On Wednesday, November 18, 2020 at 2:18:28 PM UTC-5, wrote:
On Wednesday, November 18, 2020 at 11:07:19 AM UTC-8, wrote:
[Default] On Wed, 18 Nov 2020 10:52:34 -0800 (PST), Eviel Dewar
wrote this crap:

You tell some good stories. You should write a book. I got the
perfect title for it. "I tasted my brother's dick on my mother's
pussy."

Well, he's written a piece in which he claimed to have down on
his mother while she was menstruating, so that's not
too far-fetched, I suppose.
How did he know it was his brother's dick, unless he tasted it before?
My publisher thought the original title should be shortened. I wanted
it to be, "I tasted my brother's dick for the first time on my
mother's pussy while changing her diapers as the nursing staff looked
on and took pictures." I had a picture of an old fat guy going down
on a blue-haired pussy on a hospital bed, but they all laughed and
said that they couldn't publish it.
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Fascinating. Are you freaks somehow under the impression that this depraved insanity hurts me? On the contrary. I'm fascinated by your perversion, freaks. Interesting to watch pathetic, powerless cowards exercise their depravity, sort of like watching bugs eat each other. I study evil, I study freaks and perverts and sadists, and here I have you two performing on cue. Not just twisted, dickless nutjobs, but stupid. Keep it up, this is amusing, to say the least. Idiots. Change your diapers.

"Depraved insanity"? "Perversion"? Nothing that Horvath writes could possibly be as depraved, insane, or perverse than *your* fantasies, Trunky.

"A year ago as I mark time, a seven year old boy stood between a grown woman's open, naked thighs. Four months later, hands jammed his head into the place that gave me birth. Six months ago, I heard my mother's voice cursing "This is what your father should be doing" as she shuddered in orgasm.

I hold my smile, so these innocent children do not know I have left them. With a backdrop of clear blue sky rather than peeling paint, the birthday boy's face becomes Scotty's, the smile a rictus of terror, as I gaze in the bathroom mirror of the slum apartment that was my home. It is not cherry frosting that drips from my cheeks.

It is my mother's blood."