Horizontal Lives

True Tales of the Infamous Courtesan: Persephone N. Hades and her Horizontal Life underground. How she got there, her mis-adventures and her struggle to re-surface.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Blips on the Run-Including a Blog on Vegetables

sorry. sorry. sorry.

Everyone who has emailed and not received a response yet, please know this:

I am in Chaos. Wake at 7. Home at Midnight or One. Exhausted.

Down on my knees. Forgive me.

Thought One: Passing through Times Square at Midnight, chomping down two McDonald's cheeseburgers with extra onions--(Why does a day of sex make me want Ketchup and Onions? Basically I throw the Burgers and Bread back into the sack.)

Note to Self: Call other Escort Aquaintances. Inquire about Onion Addiction after full-day of Clients.

See a Billboard for Dyson Vacumns. Think of a similar slogan for my own Website:

"It Zigs! It Zags! It never loses Suction! The Geisha Courtesan! (cums in a variety of Designer Colors!)"

Maybe I'm tired. It seemed Genius as the Cab passed 42nd Street.

Thought Two: (To those several who wrote concerning Geisha Summer Camp for Cocks)

You are already in the few Elite. Just need to get the Five-Star Tatoo's.

In Fact, and you know who you are, a more advanced plan would be to make your special 'Member', Camp Conselors in charge of the Mentoring the other Penises.

(No payment, but growth guarenteed and extra credit for your services.)

Thought Three: Vegetables--Unfortunately neglected in conversation; highly erotic when put into Action on a Solo Run; Mischieviously Dangerous in the Long Run.

Right. Right. Vegetables. I know it seems like an odd segue. Here's how the thought was born and took root:

I have allergies. Terrible Allergies.

My hacking seasonal cough makes me sound like the Whore-with-the-Heart-of-Gold who will soon, appropriately and according to all stories and myths, soon to die of Consumption.

(Not to worry. I have my Epitaph already composed: Based on a Song sung by Madeleine Peyroux--)

"Did I have fun you ask me? Holy Gee! Was I drunk? Was he handsome? Did Mama give me Hell? Mmm Hmm!"

So that's all set.

Admit it. There's nothing worse than having a boring Tombstone.

'Born this year, Died that year. Beloved so-and-so of so-and-so. Blah Blah Blah.'

No one would stand around your site.

When I first pass, none of my Clients would be brave enough to attend. I understand this.

But in thousands of years, I'll have a crowd around my tombstone wondering who the heck this girl was.


So back to the Veggies:

My mouth sinks down from nipples, to rib-cage, to tummy, to my clients gentials. My nose takes in his scent. Surprizingly, he smells like something not unpleasant and yet familiar but not like Penis.

What is it? I wonder as I lick and stoke and dance on his shaft with my snail tongue.

Ah ha! Chicken Soup.

With noodles.

And Matza Balls.

At that moment, I take a momentary break to mention to him a fantastic Epitaph for his Stone: 'Goodness gracious great balls of Fire!'

Even though I was thinking: 'Goodness gracious great balls of Matza!'

So I started thinking about the Chicken Soup I had traveled all the way downtown to the famous Second Avenue Deli to procure (hoping it would ease my horrific snorting, coughing, sniffling, entirely unattractive allergies).

But when I got the soup home and began slurping it up, I was sorely disappointed in the lack of vegetables contained, or rather, not contained in the soup.

A sad statement for New York Jewish Cooking.

They say they're Jewish.

They say they're Kosher.

So 'Where's the 'Beef'?' So to speak. Or, rather, 'Where's the Veggies'?

So smelling my Client's cock, during a long drawn-out Blow Job, I begin to ruminate on Vegetables in general, and suddenly Corn.

Not that Corn goes into Chicken Soup, But Corn came into my head, and I remembered a girlfriend of mine, who, on a particulary lonely evening boiled an ear of corn and used it to pleasure herself.

As luck would have it, she had an intimate date the next evening.

She and her Beau made passionate love and to her horror, when he withdrew, the condom covering his now softening Penis was coated with bits and chunks of yellow corn.

When she related the story to me, she exclaimed, "Imagine my horror!"

I did and was hysterical to tears. But I couldn't help imagining his horror as well.

As my Client's lovely cock hardened filling my mouth,

Cucumbers came to mind.

One friend I knew, masturbated with a non-organic Cucumber.

(Much against my fervent suggestions never to stray from Organic.)

Never-the-less, it was after midnight placing her in a pinch as the Organic shops were closed, leaving her forced to purchase her Cucumber at a local all-night Korean Deli.

The following day, she complained of an unusual, indescribable and somewhat uncomfortable sensation from within.

Two days later, she had no choice but to visit her GYN.

The Problem? In-Organic Cucumbers are coated with wax.

She suffered from what in Layman's terms could be termed, "Waxy Build-up."

Waxy Build-up so severe it could only be tended to by a Professional.

So there you have it: The Bizarre workings of a Courtesan Mind too late at night with a bloodstream coursing only with Champagne, a stomach of Onions and Ketchup; having concluded an evening of Chicken Soup Cock.


sorry. sorry. sorry.


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