tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16850054476052371602024-02-20T09:04:50.812-05:00The Chimes at MidnightPoetry, late night musings, and the children of an idle brainBud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-41511200942434736572024-02-02T10:30:00.001-05:002024-02-02T10:30:41.322-05:00Debt<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He started, sensing
a presence behind him.<br /> “There aren’t
many people who can sneak up on me,” he reflected.<br /> “I didn’t,” the
form replied, quietly. “I’ve followed you for a long time; since your very beginning,
in fact. And, waited patiently.”<br /> “I was a good
man… once,” he whispered, as realization dawned. “After I was broken, it just became
too painful to care.”<br /> “Life is often
that way,” the figure offered. “But, I am not here to judge; only to collect
the debt each man must pay.”<br /> Examining his own
body on the ground, he nodded; then turned to follow.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-66031824997656280472024-01-22T04:30:00.001-05:002024-01-22T04:30:22.718-05:00The Inevitability of Things<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />Inspired by Christina Alvarado<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s always
there. Always following. Steadily gaining ground. Inexorably closing in.<br /> Too often, he’s
forgotten in the rush of life – until he visits someone close, and we’re
reminded of the inevitability of things.<br /> He arrives
without joy or malice. He makes no bargains for more time. He expects
acceptance, though he is never surprised when people attempt escape.<br /> I turn quickly, trying
to catch a glimpse. He is standing in the shadows. Not hiding – that’s not his
way. Moonlight glints off the blade of his scythe.<br /> “Memento mori,”
he whispers.<br /> I give a knowing
nod, and turn to walk on.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-77522778552798510232023-12-27T19:40:00.001-05:002023-12-27T19:40:27.976-05:00The Devil and the Darkness<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />For M.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michelle had a
boyfriend she loved. But – from time to time – she needed to see Brian. He
wasn’t a friend with benefits… not exactly. Brian was, she thought, the Devil. Somehow,
he knew her darkest desires. Often, she felt shame at the disgusting things he
made her do – acts she would never reveal to another living soul. Then, she’d
admit to herself that he never forced her to do anything, and that she enjoyed the
way he made her cum over and over. She’d feel the warm tingle between her legs
and pick up her phone to call him again.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-33732345710979204052023-12-25T16:20:00.001-05:002023-12-25T16:20:23.679-05:00Heaven and Hell<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />For Lindsay.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My boyfriend is
in the other room,” she rasped, as his right hand slipped under her skirt and
up between her legs.<br /> “Do you want me
to stop?” he whispered.<br /> The fingers of
his left hand entangled in her hair. He tugged, tilting her head back; exposing
her neck to his lips.<br /> “Tell me to
stop,” he mumbled, his mouth barely leaving her flesh, “and I will.”<br /> “You’re going to
send me to hell,” she objected; already fighting for breath.<br /> In the darkness,
his lips curved into a wicked grin.<br /> “Maybe,” he
allowed. “But, I’ll take you to heaven first.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-35401052441602558052023-12-19T15:05:00.001-05:002023-12-19T15:05:14.368-05:00Fuck Cancer!<p><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Santa;<br /><br /> I know it's a bit late in the game (it being less than a week before Christmas and all), but I'd like to change my wish list. I asked for a handful of things that are sort of silly. But, what I really want -- NEED -- is a cure for cancer.<br /><br /> Not for myself, of course. I don't have the medical need. And, I'd never be able to figure out all that medical/science-y stuff. (Damn it, Jim; I'm a sonneteer, not a doctor.)<br /><br /> But, if you could drop it off to someone at Sloan Kettering in New York City, I'd really appreciate it.<br /><br /> PS: This would square us for that whole never giving me a BB gun thing.<br /></span><br /></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-47882011296058114352023-11-07T20:55:00.001-05:002023-11-07T20:55:16.280-05:00Mute<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;">For Tahni<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Thoughts of you persist;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Impure desires o’erwhelm,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">yet I remain mute.</span></div><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-61863573790782167012023-10-26T21:50:00.011-04:002023-11-14T20:31:24.852-05:00Retreat<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />For "Her."<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His eyes were
drawn to her instantly. Like a firefly in the dark, she was a brilliant flash
in the gloom. Catching sight of him, she waved. Memories flooded his
brain: how he'd craved her like a drug; the indescribable pain of her leaving;
how he'd desperately clung to shreds of sanity while hoping she'd come
back, and how she did – more times than he'd admit – only to abandon him once he'd
surrendered again. In that moment, his heart realized – finally, reluctantly, accepting – loving her would always end that way. He managed a weary smile, then turned to walk
away.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-74943632525650439072023-10-02T21:10:00.001-04:002023-10-02T21:10:56.231-04:00'Twas the Night Before Shutdown<p class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times;"><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times;"><u>With apologies to
Clement Moore</u><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br />‘Twas
the night before shutdown,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">And
