When inside jokes get dirty

I made a comment about contemplating writing a dirty story for funsies.

Quoting a friend:

“Just, you know, think of fat, unattractive men as you write. They’ll be sitting there reading, wearing those sweatpants they haven’t bothered to wash for several weeks. They might spill a bit of nacho cheese on them when they get excited by your story, and they won’t even bother to clean it off. Yeah… focus on that visualization.”


My query for two sexy lady’s names came up *drumrolls* Gertrude and Bertha.


May my father forgive me.


Bertha and Gertrude have been friends since high school. They lost some time together when Bertha went off to college and Gertrude was struggling with her failing marriage. Now though, they spend all of their time with one another, living in the same small house. People think they are lesbians, Bertha and Gertrude. They go walking hand in hand down the street, Bertha hobbling a little from the car accident that sent her to the infirmary instead of to her commencement. She still receives a stipend due to her injury from the insurance company. Sometimes she complains to Gertrude that she was really going somewhere, she could have been someone. Gertrude will pat her hand and nod. Weren’t they all at some point?

The neighborhood people don’t mind that Bertha and Gertrude are lesbians, or so they believe. The two women are just so handsome walking together, or sitting knee to knee on the porch sipping coffee and chatting. They like to imagine the two women together, who, while certainly no longer young, are still reasonably attractive. Bertha is the larger of the two, her injury making it difficult for her to exercise. So these neighbors, they like to imagine her on the bottom, her bum leg up on a pillow while Gertrude busies herself between Bertha’s thighs. Gertrude is tall and on the gaunt side, like some women will get when they get older, with high pointed breasts. The neighbors like to titter about how poor Bertha probably complains when they poke her during sex.

George is the only neighbor who doesn’t join in on the gossip. He doesn’t join in because he knows that they aren’t lesbians, that and he doesn’t go out much these days. He knows they aren’t lesbians because through the privet he can see into their home, into their bedrooms. They never sleep in the same bed, they never kiss or exchange more than a sisterly hug. No, they are spinsters through and through. He doesn’t mind this though. He likes to know they like men, that he could possess them if he really wanted. When they undress at night he sits by the window in the darkness and pulls his soiled sweatpants away from his considerable stomach and touches himself. He imagines doing the things to them that he reads about in the dirty books he orders. He loves those books all full of sucking, licking, spanking, fucking, all the best verbs. He likes to imagine the writers, one in particular a Lydia something-rather, imagining him rubbing himself off in the darkness, all folds of flesh and nacho cheese stains. He thinks about the women across the hedge, the writers behind the screen, his own grotesque body. . .

and he comes.


3 responses to this post.

  1. Did you have to WRITE about the nacho cheese-stained man? LMAO!


  2. Why are German names so scary? For that matter, why does, “I love you sound so much better in French than in German. It is like the French cavemen, when inventing their language, took the time to figure out what sounded good. The German cavemen were just concerned with getting the phlegm out of their throats.


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