, so we decided to stick with it. We converted my “study” to a nursery. Thankfully, the home we bought was big enough to incorporate our baby with room to spare.

To make a long step short, we had the baby. We will call her Jane for the sake of her privacy. It was only after the baby that everything really happened. Everything fell to shit. That’s when the drinking started. That was the beginning of the end. The fairy tale was over before it even began.

To be continued…

(all images courtesy wikimedia commons)

 

Trump Goes Cruzing for a Bruising

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People have been taking social media and the Internet way too seriously lately. On top of that, the political candidates of certain parties continue to bum me out. With all this sadness and political incorrectness going on today, how about having a little fun. I think we could all use a laugh…why not do it with political BDSM fan fiction?

trump

It was a night of political gridlock in South Carolina. Another city, another long and intense debate. The assembled masses of ardent supporters flocked to the auditorium to hear their candidates speak. Fingers pointed and mouths flapped the truths of a continued socialist nightmare looming in the distance horizon should any of their political counterparts win the election. Candidates blamed President Obama and his political stranglehold on the Republican party patriots. The air was thick with opinions and casual racism. It was an exhausting event. Nobody felt that more than Ted Cruz.

Ted Cruz was tired. After spending the majority of the evening sparring with his Republican foes on stage, all he wanted to do was go back to his dressing room and relax for fifteen minutes before his car came to take him to his hotel. The next day meant more stops on the campaign trail up north in New Hampshire. Cruz shook his head and thought how long the road was to election. More cities. More hands to grip and grin at. More. More. More. How could a face like his continue to smile with so much pain behind it. What he needed was a break. He needed a release. But how?

Cruz told his assistant Grace that he would be in his dressing room for an half hour or so before his ride came to get him. He did not want to be disturbed. His shoulders slunk as tiredness sank into his body like a cold Calgary winter. He just needed to close his eyes and relax. As he turned down the hallway of the auditorium’s backstage, he walked into the room marked “T. Cruz” and opened the door.

This WAS his dressing room, at least earlier in the evening. In fact, his bags and briefcase were still on the chair beside the back table. Everything else in the room was different. The most noticeable difference in the room was the presence of his foe, Donald Trump. Trump sat upright with back was turned to Senator Cruz. He was still wearing his suit from the debate. Well, most of it at least. He rotated around from the back table and grinned at his guest through his ivory white porcelain veneers.

“Oh, hello Ted,” Trump said. “It’s good to see you here. Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.” Trump began to sway his generous white hips back and forth. Frank Sinatra played low on a small set of Bose speakers nearby. Trump looked both calm and reserved. More importantly, he appeared to be in a mood largely foreign to Ted over the last few weeks: relaxed. Ted wanted to relax as well, but not with Trump around. That went double for him in his own dressing room.

“Make myself comfortable? Are you serious?” Cruz began to point his finger at Trump in the same manner he did on stage just minutes before. Little did Cruz know that it was one of Trump’s biggest triggers. “What are you doing in my dressing room?” Trump was the last thing Ted wanted to see this evening, especially after the way he was viciously attacked just minutes ago.” Or so he thought.

“Oh, right…about that. I decided to consolidate our rooms for the evening. I think after the things I said, we need to talk it out and see if we can find some common ground. Maybe we can explore more. Can I pour you a scotch?”

“No, I don’t want anything to drink, I want you to get the hell out of my room!” Cruz’s sad, pudding face curved down. His lips drew back from his teeth and he began to anger more inside. The sensation felt hot. He felt something else inside as the anger droned in and out of him. Something new weaved into the insanity of his hate quilt. It wasn’t his opposition to women’s rights or his support to overturn the Gay Marriage Amendment. It was something else, deeper even. Was it…love? acceptance? No, surely not. How silly. This wasn’t some schoolyard kids game. This was his room and he wanted Trump out.

But the kid gloves were off, and so was Donald Trump’s pants.

cruz“Shut the door, Ted,” he said. Trump proceeded to take his shirt off and add it to the small pile of clothes on the floor. His look was strong and determined.

“Absolutely not,” Cruz roared back. “I’m not going to stand for this in MY dressing room. If you want to change, you should go do it in your own room, Donald.”

Cruz’s voice began to tremble. His lip quivered as a small river of cold sweat began to trickle down his ample forehead. “I….I want you to leave Donald.” Trump merely looked back at him and shook his head from side to side.

Trump sauntered towards Cruz. He began to touch himself through his Armani boxers. “You like what you see, Ted?” His eyes were piercing. “That’s a big rod of New York steel pointed straight at you. I’d like to introduce you to Trump Tower.” Cruz jumped back. He was about to flee from the room before Trump ramped up again. Trump’s voice, louder now, seemed determined to keep Cruz there with him. Alone. “Just you wait, it’s gonna be HUUUGE.” At that moment, Ted realized this wasn’t a normal situation. This was special, and Trump had chosen him. On the dresser in the room, near the tanning cream and vat of children’s tears, was a giant bottle of petroleum jelly. But for what?

“You’re all talk,” Cruz Said, “and I completely meant what I said up there tonight.” Cruz did not shut the door, but turned his back to it and walked closer to Trump, who continued to touch himself. “I don’t even think you’re a true Republican. You come from a town that’s socially liberal, supports abortions, and is entirely focused on the media. You’re self obsessed. I  mean, look at you. Why the hell won’t you stop touching yourself. You are not displaying the values of a good candidate for this party. This must be how they do it in New York, because it is certainly NOT how we do it down in Texas or up in Canada. Does this get you off talking down to me like this, treating me like a piece of meat?”

“As a matter of fact, it does. I am dominant, and I need a good slave.” Despite the hesitation and confusion in his eyes, Cruz continued to listen. Trump pulled a ball gag, handcuffs, and blindfold out of a duffle bag next to the crumpled pile of expensive clothes. “Well, Texas,” Trump said, “I’m about to whip some New York values out of you.” I want you to put this blindfold on and ‘feel the burn,’ as they say.

Senator Cruz had enough. It was time for him to leave. He shook a disapproving head silently at Trump and headed back towards the door. As his sweaty palm gripped the door knob and turned it clockwise, he released his grip. Ted could not believe what he was doing. He lifted his cell phone up to his ear to call his assistant. Trump looked hesitant once again. His jowls turned up in disapproval. But there was  hope there, and not the kind that Obama continued to spout over the last eight years.

“Hi, Grace, it’s Senator Cruz. Yeah, I am going to need another half-hour before you guys take me to my hotel.” They continued to talk for a few more seconds. Cruz stared into Trump’s piercing eyes. “I guess something just came up.” He closed his phone and kneeled down on the ground towards Trump: his first act of submission.

“Alright, Ted,” Trump said with a wide smile across is artificially tanned face, “let’s make America great again.” Trump walked past him and shut the door.