WHILE RESPONSIVE AND CALIBRATES FOR ANY DEVICE,

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Note:
Some tiles are static, others are not. Hovering will reveal which. And almost all the sliders have been turned off. I couldn’t time the reveals and I didn’t want you to come into the middle of the sequence, so when you get there: manual, baby!

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Guess what today is?!

 

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cloud periwinkle
purple clouds
cloud red
cloud jade

Welcome to your very own super special secret web page! Just to be clear, this is a ghost page on my website. It’s not on the menu. It is not detectable by any search engine. And unless you forward the link or give someone the link address, you’re the only one who’s ever gonna see it. I still have a few things to add, so for a couple of days, it’ll be the gift that keeps on giving. But this Sunday at midnight, it’s going offline. Temporary being sexy and all that.
          Why such an AWESOME birthday gift? Well, when I turned the calendar a few days late in December, there on the 17th was RANDALL BDAY. I couldn’t let such an auspicious occasion go unnoticed! Then there were all the other reasons: I wanted to do something different to take my mind off writing (which worked, two essays for the next book: done) and I’d do anything to avoid this Netflix pitch because, truth be told, my heart’s not in it. I’m more than content writing acclaimed books that don’t sell for the foreseeable future. And I already have millions of anime fans thanks to Ghost Stories, so it’s not like I need the attention. But I accepted their offer so I have to at least follow through that much.
          But the real reason is I just like doing things for others—that bottom nature fucks me every time. I liked doing nice things for you. I liked doing nice things for Architect. But he’s dead and you’re still alive so guess who wins by default? And I miss him so much. July 6th was the last time I saw him which was nice for him because we finally fulfilled his fantasy to fuck until sunrise. He died five days later so you can see he pretty much did go out with a bang.
         Since then it’s been marathon masturbation sessions which are kinda rough because five minutes in, I’ll be reminded of him and there’s no such thing as a sad hard on. I did have sex with a muscle god the other night but to be honest, it still feels like I haven’t had sex since July 6th. So, really, this is as much for me as it is for you and for him. And when I finished designing it, I realized it made a good template for everything from Christmas gifts to a Netflix pitch deck, all I have to do is replace all the images and I’m golden. So the only one who gets left out is Architect but he’s with God now. And I know my ass is heavenly but it’s always gonna be second to the Maker of The Universe.
         Enough with the preamble, you’ve got a webpage to enjoy. And I hope you do. I really did have a lotta fun making it.  Happy Birthday! Yours, Ste7en

purple birds long

ROLL CALL

It’s a veritable Who’s Who of Who’s Whose

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Use the arrows to progress through the slides. I suppose you could go backwards too but don't, you know, trip or anything.

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The tiles below:
You’ll see the lyrics. You guess the song. Extra points if you can name the album too.
You’ll also see select photographs. Can you guess the caption on the other side of the pic?

 

 

 

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Before we get to the cool art, here’s your hit of Twombly.

On coloring outside the lines: I think he's only grasped half of the concept.
On coloring outside the lines: I think he’s only grasped half of the concept.
I don't mean to be a dick but...these are dicks.
I don’t mean to be a dick but…these are dicks.

 

Now let’s break, butcher, and fuck something up that was perfectly fine til I am personally satisfied.*

 

  Okay for real, I think it’s cool that I’m in the Urban Dic but that doesn’t mean they got the definition right. First of all, when I fucked with something it’s because it wasn’t perfectly fine. If shit was dope, I didn’t mess with it. So the Webster of it is this:

fosterize: the act of breaking, butchering, or fucking something up that was (weak, lame, stupid, or sucks, thus) not living up to its full potential

That said, there wasn’t anything wrong with these epic Longo sketches. I just wanted to fuck with ’em because they scared the shit outta me. Take their power away by putting my own spin on things.

 

Shark A
Shark B
Shark C
HORSES
 

 

Oh and this slider can just roll. Doesn’t matter where you come in on it. Because you’ll really like anywhere you come in on it.

