Sunday, July 15, 2018

Saturday, July 14, 2018

New book arrives

Here is Jennifer S. Chesler, with her new book of poems by me. The book is on sale here and due on Amazon etc. soon. Jennifer says that it redeems living in Anderson, Indiana.

Here it is on Google books too.

More importantly, here is Fragments by Jennifer herself at Amazon.

Monday, July 9, 2018

Incest & Piss

Jennifer S. Chesler & I wrote these, because we are such awesome people.

Little Jennifer's Perverse Preferences

In all honesty, little Jennifer admitted to herself that she enjoyed vanilla incest. She loved it when Daddy rolled his gross body over hers in bed, grunting and farting, and drove his stiff rod straight up into her tight little pie. She wished he weighed much more, since it felt so good when he pinned her down, smothering her and mumbling that she would always be sleeping here now, she could forget both Mommy and Tammy: they were no longer welcome in Daddy's big bed. His sweat would mingle with hers as she whimpered in ecstasy. "I don't care about mommy", she said, "I want you in me, Daddy."

I don't know what vanilla incest is, but Daddy says it's the opposite of what comes out of our bottoms. I think that's kind of gross and not at all like chocolate, because it's poopy. But if Daddy says I like vanilla incest, I want to know what kind of bug tastes like vanilla. He says he doesn't mean insect, but he doesn't tell me what he really means. He just takes his big willy, puts it between my legs, and squirts some kind of jelly in me and sticks himself up me. Lately he has been doing the insect thing every night. He is so heavy I can't breathe but this makes him get more excited so that he sticks his tongue in my ear.  He says I prefer when he gets on top and lies flat but his breath is so bad I have to turn my head to the side and think about flowers.

Jennifer is growing older and sometimes dreams of freedom, but she forgets to mention her whimpering groans, she forgets to mention the prison she cherishes, weighted down by Daddy's brutal flesh and impaled on his length. She dreams that Daddy will eat so much that he weighs four hundred pounds so she can sleep under his pendulous tits, and call him Nan. He would dress like whores did, centuries ago, in a nasty ancient tunic with a rosette trim at the top, and there would be more orgasms, more torture.

Nocturnal Showers

Daddy, I'm cold again.

Oh my god, little Jennifer, you're blue!

What's wrong with me, Daddy?

Quick, let me stick it in you. I like it chilled and I'll lie flat on you so you get warmed up. The pee in my willy comes out very warm too, and I can pee some over you if you're very good.

Really, Daddy, will you do that for me? Is that a golden shower? Are you going to make me pay?

Oh, little Jennifer, my golden showers are always free to my daughter. You're such a good little girl.

But Daddy, why am I blue?

Let's not worry about that right now. Take your nightgown off.

But I'm cold and blue.

I'll make you warm. Be a good girl now.

Sunday, July 8, 2018

Latest solo on Google Books

Here is Poems for Jennifer III on Google Books. It's not on Amazon yet but I already approved my proof, so it's coming soonish.

Meanwhile, it's here at Lulu.

Not Being Dead Yet

Here's a new piece from our next & third volume of The Philosophy of Extremism, Fisting Fiesta.Until then, gentle reader, you are free to purchase the first two volumes of TPoE, Fragments, the masterpiece first novel by Jennifer S. Chesler, as well as various tomes of poems about her by scumbag scrivener McLean. They can be found at this link. Fragments is also available here at Amazon.

Not being dead yet

Chesler and I would assume the forms of flapping skin, night a pizza and Tammy, the sound of Daddy running his fingers over little Jennifer's skin sleeping as she squirmed waking up and asking who mommy was and why she was dead forever and Jennifer sleeping every night in her bed.

"Daddy, she asked me, why is it big and swollen and makes my tummy slosh around inside me like it was sad?"

She would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer that it was because she would never be old enough to understand the obvious answer.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

Poems for Jennifer III

I am very happy to announce the availability of a third book about my wife, Jennifer S. Chesler. They are on sale here from Nickel Hole Press. 

