The Lechery Thread
- Thread starter rosco rathbone
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bridgeburner
threadkiller
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I don't think the terms are interchangeable. One can easily be a lecher without disregarding rules. Being bound by rules that stand in the way of one's desires might even enhance the degree of one's lechery --- Aqualung for instance is a lecher but not a libertine.
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rosco rathbone
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One of the reasons that I will never leave this city is that I am addicted to the painful, angstful shocks of lechery which may strike at any time as I make my daily rounds. I seemed to be conditioned for them like a laboratory monkey. Prolonged abuse in the form of city living, leering and peepeing has caused horrid metastasis of the lechery gland leaves me prone to elongated moments of hyperawareness and metaphysical vulnerability. I do not enjoy these times but I seem to need the blows which they deal to my system.
Just yesterday, while leaving the Saint Marks' Bookstore, where I'd been searching for a folio of Richard Kern's perverse photography, I fell in behind a girl who was making for one of the NYU buildings. A corruscating winter sun lit up 3rd Avenue with a crystalline glare, so it seemed that even your goosebumps would cast their own shadows. I was bundled against the cold like a homeless gnome, nothing but a nose peeking out from my wraps.
I only saw her from the back. She was short, with a tight-fitting, thin, waist-length winter jacket that made one think "snow bunny" immediately, and long dark hair. Her waist was slender and her back straight, but what stunned me was that her lower body seemed too large for her upper body. The narrow waist flared out into a large, round wide, solid ass with short, chunky legs to match under some kind of dark sweatpants. The first thing that flashed through my mind was the word "elephantine"; yet she moved with a hip-swaying, confident and quick gait.
I was completely thunderstruck. The horror of lechery, as every true lecher knows, is that it is a compulsion that turns your body into a puppet. I nearly broke into a run trying to catch her, never taking my eyes from her ass. I just couldn't get over the discrepancy between the slender torso and the unabashed peasant vitality of the ass and legs. There was a Robert Crumbian look to her that went straight to my core. Too squat, too wide, too chunky. A voice in my mind said "this is not the kind of girl men follow in the streets; straining their eyes to discern her panty line", yet the movements of her hips gave that thought the lie.
The worst part of it was her boots. She had these ridiculous white mukluks with white fur ruffs that nearly touched the ground. They looked exactly like something Eskimo spacemen might wear if the Inuits were to colonize the moon. There was an eskimo-girl, a squawlike, a Chinese-peasant bowleggedness to her. At least that's how it seems as I analyze my sensations. The sight of her bypassed all my notions of attractiveness and sank the dagger of lechery in my vitals leaving me metaphysically wounded in the cold light of the avenue.
Many girls did I perv on as I walked the streets, but this one, seen only for 30 seconds, from behind, caused me to completely lose track of my surroundings in a flare of angst and lust. There was an anger to it (there always is). How dare she walk so quickly, swaying so confidently on those thick legs, secure in her appeal, so unconcerned for my very existence? She had touched me, twisted my guts, yet I had nothing that could touch her.
I hadn't even imagined her face but I knew her cheeks would be cold and flushed. In a flashing moment I pictured something like a dorm room door forced open, a tumble and the feel of a cold face.
I went on my way and soon thereafter, a toothless hag importuned me and demanded to be escorted several blocks. I obliged, thinking that I must have a trustworthy appearance. Little did she know that I see with the eye of rape.
Just yesterday, while leaving the Saint Marks' Bookstore, where I'd been searching for a folio of Richard Kern's perverse photography, I fell in behind a girl who was making for one of the NYU buildings. A corruscating winter sun lit up 3rd Avenue with a crystalline glare, so it seemed that even your goosebumps would cast their own shadows. I was bundled against the cold like a homeless gnome, nothing but a nose peeking out from my wraps.
I only saw her from the back. She was short, with a tight-fitting, thin, waist-length winter jacket that made one think "snow bunny" immediately, and long dark hair. Her waist was slender and her back straight, but what stunned me was that her lower body seemed too large for her upper body. The narrow waist flared out into a large, round wide, solid ass with short, chunky legs to match under some kind of dark sweatpants. The first thing that flashed through my mind was the word "elephantine"; yet she moved with a hip-swaying, confident and quick gait.
I was completely thunderstruck. The horror of lechery, as every true lecher knows, is that it is a compulsion that turns your body into a puppet. I nearly broke into a run trying to catch her, never taking my eyes from her ass. I just couldn't get over the discrepancy between the slender torso and the unabashed peasant vitality of the ass and legs. There was a Robert Crumbian look to her that went straight to my core. Too squat, too wide, too chunky. A voice in my mind said "this is not the kind of girl men follow in the streets; straining their eyes to discern her panty line", yet the movements of her hips gave that thought the lie.