 

 

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Ste7en reclining
 

 

You do know that I’ve never seen you at night. Not once. I realized that as I was looking at this, the last video we ever shot—because most of the video is in shadow it almost takes on the appearance of night. So it seemed kind of obvious what the title of the story should be.

Let me know if you’d like me to lighten them up. I can and have for a few of them but I was going to keep most of them dark, silhouette. But this is your birthday present I’ll do the pictures how you prefer. Sir, yes, Sir!

Have a good Saturday.

 

Randalll naked on phone bw

The Man is naked within moments of entering the bedroom.

The only thing he has seen is the Boy’s milk-white bubble ass, jockstrapped, visible, and waiting for him. His eight thick inches of cock are already stiff in the anticipation. They both know what’s coming. The Man, as always, knows the play of the game. He is both coach and quarterback. The Boy? Only ideas. Just warm the bench, little boy. I’ll tell you everything you need to know and what to do. This keeps the Boy a little off-balance, unsure, innocent and almost…afraid. And that may be a stronger aphrodisiac than the naked little butt walking in front of him.

The Boy wears a rugby shirt with the sleeves ripped off and the chest insignia cut out, revealing a light pink nipple. The Man notes the shirt doesn’t just have the collar tag cut out, but a wide section of the back of the shirt with it. He makes note of this—he’ll use this later. He climbs into bed, laying on his back with a sigh. The Boy climbs up on all fours, his hand reaching out for the Man’s chest.

“Now that’s where you belong,” he purrs. As he runs his hands along the Man’s naked body, the Man moans. This ritual doesn’t usually happen before but rather after, so while the attention doesn’t surprise him, this sort, this softer beginning does. The Boy rubs the Man’s cock and balls.

“Feel how full my balls are.”

The Boy leans over the Man, kisses one cheek, then the other, then moves to the Man’s ear, brushing his lips against it, causing that rippling, tingling sensation along the back of his neck. The Boy treats the Man’s ear like a mic, rock singer lips brushing against it everso gently.

“Can I suck your cock?” he asks breathily.

“Suck my big fucking cock.” The Man orders in a full voice, a stark contrast to the Boy’s whispering. Just another way the Man establishes his dominance. It will not be the only time he does so.

The Boy kisses the Man’s stomach briefly and then takes the Man’s cock into his mouth, prompting an inevitable, long, slow, low moan from the Man. It’s a moan of recognition, of memory, of days of thinking about feeling the Boy’s mouth on his meat, with intense concentration on the sensation for the last ninety minutes. His dick leaped to attention at the Boy’s morning texts. When he was throwing his clothes on—he skipped the shower—he had to force his hard cock into his jeans. And that’s all it took usually. The Boy’s flirty little text would excite him and instantly prompt a vision of the Boy’s ass and then he kept praying no client would call to fuck up his morning fuck.

At last…his moan says. He moans again as the Boy’s mouth envelopes his dick. And another as he consumes it. And another as the Boy moves his mouth slowly up and down the entire length of the Man’s cock.

“Can you taste that precum? There’s so fuckin’ much. It woulda been so easy to fuck my husband this morning but instead I’m here fucking you.” With that, he pushes his hips up, shoving his cock into the Boy’s mouth. The Boy, reflexively, follows the motion of the Man’s hips, baking away from the force. “Put that fuckin’ dick back in your mouth.”

He continues to lift off the bed, fucking the Boy’s face. The Boy comes up for air.

“Jesus.”

Put that fuckin’ dick in your mouth,” he says with a hint of anger.

Wild Horses

The Boy swallows the Man’s dick again and this time the Man makes certain the dick stays in the Boy’s mouth by taking his hands and grabbing the Boy’s head, holding him in place while he fucks his throat. He moans. The Boy gags.

What are you? You’re my fuckin’ hole that’s what you are,” he hisses. He follows this with commands but they are redundant because his hands never leave the back of the Boy’s head and he directs his subject’s head where he wants. “Put your nose in my bush. Smell that. That’s what a real man smells like.” He starts fucking the Boy’s mouth again. “Yeah,” he says over the muffled sounds of the Boy gagging. Finally he releases his grip and the Boy’s head jerks off the Man’s dick with a gasp.