There are various influences. Mostly Lyotard & Deleuze, as usual, with the somewhat obvious Sacher-Masoch chosen for this special occasion. 

Here is the first book by the way, Poems for Jennifer, & here is the second one, Poems for Jennifer II, both at Amazon

This book is for my beloved Jennifer, & to the memory of her Rexie. 

Saturday, June 23, 2018

The Incredible Hulk

Not one but two collaborative pieces, by me & Jennifer S. Chesler. These are new & from The Philosophy of Extremism III. For now we have The Philosophy of Extremism & The Natural History of the Cockwomble: The Philosophy of Extremism II on sale at the links.

The Incredible Hulk 

I am a relative of the Incredible Hulk. No, I am not green, but my clothes rip when I flex my mighty muscles over David in bed. I bend my arms at the elbows and touch my fists together, Grrr, I say. I can see the fear in David's eyes, sometimes he even cowers. My rippling muscles glisten like they are oiled. My sebum production is unparalleled. Studies have been done on my skin's oil production because of how I shine.

Being a relative of the Hulk has its benefits. If I am angry when I get out of the shower, there is no need for moisturizer. David wants to write something, but I am not letting him, because I am a relative of the Hulk, and my skin is glistening as my muscles ripple through my clothes and tear them at the seams. Grrr, I say, David can't help it; he's scared. I see the look of panic come across his canine features. I want to rip him to shreds, but my human part stops me. I become like Bill Bixby; maybe I should give him a hug.

Fear and Loathing in Anderson, IN 

Today Jennifer decided to play dominant, since I took a leaf out of Masoch's book and sort of told her to be cruel to me. She pinned me down, with her massive BMI of a whole 20, and spit me right in the face, also over my hands, chest and head. She produces prodigious amounts of drool. She twisted my nipples, enough to cause some considerable discomfort, and slapped my face, cheeks and jaw, as hard as she could. She then decided to kiss me, and, as she did so, projected a copious wad of drool/snot into my throat. Oddly enough, the whole procedure produced a tremendous engorging of the beast, which led to her grinning salaciously and flipping over onto her back to apply the tremendous and most economical Isabel Fay Natural Water Based Lubricant. "I pity the fool", she said, "that uses Astroglide." She is evidently unaware that the Hulk and Mr. T are not the same large person.

The fear on his face, cringing as I raised my hand to slap his cheek, was palpable. I knew he would rebel against me and use his paltry strength against my Hulk bulk. The turning of his head to avoid the slap made it impossible to get an accurate hit, so I gathered enough saliva in my mouth to shoot down his throat when i pretended i was going to kiss him. "Ha ha ha," I laughed; I could tell he liked it. I used the massive strength in my quadriceps to pin him down while i held his face in place to exert more Hulk strength as I got a good slap in, only barely getting his jaw. "Grrr," I said. Boy, was he scared. Some of my natural body oil dripped onto his nipples. I took my fingertips and squeezed as hard as I could, it looked like milk came out but I may have been imagining this, because i was thinking about my mother.

Jennifer is a good girl, very imaginative, and maintained the Hulk fantasy even though I put one hand between her legs, lifted her straight up by her pussy, and flipped her over on her back, squirming like a beetle transfixed by a pin as I drove my stiff rod deep into her. It hurts right out into her ovaries, she claims. She resolutely refuses to follow any normal scripts, and cursed and groaned as she was savagely nailed to the mattress. I tried to explain to her that fucking her was totally unlike any pleasure I had ever felt, but this digression seemed to enrage the cat, who is a stickler for correct procedure. He left the bed that he had pulled up to a good vantage point to view the show, and disconsolately batted a toy around. I finished by a minute or so of bellowing and cruel and unusual banging, and she moaned most gratifyingly. She is the best daughter that a man could wish for.

Friday, June 22, 2018

New work by Jennifer S. Chesler

There are a couple of new posts on the blog of my wife, Jennifer S. Chesler. Here is Birth of a Portrait, & here is Little Jack.