all through PIT land<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Every
creature was stirring,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">From
podium to TDC stand.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br />The
new hires were nestled close to their coaches<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">As
a winding queue full of passengers approached.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Laptops
were divested by DOs with care,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Along
with shoes, and CPAPs, and products for hair.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">X-ray
ops still kept a keen eye;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Detecting
those objects prohibited to fly.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">And,
bag checkers checked, as they are wont to do,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Ensuring
those gigantic masses are only food.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">AIT
officers begged people to empty their pockets<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Of
coins, candy, gum, papers, and lockets;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Then,
cleared inevitable groin alarms<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Using
a firm hashtag pattern, but causing no harm.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">The
Leads went mad, managing multiple lanes,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">While
half their team members moaned and complained<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">About
getting their breaks and lunches too early or too late;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">A
daily occurrence that’s beginning to grate.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br />Supes
ran forward and back, for numbers and IDs;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">And,
watched the organized chaos of their busy bees<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Striving
to keep the skies safe for democracy,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">So
that people and commerce can flow carefree.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Then,
down in Washington, arose such a clatter –<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">A
sad, sobering reminder that politics matter –<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Our
Representatives debated both to and fro<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">While
in the balance hung the TSA’s payroll.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">And,
in the mind of each employee essential,<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Crept
the lack of a budget, and the shutdown potential.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">They
fretted ‘bout food, gas, and mortgages or rent;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Worrying
over every single dollar and cent.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Though,
as they work, they’ll find comfort in knowing<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Congress
gets paid while their anxiety’s growing;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Concerned
about utilities and college tuition;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Left,
by politicians, in compromising positions.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">They
are the red-headed step-children; considered exempt;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">By
the General Schedule held below contempt.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">But,
they show up and do their job day after day;<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">Even
sometimes… occasionally… far too oft’… without pay.<br /><br /><br /></span></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-82213552810861279542023-06-07T15:50:00.001-04:002023-06-07T15:50:31.883-04:00I am the Very Model of a Modern Model Officer<p align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">I am the Very Model of a Modern Model Officer</span><br /></u>(Sung to the tune
of Gilbert and Sullivan’s <i>I am the Very
Model of a Modern Major-General</i>.)<br />By Bud Koenemund<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I am the very model of a modern Model Officer;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Each day I deal with passengers both fanciful and
comical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I know the checkpoint positions, and work through them
rotational;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">From the floor, up to baggage, out on Atlas; I can do
it all.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />I know the SOP backwards and forwards unequivocal;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I quote the book so often some will surely call me
know-it-all;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I follow every rule, even ones seeming antithetical,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Obliged to satisfy all my leaders organizational.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />I endeavor to keep my TIP score greatly astronomical,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">While keeping watch for explosives both man-made and
organical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I advise people to divest large objects electronical,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">And, when their laptops are discovered they are held responsible.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />At AIT, I operate the scanner most methodical,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">To complete screening of folks who rarely step in a
shower stall;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">My actions keep the country safe from forces diabolical,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">As I pat down groins to find things not strictly
anatomical.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />I deliberate on amounts of liquids, gels, and aerosols.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Without remorse, I dispose of bottles containing
