The Crackled Cry of a Crotch Overheating Chocolate Cocoon over the Intercom of Doom

Post CXL

Here’s the story of foreplay, staplers, and underwear.

Intercoms agree with me about as much as chocolate lingerie does. I may have given away a tad too much information, there. It’s just been on my mind, is all. I’m not wired up properly. If I’m walking on by a clothing shop window adorned with the latest designer goods, I’m not likely to think, ‘Ooh, that’s a nice jacket’. I’m more likely to think, ‘Ooh, I could really do with some new windows’. Perhaps that’s the problem I have with chocolate lingerie. Perhaps I’m not seeing the sexy picture. When I look at that, all I think is, ‘Eww, why would I eat that? It’s touched your crotch’. But that’s the thing. If you say that to a woman, she’ll think you’re calling her unclean. It’s just biology, folks. The amount of harmful bacteria in that department is frightening. And… What? I’m concerned about these things. I don’t care how deliciously sexy your chocolate undergarments are, I’m not eating harmful bacteria. And that’s why I don’t like intercoms.

The thing is, as a virgin, I don’t look upon foreplay toys as particularly alluring. It’s like when you first drive a car. As a passenger, you’re horrified when you knock down a hippy whose job it seems to be is protesting about the mental stability of whales. But as a driver, you were angered. You were running late and you thought if you put your foot down, you might be able to outrun the red light. That’s the law in the UK, by the way. If you’re going too fast to stop, you’re allowed to run a red light. Being British, we’ve taken it upon ourselves to speed up when we approach lights. Not the friendly Canadian attitude where pedestrian safety is paramount. Heck, they get upset if you blow dust into a kitten’s eye. Not that I’ve ever done that. I mean, I’m not that cruel. Yet.

So you sped up but the light’s changed far before you reached them. You put your foot hard down on the brake but you hit the hippy. Your passenger is horrified. You, on the other hand, are devastated that you will be even more late, dealing with the police, but delighted you’ve wiped out a hippy. So you can see the parallels with foreplay toys. As a passenger, the hippy has been knocked unconscious and has a broken arm; it’s something that happens. But as the driver, you feel a sense of understanding about why you hit the hippy, you know why you’re playing around with chocolate underwear. But for me, you’ve just hit a hippy. There’s no context for me. I forget where I’m going with this.

I would like to point out at this point that no hippies were harmed during the making of this analogy. It’s just an example. Please don’t run any hippies down. They’re as an important part of our society as flying pigs. Which I’m working on. Although I cannot promise no pigs will be harmed during the making of flying pigs.

I’ve just realized that I said ‘chocolate underwear doesn’t agree with me’. I’ve never actually tried it, to clarify. I don’t want a chocolate crotch. I’m sorry, I know you really want to know about the damned intercom, but who came up with chocolate clothing? There must have been a genesis. Somebody who was about to engage in coitus with the partner and thought, ‘What an awful shame I can’t eat her pants’. How did he, and I’m almost certain it was a he, convince anyone to get onboard with that idea? They must have been drunk or high or a terrifying combination of the two. “Patrick, this weed is darling. I’m really enjoying our drug session. But can I ask you something? It’s personal.” “Oh yeah, sure man, what is it?” “What would you say if I said you could eat my underwear?”

I’m not criticizing. Whatever works for you, I suppose. Whatever gets you going for a bit of how’s your father. Edible underwear. Socks. Mildew…

I have a similar problem with intercoms as I do with these saucy knickers. You may as well paint the shed for all the good wearing something sexy is going to do. If I love you, you don’t need to try to impress me. I’m going out with you. You’ve already captured my heart, being a slut isn’t gonna change anything. Unless it helps you, but if it does, then you clearly have a bodily image problem, which is society’s problem if anything. Be proud of who you are and kick society in the inevitably chocolate filled genitalia region as hard as I want to kick all intercoms.

I wanted to spend this post talking about intercoms but I fear knickerbockers may have distracted me. It’s like being 13 again. Although replace ‘knickerbockers’ with ‘thongs’ since that’s what all the 13-year-old girls in my school wore. Not that I was looking. I, I was told that, by, by, erm, think of a name, think of a name, erm, John Smith. Oh, bloody hell, well done Alan. Really convincing. What a prick.

Of course, I couldn’t kick most intercoms because I’m not Bruce Lee. I’m alive, for a start. What? Too soon? Hmm. Suit yourself. I’d put my thigh out stretching that far, something only achievable by kicking intercoms and making love to the kind of woman who buys edible bloomers.

I don’t know why I have such a problem with intercoms. I’ve never been able to work them. I press the button and it doesn’t work. I keep pressing the button only to realize that the people in the office must think there’s a lunatic trying to get in. I then start to fear for my life because I run a scenario through my brain that would see me allowed in, but it’s a trap. They’re hiding away, armed with office supplies ready to jump out and ‘neutralize’ me. A mass stapler attack, probably. They only really hurt from close range, but I’m sure they’ll figure that out pretty quickly and will probably throw the staplers at me instead. And, as somebody who’s had a stapler flung at them, I can assure you, it does hurt somewhat.

I now have a fear of intercom systems. I’m frightened. Everywhere I go, every intercom I meet, there I am. Shaking and pale. The wrong button, it won’t work, electric shock, inaudible voice, and something else. Something I can’t put my finger on. I may be in a class of one, but I don’t think I’ll ever be able to shake my fear. One day, I’ll be lured into an office and have fifty staplers fired at me.

You know what, readers, I’m hardly surprised. My life was probably always gonna end that way.

And if it doesn’t? Then maybe my other bugbear will finish me off. On the one occasion I try on a pair for a laugh in the middle of summer causing severe meltage and then severe hardening, encasing my entire nether-regions in a chocolate cocoon.

Dead from crotch overheating.

Although I’d take that over death by fifty staplers, if I were being honest…

American author, Jarod Kintz (b. 1982), once said: “I would pour you a glass of wine, but wouldn’t it be more romantic if you sipped it out of my armpit?”

Peace Out :|:


I’d love to hear your thoughts on this post. You can leave a comment and/or like this post below, or by clicking the title on the top of this post if you are on the archives page. Likes and follows greatly appreciated. Thanks.


Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:

To Contrive & Jive
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read the Latest Post

Hark Around The Words
New Posts Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
Click Here To Read the Latest Post


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