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The Cake Song for Sex Maniacs


That night he turned into a lemon honey cake. Now, lemon honey cakes are the best in the erotic sense because they don’t make much sense. “Lemon and honey? Together? In a cake? Whaaaaaaaaa-?,” the very sensible Mrs. P was rendered aghast when it was suggested to her.

But he dripped honey and lemon in a dangerous mix on the white plate upon which he was served. Honey is golden and made by bees while lemon grows on trees. All fine till there, but as early alchemists found out, the combination is potent. Especially when put in a cake. And poked with a fork.

She had a fork. With four pointy ends. A trident has only three. So, as rightly pointed out by the saffron brigade, forks are infinitely more violent. She held it in her right hand while moodily considering whether to poke or not. The sky was blue and windy outside, so she decided to lick it first.

Those who have turned into lemon honey cakes need a fair amount of attention. They are like tiny babies who need to be picked up and loved and loved and loved all over till one swallows them. This is not a normative prescription, but rather, an empirical observation.

She pressed down upon him with her tongue. Lemon ooozed out in a happy flow from the perforations in the cake. She let her tongue slide into one of the perforations, tasting the sweetness of the more viscous honey which would not flow out so easy.

“Ooh that hurts.” The cake begged.

She was feeling kindly so she stopped and kissed the cake smelling the lovely lemon honey aroma. A couple of minutes later though she was bored of being kind and decided to plunge her fork into the cake.

Thunder! Lightening! etc. etc. Then rain sweet rain. Rain smells the best.

“This blog is turning into nothing but a cheap collection of eyebrow-raisable euphemisms.” Someone remarked on the street.

“Oh, I’m a bit confused actually. Is this a food blog or a sex blog?” His mate asked.

“For clowns, there is not much of a difference really.” Bozo assured them before cartwheeling along till the 4th Cross on the street.


Locker Room Talk


“Making love is an art,” Bozo heard the man with the beret say. A naked man with a beret. A naked man prancing with a caterpillar on his crotch with a beret.

“Is making art a love?,” the dormouse asked from under the tea table.

“Depends.” Beretman said metaphysically. “Is it sexy enough?”

“Whenever I hear “physics”, even when qualified by prefixes like meta-, I am turned on,” Bozo said. “Right now for example, I feel I could explode.”

“Physics is an arousing word. It reminds me of a long neck. A long neck of a Masai woman.” abcd added, sighing.

“It reminds me of running a finger over a beautiful boy’s spine in the dark.” The dormouse said.

“Yeah, that’s sexy.” Beretman approved. “But detachment is important,” he added turning into a sadhu with saffron clothes. “Detachment is an art.”

“Is sex an art?” The dormouse asked.

“Nah, sex is a science. C’est precisement.” Beretman replied.

“Aren’t all sciences art?” abcd enquired.

“C’mon there don’t confuse me.” Beretman said, sulky.

“Yes but what about porn?” Bozo objected.

“Porn is meant to be downloaded,” abcd asserted. “My internet was working so fast this morning I was bedazzled. So I downloaded eleven porn vids. Then I was late for work.”
“Hahahahaha!” Bozo laughed in his face. The dormouse giggled.

“So you mean porn is trash?,” abcd pondered.

“But all trash is art,” Beretman said as he turned into a toilet seat on display at an art exhibition while smoking a long yellow cigarrette.

“No, no…you got it wrong! All art is trash,” the dormouse said sleepily.

“I don’t see any difference really,” Alice grumbled.

“Oi. Hey I say! This is a men’s locker room!” abcd pointed to Alice.

“Yeah, but I ate a piece of cake and now I have a penis. It’s been a strange day.” Alice explained.

“Wow. Show me?,” everyone clamoured. Alice complied. “Hm…amazing!” abcd exclaimed. “More fascinating than my porn cache.” Bozo got a hard-on.

“Cakes are some explosive stuff, I say,” Beretman remarked as his caterpillar turned blue and smoked a hookah. It was detached. So it fell on to the floor with a ta-tak.

Our Colourful Sexual Camaraderie


A child steps on a pussy
Squirting it like orange juice
STD! STD!, doctors proclaim
And hand over a cellular phone
Texts back and forth
Your brain’s the most powerful sex.
There’s no rain over a roof of tin
Li’l men ask, ki? ki? kiiiiii?
Khi khi khi
Shut them up, kiss on the lips
Now, you pedophile!
Routine, poutine, a shallow teen
Will lie next, a consenting adult.
What if you replace a heart for a dick
Pumping blood into every mouth
That unwaringly licks
What if sex is forthright, straight
Without uh…all the uncertain wait
Argh, impatience, impatience! bang-bang
Make for an awful poem.