alcohol;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I toss away peanut butter according to our protocol;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">And, seize all weapons ranging from pocket knives up
to cannonballs.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />I screen dogs, and cats, and fish, and every kind of
animal;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I stumble upon Coke, and Meth, and other drugs
botanical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">While avoiding Personal Pleasure Devices mechanical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Striving to make our bag searches invasively minimal.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />I beg for OLC time, and computers operational,<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Completing, and repeating, courses which fade quickly
from recall;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">And attend Training Department classes battling
caffeine withdrawal;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">While learning ways to counter every threat
geographical.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />I attempt to maintain sanity with comments
sarcastical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Questioning passenger’s excuses and stories
fantastical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">Maneuvering precisely around people packed-in
wall-to-wall;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">And, every day I ask myself why do I put up with it
all?<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"><br />In truth, my time here has been nothing short of
tragi-comical;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I’ve witnessed displays of stupidity that are
phenomenal;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I’ll take my pay from TSA until I hit the Powerball;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;">I am the very model of a modern Model Officer.<br /><br /><br /><br /></span></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-86660749995834330062023-04-29T21:20:00.001-04:002023-04-29T21:20:29.824-04:00Salvation<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />Inspired by J.S.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He found
something almost religious in making a woman cum; something beyond her calling
out to a deity who may or may not exist; beyond the sound of her breathing; the
taste of her; the smell of her; the feel of her body. It was the look on her
face as an orgasm consumed her – the purity; the erotic symmetry of pleasure
and pain twisting her features – that promised salvation.<br /> Worshiping at her
altar – knelt between her legs; his prayers kisses along inner thighs; fingers
and tongue eliciting hymns of praise; bodies entangled – their holy spirits
discovered ecstasy transcending flesh.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-61540038807139015702023-04-23T15:15:00.001-04:002023-04-23T15:15:23.449-04:00Confessions<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every eye in the
hall turned to seek the source of the explosion of laughter filling the air.
Their attention focused on the most beautiful woman in the room – suddenly the
most beautiful woman in the world – clinging tightly to his right arm. Her
smile, and the slowly fading giggles she struggled to control, ignited a fire
in his soul, and proved that she was the right one for him.<br /> Just moments
before, she’d leaned close and whispered, “I’m not wearing panties tonight.”<br /> He’d carefully
considered this confession for a second, gazed into her eyes, and said,
“Neither am I.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-35654087584888587652023-04-22T15:40:00.001-04:002023-04-22T15:40:27.591-04:00Busted<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 200 Word Story<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The two agents sat
side by side in a pair of dark leather chairs. The Director of the Office of
Professional Responsibility frowned as he stared at them from behind an
impressive, hand-carved, mahogany desk. Half a dozen Bureau lawyers, and the
agents’ union representatives, filled the rest of the room.<br /> “Normally, we
don’t care if co-workers conduct a consensual relationship; as long as it
doesn’t become a detriment to job performance,” the Director said. “Though, we
do try to discourage partners from dating.”<br /> “Sir,” one of the
union reps began. “We recognize this situation…”<br /> “But,” the
Director continued, cutting off his response, “this will, in all probability,
result in a lawsuit for cruel and unusual punishment.”<br /> The lawyers
nodded in an almost comical unison.<br /> “While we do
acknowledge… an unfortunate equipment mix up… due to the agents being called into
service after their office received a tip in the middle of the night,” another union
rep offered, waving his hand toward the two, “these agents did manage to apprehend
one of our ’10 Most Wanted’ fugitives.”<br /> “And, they
brought him in,” the Director exploded, “wearing fuzzy pink handcuffs!”<br /> Agents, union
reps, and lawyers fought to muffle their laughter.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-32134994534775743972023-04-18T17:15:00.001-04:002023-04-18T17:15:23.903-04:00Love<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Exposition<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Love begins as the
most perfect, pure thing in the whole world. Maybe in the entire universe. But,
loving someone – even purely – is imperfect. Being loved by someone is
imperfect. Doubt creeps in, weaving through every thought and action; playing
tricks on the mind. Its shadow gathers – unnoticed, at first – ‘til trust and
affection are obscured in darkness; strangled in a shroud of gloom.<br /> Once tarnished – its
purity sullied – that perfection is lost forever. And, while love may be
discovered again – may be tried and treasured – the heart knows its flaws. Still,