The worst part of it was her boots. She had these ridiculous white mukluks with white fur ruffs that nearly touched the ground. They looked exactly like something Eskimo spacemen might wear if the Inuits were to colonize the moon. There was an eskimo-girl, a squawlike, a Chinese-peasant bowleggedness to her. At least that's how it seems as I analyze my sensations. The sight of her bypassed all my notions of attractiveness and sank the dagger of lechery in my vitals leaving me metaphysically wounded in the cold light of the avenue.
Many girls did I perv on as I walked the streets, but this one, seen only for 30 seconds, from behind, caused me to completely lose track of my surroundings in a flare of angst and lust. There was an anger to it (there always is). How dare she walk so quickly, swaying so confidently on those thick legs, secure in her appeal, so unconcerned for my very existence? She had touched me, twisted my guts, yet I had nothing that could touch her.
I hadn't even imagined her face but I knew her cheeks would be cold and flushed. In a flashing moment I pictured something like a dorm room door forced open, a tumble and the feel of a cold face.
I went on my way and soon thereafter, a toothless hag importuned me and demanded to be escorted several blocks. I obliged, thinking that I must have a trustworthy appearance. Little did she know that I see with the eye of rape.
rosco rathbone
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I've been wanking morning, noon and night over, above, about, and to the memory of this substitute barmaid from Cyprus.
I was alone in the swanky wop lounge; seeking to calm my shakey nerves with a martini. She was filling in for the real barmaid and had the concept of "dry" upside down. This led to a charming and, to a lonely man, intimate lesson in mixology. Right about the perfect level of female contact for me, these days. All barmaids should have humble, downcast eyes; graceful movements; and should know how to unobtrusively yet attentively make one feel that one's wishes are being anticipated-a geishalike quality.
The first thing I noticed about her was her suprisingly full, muscular and heart-shaped ass, with a bit of panty peeking out above the waistband of her jeans. She was slender and graceful, reminding me of the "swaying reed which bends yet does not snap"; in a tight black sweater. It didn't suprise me to learn that she had come to the US to study dance.
The maddening faces to me, are those which are not generically pretty; yet over which I can still imagine the knives being drawn. She had a very prominent, narrow bladelike nose with a bump in the bridge and a rather weak chin. Her best features were her full mouth and large, long-lashed black eyes; with an Asian slant. Certainly some of the steppes in there, by way of the Turks no doubt. I couldn't stop looking at her. Everything about her manner was shy, submissive and eager to please; yet not in the flirtatious and knowing way of, for instance, Latina barmaids.
The way she leaned her head forward to laugh softly, so that her face was hidden by her hair, made me want to seize her by the chin and stare boldly into her eyes. The words "village woman...loyal and wise...obedient wife and mother" passed through my brain; along with images of weddings lasting a week, male relatives with sawed-off shotguns, and the slaughter of sheep and goats.
We talked for a long time about dance, music, Cypriot history, Eastern Mediterranean economics, travel and literature. She made bold conjectures as to my personal history and then covered her face like a Japanese girl when I smirked at her. Delightful.
Now I simply can't stop wanking. The horrible thing is, I never even saw her with the eye of rape. I imagine myself putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close; then pop my cork.
I was alone in the swanky wop lounge; seeking to calm my shakey nerves with a martini. She was filling in for the real barmaid and had the concept of "dry" upside down. This led to a charming and, to a lonely man, intimate lesson in mixology. Right about the perfect level of female contact for me, these days. All barmaids should have humble, downcast eyes; graceful movements; and should know how to unobtrusively yet attentively make one feel that one's wishes are being anticipated-a geishalike quality.
The first thing I noticed about her was her suprisingly full, muscular and heart-shaped ass, with a bit of panty peeking out above the waistband of her jeans. She was slender and graceful, reminding me of the "swaying reed which bends yet does not snap"; in a tight black sweater. It didn't suprise me to learn that she had come to the US to study dance.
The maddening faces to me, are those which are not generically pretty; yet over which I can still imagine the knives being drawn. She had a very prominent, narrow bladelike nose with a bump in the bridge and a rather weak chin. Her best features were her full mouth and large, long-lashed black eyes; with an Asian slant. Certainly some of the steppes in there, by way of the Turks no doubt. I couldn't stop looking at her. Everything about her manner was shy, submissive and eager to please; yet not in the flirtatious and knowing way of, for instance, Latina barmaids.