These pieces are both drawn from Fragments, her book linked here from Nickle Hole Press. This is also available at this link from Amazon.

The book can also be seen in part via Google Books.

I have written three different posts about various aspects of the book further back in this blog.

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Of Teratology

Jennifer S. Chesler writes of people in a manner reminiscent of the discussion of the "New Philosophers" in Deleuze. So do I, McLean. Everything becomes teratology. The human is no longer the rational animal, but the defective monster.

This extends from Tiny Tom with his micropenis to the "porn star" Michael, with a dick half the size of mine. The same applies to the religious and arrogant psychiatrist, Dr. Bunghole, as he is so appositely called. He sees himself as intelligent, but is in the 97th percentile. He is thus the opposite of an intellectual, a monster who pretends to an interest in literature, mediated via the vulgar phenomenon of the "book club". It is a moron that pretends to a life devoted to Christian charity, revealing itself in a fascist policy of turning his uneducated clients into drugged and bovine zombies.

In the earlier pieces by Chesler in her novel Fragments, teratology enumerates a series of freaks. From the inarticulate morons who inhabit "Rick's Gold Room" to the character "Little Jack", a primal non-human emblem of male homosexual desire, none of the characters but the narrator are fully human. The character with the micropenis, Tom, is also seen in these earlier pieces as a psychological freak possessed by his narcissism, in addition to his physical handicap and ensuing inability to satisfy any woman sexually. Here is Fragments at Lulu.

The similarity between the earlier procedure utilized by Chesler and my/our present procedure is that we react to the defective, the inadequate, not to condemn the marginalized, but to condemn those who affect to be what they are not.  Porn stars, in one case, men on any level in the first case, or people who display Christian charity and service in the latter. They are scumbags, and that which makes them monsters is the most egregious bad faith.  They seek an identity that is not theirs: they seek to be that which they are not in order not to scream in the dark night.

"Daddy Wins a Contest"

Daddy wins a contest, and a limousine comes to get us from our house to take us to the father/daughter ball. He says he wrote an essay about what a good little girl I am. I can read real books, so I find what he wrote in his big trouser pocket. It is all about how he peed in my mouth after he stuck me with his hard stick.

I say, “Daddy, what kind of contest did you enter this in?”

I don’t understand how letting him do what comes naturally to us would win us a ride in a fancy car, much less get an invite to a ball.

He says, “Oh, little Jennifer, it’s a special ball for piss fuckers.”

“Oh,” I say. “Is piss fucking what we did last night, Daddy?”

“No,” he says, “take off your panties and sit on my lap.”

I say, “Okay, Daddy.”

He lifts me up and puts me on his stiff willy. It hurts.

“Daddy, please, no,” I say.

He slaps my bottom and spits on me, moving his hips up and down so he goes deeper and deeper into my tiny cunt hole. Then I feel him squirt a lot of stuff up into me and hear him groan. He lifts me up. His pee runs out of my special spot. I feel all tingly.

He says, “The ball is for that sort of sex.”

By this time the little whore has me monstrously hard, pretending the sofa where I am pinning her down is a limousine, and my shit-stained jockeys are a suit. I slap her face with my right hand and twist the right nipple a quadruple twist with my left. I can see the yeasty juice run out of her cunt. I want to taste it but she starts running, although the lurch betrays her.  Grabbing her ponytail I drag her to the sofa, bend her over it whimpering, and drive my swollen powerful cock straight up into her ass without lube. She twitches as I rub away the brown stain round her asshole, it makes me harder instead of turning me off.

“You’re so dirty, slut,” Daddy says.

By this time one writer is hard and forces Chesler’s lips down over the swollen head of his cock. Chesler is ashamed to admit to herself how excited and wet she is as the stiff rod runs down her gagging throat. She’s not the big girl she thinks she is.

She barely has time to start with the “Oh, Daddy, you’re such etc,” in order to make me come faster, before I stick my dick up her ass for real and piss the rest of the suppository out of her.  (The suppository sex is very much for real.)