despite contamination, our hearts long for love again.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-88514479702834498592023-04-17T21:30:00.001-04:002023-04-17T21:30:14.802-04:00Two Haiku<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">How Long?<br /><br /></span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">How long does it take<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">to identify a face<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">you know like your own?<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /><br /></span><u><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Forever<br /><br /></span></u><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Someone tell my heart<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Forever is a long time.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It won’t heed my brain.</span></p><br /><br /></div><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-3865155170016187412023-03-31T12:45:00.001-04:002023-03-31T12:45:22.591-04:00Erased<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Vows are only words;<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">powerless ‘gainst desire:<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">erased by passion.</span></p><br /><br /></div><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-28281596001769317902023-03-19T20:40:00.001-04:002023-03-19T20:40:27.668-04:00Revelation<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"> He slouched on a park bench as heavy flakes
of snow fell. Forcing his eyes open, he tried to watch them descend through the
muted, yellow illumination of gaslights lining the walkway before him. The agony
in his chest, however, made it difficult to focus on anything beyond taking the
next breath.<br /> Blood trickled over his stomach in thin
rivulets, soaking his shirt and pants. It dripped to the concrete below and
quickly froze. Hearing movement behind him, he tried to turn, but a lightning
bolt of pain ripped through his upper body.<br /> “Is that you, Yuri?” he asked the darkness.<br /> “Da,” a voice answered.<br /> “I figured it out,” he said. “Just too late.”<br /> “Always trust your gut,” Yuri said. “This is what
you Americans say, is it not?”<br /> “I’ll remember that next time,” he said, with
a laugh that devolved into a choking cough.<br /> “For you, my friend, I fear there will be no
next time,” Yuri replied, taking a seat on the bench opposite his.<br /> He nodded, but remained silent for nearly a
minute.<br /> “How did you find me?” he asked, finally.<br /> “This is your favorite place,” Yuri answered.<br /> His head lifted drunkenly.<br /> “How do you know that?” he asked.<br /> “Matthew,” Yuri clucked, “give me some credit,
please.”<br /> He drooped at the sound of his real name.<br /> “We’ve learned much about you over the
years,” Yuri assured him.<br /> Yuri stood and slowly approached him.<br /> “Perhaps it is fitting our little game ends
here,” Yuri said, removing a pistol from his coat.<br /> Matt thought of the girl he’d kissed, right
here on this bench – the first real kiss for both of them. Her face
materialized in his mind: her curly red hair; striking blue eyes. He’d loved
her, and told her so. She’d requited the sentiment. It was love before either
truly knew what love is.<br /> “Goodbye…” Yuri began.<br /> Matt didn’t hear the shot. But, the thud of a
large caliber bullet striking a human body, and the sickening sound of the air
being forced out of Yuri’s lungs, was unmistakable. For a moment, a confused
look twisted Yuri’s face. He staggered backward, his arms went limp, and he
crumpled to the ground.<br /> “Goodbye, Yuri,” Matt wheezed.<br /> “You are a fool,” a female voice said.<br /> “I’ve never been accused of being very
smart,” he said.<br /> “Letting him shoot you, though?” she mused.<br /> “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the
time,” he joked.<br /> The woman stepped out of the shadows.<br /> “Hello, Lyla,” Matt groaned.<br /> “You Americans…” she said, “always so
foolishly heroic.”<br /> “That’s us,” he agreed.<br /> “Hmmm… at least you helped us uncover the
traitor,” she admitted.<br /> “You’re welcome,” he said.<br /> “You should get to the hospital before you
bleed out,” Lyla advised.<br /> Three men joined them in the light. Without a
word, they retrieved Yuri’s gun; then lifted his body and carried it away. Lyla
followed them into the gloom.<br /> “Oh, no; don’t worry,” Matt called out; struggling
to stand. “I can make it on my own.”</p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-76708097745183487722023-02-26T16:15:00.001-05:002023-02-26T16:15:41.234-05:00A Sunday DM<span style="font-family: times;"><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br /></span><div class="userEdit"><span style="font-family: times;"> Oh, boy! What a message (received on my Tumblr page: "What Are You Really Afraid Of?") to awaken to on a Sunday morning (well, OK, a Sunday early afternoon).<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> As I read through this mess -- three times -- I was torn between simply ignoring it or wasting my time answering it. I decided I'd have to at least make an attempt.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;">-----------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /></span><i><span style="font-family: times; font-variant-caps: inherit; font-variant-ligatures: inherit; font-weight: inherit; white-space: pre-line;">hairyforceone
</span><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;"> </span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space: pre-line;">What? Well there are some things. The imbalance of sexualities causing millions of people physically impossible of finding a relationship. These are mostly men. I know that you hate men and you would rather see them dying out than have any empathy for them. (Because you are cruel beings)</span><br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space: pre-line;">
There are no women left for men. There are too many lesbians who take up all the women leaving nothing behind for heterosexual men.
