Nom Chompsky wrote about one of his sexcapades here Spoiler Sex. Oh, sex. You messy whirlwind of fluids and odd noises. You dirty little tempest of oohs and aahs and ouch my hairs. You saucy maelstrom of pretty coos and dripping holes. I've had it, before. Oh yes. Upwards of six times, so I think I know of what I speak when I say that this time was particularly dirty. It started, as most such encounters do, with romance. I stopped on my way to her place and picked up some dinner and two 40's of the finest malt liquor I could find for under $5. I was off to a good start; buying cheap alcohol always makes my balls throb heavy with sperms. Over dinner and drinks, we danced the dance of seduction. Well, I drank. She wasn't much of a malt liquor fan, which was great for me, because it substantially increased the amount that I had to drink. Which was important, because she wasn't much to look at, or talk to, or be around. Or think about. After administering some of my best moves (slowly caressing her legs, taking off my pants, and whipping my penis back and forth so it made that fapfapfap sound across my thighs), she was putty in my hands. I don't mean that she was literally a clay woman of course. I just meant that I could mold and manipulate her like pottery. I'm not much good at pottery. And yet, I managed to get her naked and having sex. With me, no less. It was going well, in my mind. I was consistently driving in and out, in and out, and almost always in that order. Missionary style. Not just because she was on her back, but also because she was babbling about God to a black guy who was desperately trying to ignore her. I should do more charity work. Where was I? Oh, right. I'm at testes-depth in this lovely young lady, when I feel that familiar tickle. The one that tells me the dam is going to burst, and there's not much I can do but hang on for the ride. I grunt, squeal, giggle, then stand up. Proud of myself. A job well done. She also half stands, and we both happen to glance over to the bed. In the middle, right under where we rutted, lay a fresh piece of human excrement. You must imagine my surprise here: It is not every day that somebody evacuates their bowels whilst I sex them. In fact, it had been zero days in my life up to this point. While I am always one for new experiences, they usually involve some sort of food with "fusion" in the name, not somebody shitting themselves during sex. Embarrassed, she grabbed some toilet paper from the bathroom and cleaned it up. I think she would have been less embarrassed if she had shared some of the malt liquor with me, but what do I know? Ultimately, I didn't really feel comfortable cuddling in her bed after that, so I decided to go home. On my way home I bought some fried chicken. It was pretty good. The end. This got me thinking, he really could've just said I got drunk and fucked a girl till she shit the bed. Yet, his eloquent wording of the whole situation and my subsequent reading of said wording had my sides splitting with laughter. So here it is, the Focus. Go back and find one of your old posts, and re-word it a la Nom.
I like the cut of this poster's jib. I really do. Let me expand/shape things a little bit more: ALT FOCUS: Tell a story about your life, but make it sound as epic as possible. It can be about a fundamentally mundane event, or part of your fifteen minutes of fame - whatever. However, it has to be a riveting story.
The best story I have is about breaking my ankle, I've told it before, and it sounds epic because it is (I broke it boarding a Pirate ship off the coast of Somalia), but I don't think this is what we're looking for.
Alt. Focus: I woke up and thought I had died in the most metaphorical way possible. The oversized clock in my room ticked with a strange, anthropomorphic melody--a TOCK tick…TOCK tick--and this ambient heartbeat just stopped at 6:15 right when I had come out of a lighter stage of sleep. While I laid there contemplating the odd sensation I had briefly felt, I wondered, as if by some final stroke of morbid mortal curiosity, why there are never seats on bidets. It seems like there should be. I swung my feet out of bed and they struck a seam in the maple planks on the floor--spreading as weight was distributed so natural siping could grip and prevent a fall. A band was playing. Their sound heard as if through an underwater kazoo in a glass pressed to the side of my skull. Not music, though--more of a hammer-striking-anvil percussion that increased its intensity with every step around the unkempt bed. The refridgerator was miles away, and in its path such daunting obstacles as closed doors, furniture, and errant shoes stood to oppose me. Navigating the treacherous terrain, I found myself with but one hurdle remaining. As I hobbled around the long table, both sticky and wet with the previous night's beer, a weary, marker-streaked hand reached out from the abyss below and desperately grasped for my ankle. In no shape to exude shock or surprise at the meager attack on my person, I casually bent my head down. My neck yielded to the weight of my swollen and throbbing skull and my chin stabbed at my sternum as my gaze met that of a war-torn friend. Unable to lift his head off of the shoe that so delicately supported it, he exclaimed, "Warghbbbles." At that, he collapsed and his arm retracted to support the distinctly fetal shape his body had taken. Were it any other time, his unintelligible utterance would've been entirely misunderstood. But being in only moderately better shape than he, the language barrier had been bridged. In that condition, a man only relies on the bare essentials. Shelter was already afforded to him, food was not needed, so "water" was the only realistic request. With the handle in my shaky grasp, I tugged the refrigerator door ajar, enveloping the room in a golden light that only a small appliance light bulb can emit. From a distance, one could've easily mistaken it for Marsellus Wallace's briefcase. I slowly returned with his drink, which he carefully accepted and sipped at a pace which made me think he was concerned about what it might do to him. Granted, I was in no better shape. As I returned to my bed, the world shifted, the siping that had gripped so well failed, and balance could not compensate because it simply was not there. The water cascaded through the air in slow motion, beautifully tumbling and swirling directly at the soft brunette strands still motionless in the bed. In that moment, as the reality of the situation became incredibly clear to both me and her, a little part of me truly wished that I had died that morning.
The weather was a frozen maiden of angry iron fury that night, my friends. Although the weather channel said "-10 degrees Celsius with posibilty of mild squalls" she cut like the blade from the spear of Odin known as Gungnir. A spear that never misses and always kills. I stood tall in the 4" deep snow, a beautiful fresh blanket covered the ground like a Bounce cottony-fresh Klan hood. Of course, we were feeling the glow like the ever-embracing warm welcome of God after consuming what seemed to be about one billion of these drinks known to the natives as "Kamikazees" at an Exotic Dance Establishment Taking-Off-Of-The-Clothes Drinking Salloon known to these parts known as The Fabulous Forum. My good friend, who would step in front of a bus for me, get up and ask for seconds barked his command like a Parris Island D.I: "DROP-KICK THAT SIGN!!!" The sign stood before me, a powerul seven feet in height with the warm and inviting glow of a Coke machine. With a head of steam and might in my heart, I stormed like a mighty elk, leaped with the grace of Ricky "The Dragon" Streamboat and kicked with the force of a thousand Thor's hammers a sign that was lag-bolted into the sidewalk which I did not realize because the fresh snow disguised this evidence and did not buckle one goddamn millimetre turning my spine into a Warner Brothers-style accordion as a laid there moaning for ten minutes while my friends stood around me kicking snow on me while yelling "FAGGOT!!" in encouragement.
They were all dead. The final gunshot was an exclamation mark to everything that had led to this point. I released my finger from the trigger. And then it was over...