The way she leaned her head forward to laugh softly, so that her face was hidden by her hair, made me want to seize her by the chin and stare boldly into her eyes. The words "village woman...loyal and wise...obedient wife and mother" passed through my brain; along with images of weddings lasting a week, male relatives with sawed-off shotguns, and the slaughter of sheep and goats.
We talked for a long time about dance, music, Cypriot history, Eastern Mediterranean economics, travel and literature. She made bold conjectures as to my personal history and then covered her face like a Japanese girl when I smirked at her. Delightful.
Now I simply can't stop wanking. The horrible thing is, I never even saw her with the eye of rape. I imagine myself putting an arm around her waist and pulling her close; then pop my cork.
rosco rathbone
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I can never ask for a number on a first meeting. It feels far too "cheezy". How I was raised, I suppose--to distrust men and their motives. I used to beat myself up about it; now I just accept it as part of my wiring. Look but don't touch, that seems to be where I am at these days.
rosco rathbone
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Marquis said:
You'll have to show me how it's done, next time you are up here. I will be your "wing man". Isn't that the right word?
rosco rathbone
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Marquis said:
Long as I don't have to wear any gold chains or hair style products. There, I draw the line!
Marquis
Jack Dawkins
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Yeah, well you'll at least need some patchouli and binaca.
I keep my hair close and was robbed so many times in Kenya that I get paranoid whenever I wear jewelry (other than a watch).
The rules have changed my friend. A Cadillac still helps though.
I keep my hair close and was robbed so many times in Kenya that I get paranoid whenever I wear jewelry (other than a watch).
The rules have changed my friend. A Cadillac still helps though.
rosco rathbone
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A seven-day unlimited metrocard isn't gonna get me any ass, eh?
rosco rathbone
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I think I will probably just sit back, smirk, and let you handle the smooth talking. Sort of a "Silent Bob and Jay" routine if you get me.
bridgeburner
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Man, I'd love to watch the unfolding of that trip.
-B
-B
rosco rathbone
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Marquis said:
I don't know if I will be able to help myself when I see you running the pimp game.
rosco rathbone
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Marquis said:
Heh heh, so we are going to end up sitting home playing GTA/ San Andreas and drinking Jaeger shots, eh? What a couple of pimps.
robynwildchild
Really Experienced
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well well
we're all quite lecherous
lech·er·y
n. pl. lech·er·ies
Excessive indulgence in sexual activity; lewdness.
don't you think.. and i don't know a man that wouldn't check out the underwear line on a nice ass that walks by... in fact i've come to pointing out a nice ass for them to admire..
fun fun!
we're all quite lecherous
lech·er·y
n. pl. lech·er·ies
Excessive indulgence in sexual activity; lewdness.
don't you think.. and i don't know a man that wouldn't check out the underwear line on a nice ass that walks by... in fact i've come to pointing out a nice ass for them to admire..
fun fun!
blue kat
Really Really Experienced
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I love tomboys!
Thank God I picked somewhere warm out of the schools that offered!
Picture this.
I'm sitting on the steps of the student union with my subway shammich and frozen lemonade and lap top in lap. (Wi-Fi rocks.) I'm watching the tomboys playing soccer on the mall. Cute girls with nice butts and pony tails and sneakers. There's this blond with a tattoo on her leg, just where the lower hem of her shorts lie. I'm not sure what it is; I can only see the lower edge. I just want to walk over, grab her by the hair, hold her down and yank off the shorts, just to see what it is. Or do something.
And then there's the Hispanic girl with the braid and the cleats and sorta thick thighs. Not thick in a yucky way, muscled. Definitely would not throw her out of my bed for eatin' crackers, y'know. Even though there are much better things to eat in my bed.
Crap!
I'm gonna be so late for class.
Veni, vedi, lechi.
Thank God I picked somewhere warm out of the schools that offered!
Picture this.
I'm sitting on the steps of the student union with my subway shammich and frozen lemonade and lap top in lap. (Wi-Fi rocks.) I'm watching the tomboys playing soccer on the mall. Cute girls with nice butts and pony tails and sneakers. There's this blond with a tattoo on her leg, just where the lower hem of her shorts lie. I'm not sure what it is; I can only see the lower edge. I just want to walk over, grab her by the hair, hold her down and yank off the shorts, just to see what it is. Or do something.
And then there's the Hispanic girl with the braid and the cleats and sorta thick thighs. Not thick in a yucky way, muscled. Definitely would not throw her out of my bed for eatin' crackers, y'know. Even though there are much better things to eat in my bed.
Crap!
I'm gonna be so late for class.
Veni, vedi, lechi.