</span></span>
<span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space: pre-line;">
You transform the growing up generations into being more lesbian. Women seem to be more susceptible for these actions than men. This causes the imbalance. A lesbian couple means two men doomed to loneliness. And there are a shitload of lesbians.
</span></span><br /> <span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space: pre-line;">Now please educate me about how someone’s sexual identity cannot be changed by linking the RESEARCH where they identified WHAT gene or anything is what determines sexuality. Thank you.
</span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space: pre-line;">
So the rising number of lesbians among women could be a result of a more open society OR the successful propaganda your kind have made.
</span></span><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;">
Luckily we have the opportunity to ask older women about their feelings whether or not now that they have the same freedom of choice as their younger counterparts if they want to live their inner lesbian feelings and leave their husbands or not.
</span></i><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;"><i>
They were not under gender and sexual propaganda when they were young so asking them would clearly resolve the issue of today’s rising lesbian numbers regarding the loudness of the lgbtqabcdefg+-/# propaganda. The last question remains, why do you want to change the world? Why do you want to cause harm to millions of heterosexual men by making millions of women incompatible with them? Why? Really why? I want to know why are you so heartless for ignoring literally half of humanity’s problems? What is the benefit of doing this?</i>
</span><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;">
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
</span>
<span style="font-family: times;"><span style="white-space: pre-line;">Well, HairyForceOne; let's set the record straight: I don't hate men. I am a man. I am, in fact, a Straight man -- a fact I've never hidden on this blog. I'm Straight, but not narrow. As I'm sure I've made clear on this blog, I believe everyone should be who they are, and -- within age and consensual limits -- love who they love.
</span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> My "propaganda" is education. It's knowledge and understanding gained during my years on this planet. My "kind," as you refer to me, accepts people who are different. I don't hate people simply because they love differently, or pray differently, or look different, or even if they root for the Yankees. (OK, maybe the Yankee thing is an exception.)<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> You sound as if you believe women owe you sex: "</span><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;">There are no women left for men." "There are too many lesbians who take up all the women leaving nothing behind for heterosexual men." "A lesbian couple means two men doomed to loneliness." </span><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;">"</span><span style="font-family: times; white-space: pre-line;">Why do you want to cause harm to millions of heterosexual men by making millions of women incompatible with them?" "I want to know why are you so heartless for ignoring literally half of humanity’s problems?"
</span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> Let me be very clear here: WOMEN DON'T OWE YOU SHIT! They are not responsible for making sure you're not "doomed to loneliness." And, I'm pretty sure that your inability to get laid does not constitute "half of humanity's problems."<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> This might be news to you, but women are real, live, actual people. They have their own thoughts, and beliefs, and dreams, and goals. They are not required to be at your beck and call, and serve your every whim.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> There aren't more lesbians today than in older generations. They, along with others in the LGBTQ+ community, simply have more freedom to express who they are. Today, they are more accepted for who they are -- unlike in the past when people would be arrested and jailed for going to a gay bar; or for having consensual sex with someone of the same sex.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> No one is transforming women into lesbians. They are who they are. Maybe they know it early in life; maybe it takes years to realize it; maybe they never realize/accept it. But, it's their life.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> Educate you? No. I know your type. I could attach a dozen links researching what determines sexuality, but you'd ignore every one. You'd dismiss my research because it would prove you wrong. Educate yourself, Hairy. There are plenty of search engines you can use. I'd recommend searching for reputable sites, with peer-reviewed data. But, I suspect -- if you do any research -- you'll only believe sites which confirm your own beliefs.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> Why do I want to change the world? Because I believe it can be changed! Because things can be better. Because we can be better. Too many people walk around hating others because of issues they have in their own mind. You can't get laid; so, obviously, that's the fault of lesbians. But it's not. It's your fault. Let me say that again, because it's important. IT'S. YOUR. FAULT! Look in the mirror. Your message screams "Women owe men sex." News flash, pal; they don't.<br /></span><span style="font-family: times;"><br /> Perhaps, instead of complaining about lesbians, you should improve yourself. Try becoming a person someone would want to have a relationship with.<br /><br /><br /></span></div>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-43359801038567847772023-02-14T20:10:00.001-05:002023-02-14T20:10:38.228-05:00Semicolon<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mouth moved
along his collarbone; planting gentle kisses as she went. Sliding over his
shoulder, she spied a tattoo. Even in the dim light, she recognized the symbol.<br /> “What’s this?”
she asked, quietly.<br /> He turned his
head to see what she meant.<br /> “It’s a semicolon,”
he answered.<br /> “I know that,”
she said, her fingertips brushing over the ink. “But, why?”<br /> “It’s a punctuation
mark used to carry on when you could’ve just ended things,” he explained. “And,
some people use it to remember.”<br /> “Remember what?”
she prodded, then realized. “Did you…”<br /> “I carried on,”
he whispered, pulling her closer.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-53617613057036326982023-02-07T19:45:00.001-05:002023-02-07T19:45:49.811-05:00Mutual Assured Destruction<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />For B.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They keep their
distance. As if by some unspoken mutual agreement, maintaining a safe
separation; knowing they are two chemicals that when combined would react
violently; building heat until annihilation. They trade surreptitious glances;
looking away, not to appear reluctant, but fearing others might recognize the
burning desire in their gaze; leading to a worse – more public – destruction.
They lust in painful silence – vainly struggling against the concupiscent
gravity pulling them together; hungry to touch, to taste, to envelope each
other fully; wanting only to surrender to their forbidden passion; even if the
price of that fantasy would prove cataclysmic.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-77416575430140309742023-01-17T20:00:00.001-05:002023-01-17T20:00:24.766-05:00Pale Moonlight Memory<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />For M.<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We know each
other, now, only “on-line;” trading “Likes;” sharing memes, and the occasional
message to say “hi.” But, when she posted a tweet joking about her pale skin,
my memory took me back more than 25 years; to a tiny kitchen filled with bright
moonlight; her naked body luminescent in the beams flooding through the window:
glowing like some ethereal being caught, if only briefly, in an unworthy mortal’s
sight. I recall the warmth of her flesh – an almost incandescent heat – when we
touched, and the regret of a moment that can never be recaptured… except in my
mind.<o:p></o:p></p><br /><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-15018938707063561012022-12-31T20:00:00.001-05:002022-12-31T20:00:33.504-05:00White Claw Lies (a song)<p><b>Lyrics by Bud Koenemund<br />Music (to be determined)</b><br /><br />For Jenna<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing">I can’t help but answer when she calls.<br />I know what she wants, but I can’t resist;<br />she begs, and pleads to come over,<br />and my ever hopeful heart will insist.<br />I’ll enjoy the trace of watermelon<br />still lingering on her soft lips,<br />and the intoxicating way that demon<br />drink makes her swing those hips.<br /><br />[Chorus] Her coming here throws gas on embers that never
burned out;<br /> But,
I can’t blame her. We both know it’s my flaw;<br /> Re-igniting flames that’ll only warm
one of us.<br /> No,
it ain’t the whiskey I’m singing about;<br /> it’s
not beer, gin, or even that damned tequila;<br /> it’s
her White Claw lies that’ll leave me a mess.<br /><br />I don’t know how many she’s had, but<br />she’ll be mine again, for a little while.<br />I oughta say no; be strong and save myself,<br />but my strength fades every time I see that smile.<br />There’s no doubt it’s a mistake to let her in.<br />But, her arms wrap around me as she floats through the
door,<br />and, in an instant, I’m all hers again<br />before her pretty sundress even hits the floor.<br /><br />[Chorus]<br /><br />She’ll fulfill the promises she made on the street;<br />driving me wild, and messin’ up my sheets.<br />But, momentary happiness only leads to sorrow<br />when, it’s no surprise, she’s gone tomorrow.<br />She’ll slip away before the sun comes up;<br />leaving me all alone, and beggin’,<br />knowing I shouldn’t have believed her,<br />after those White Claw lies fooled me again.<br /><br />[Chorus]<br /><br />I can’t help but answer when she calls…</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-6476496618515774822022-12-31T17:10:00.001-05:002022-12-31T17:10:35.528-05:00I Know Your Fantasies<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 200 Word Story<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I want to be
loved and respected,” she said.<br /> “You deserve that,”
he replied. “Someone who will make sure you’ve eaten, and that you get enough
sleep; who sends you ‘good morning, beautiful’ texts, and tells you to be
careful when you leave the house.”<br /> She stared at
him.<br /> “But,” he
continued, “I’ve seen your social media accounts. I’ve seen the stuff you
‘Like’ and re-blog, and I know what you really want. I know your fantasies.”<br /> “I…” she began.<br /> “You want to be
dominated,” he interrupted. “You want to be controlled; tied up; handcuffed;
gagged; used; slapped; spanked, and called names.”<br /> “Oh, my God,” she
moaned, quietly.<br /> “You want someone
to pull your hair, and wrap their hand around that pretty neck of yours,” he
growled, not pausing. “And, you want to be fucked hard until you can’t even
think.”<br /> Her gaze fell to
the floor and she blushed.<br /> “Look at me,” he
commanded.<br /> Hesitantly, she
complied.<br /> “And, after all
that,” he said, “you want to be cared for, and cuddled to sleep.”<br /> His fingers slid
between her legs; brushing her inner thighs.<br /> “If you want me
to stop, say so,” he whispered. “Otherwise, you’re my little whore now.”</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-23294301648115588872022-12-23T17:35:00.001-05:002022-12-23T17:35:35.234-05:00Santa<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;">For Lindsay<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Crawl onto my lap.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Whisper your naughty wishes.<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">We’ll make each come true.</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-51642537388077521502022-11-16T13:30:00.001-05:002022-11-16T13:30:39.707-05:00Fever Dream Redux<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br />A 100 Word Story<br /><br />For Lindsay<br /></p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>JFK to Paris is a
long flight. He’d picked these seats purposefully: last row; a red-eye. Once
the plane leveled off, she requested a blanket. After covering them both, she
smiled as he nodded.<br /> His fingers
slipped between her legs, tracing along her inner thigh; then pressing against
her clit through the wet-look pleather leggings she’d worn because she likes
how he stares at her when she does. Her mouth fell open in a gasp.<br /> He enjoyed
knowing she’d struggle to remain silent as he made her cum several times. Then
she’d sleep well for the rest of the flight.</p><p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p></o:p></p><p></p><p><br /></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1685005447605237160.post-90589844658187459372022-11-15T17:35:00.001-05:002022-11-15T17:35:17.711-05:00Fever Dream<p><b>By Bud Koenemund</b><br /><br /></p><div style="text-align: center;">For Lindsay</div><div style="text-align: center;"><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;">Joining the club:<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">a mile high; watching you<br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">squirm in ecstasy.</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"></span><p></p></div><p></p>Bud Koenemundhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17620509651678997048noreply@blogger.com0