“Fucking hell,” he says, but his mouth returns immediately and the Man moans his approval.

“Service that big fuckin’ cock!”

The Boy takes his hand and sucks and strokes at the same time. Then he licks his swollen balls.

“Feel all that cum in there. I’m gonna put such a big load in you. I haven’t shot a load in five days.”

The Boy starts at the bottom of the Man’s balls, flattens his tongue wide against the Man’s dick and licks up to the swollen head, layering his cock with saliva.

“Put those fuckin’ balls in your mouth, faggot.”

The Boy’s cock leaps at the slur.

“Suck my babymakers. But ‘em both in your mouth. Yeah, real men don’t shave their balls, do they?”

“No,” he whines. Then the Man slaps his hard cock against the boy’s forehead several time.

“That’s right.”

After lapping his full balls, the Boy returns to the dick.

“That’s right. Yes. That’s it,” the Man says and then pumps his hips several times faster and harder than he did before. The Boy takes it. After the Man stops, the Boy slowly takes his mouth off the cock, then back down, sucking just the head. Then slowly, slowly down, almost to the base. “Yesssss.” But here he struggles. The girth keeps the Boy’s mouth full, the length hitting the back of his throat. “That’s it. You can do it. Take it all the way down.”

The Boy obeys. The Man watches.

“Has anybody fucked you since me?”

His tone is challenging. After a moment, the boy takes his mouth off the Man’s cock, but keeps stroking it with his hand.

“What answer should I tell you?” he asks.

“Be honest.” His tone tells the Boy he really does want to know. The Boy wonders briefly what answer is best.

Would he like it that another man’s cock was inside him?

Would he not?

Does he think the Boy waits for him? That he’s devoted only to him?

Or does he fantasize about other men fucking him?

“I wanna know.”

The Boy answers quickly.

“Yes.”

“Was he good? Was it good?” The Boy can’t quite catch what the Man says, he’s distracted now, thinking about his other lover. His other Daddy, the one he’s never called by name. In person, it’s always Daddy. When he speaks of him, he’s simply known as the Architect and it’s been like this for nearly ten years. But this Man says he wants to know about the other man, so the Boy tells him.

“He actually rivals you for first place,” the Boy says, barely concealing his smile. The Man sighs and, strangely, turns his head away, breaking eye contact with the boy.

R cock in hand

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s true…”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence, the Man has placed his hands back on the Boy’s head and shoved a mouth full of cock into him.

“Do you have any video of him fucking ya?”

This, too, throws the Boy off. Does he want to see it? The Man did request the Boy have porn playing in the bedroom, a strange, new request.

The Boy comes down from all fours and lays on his stomach, still between the Man’s legs, still stroking his cock while he talks. He stutters to answer, eventually stammering that, “I’m not that good with the camera.”

“I’d love to watch you get fucked.”

The Boy pauses and confesses.

“It’s pretty hot. As you saw.”

“Stroke me too much I’ll cum,” he warns.

The Boy immediately stops stroking, but still maintains a grip on it, his fingers barely touching around it. He laps the head like a cat laps up cream.

“Not yet, Daddy.”

“I want to watch you in a threeway,” the Man growls.

“That guy doesn’t share,” the Boy tells him wondering how this will land.

“Get someone.”

“You’re the one with all the friends.”

“Not tops,” he says casually. “I don’t play with tops.”

His feet planted on the mattress, he pumps his crotch into the Boy’s face. Then he grabs his hard dick with his right hand and slaps the Boy’s face with it. The Boy winces. Then, with his left, he slaps the Boy’s face. Once. Twice. Three times. The Boy gasps. Then the Man shoves the Boy’s head on his hard dick, clamps his powerful thighs to his head, then rolls to the left, fucking his face. while keeping the Boy’s head pressed between his muscled thighs. He keeps a firm grip on the back of the Boy’s head, speaking with each thrust.

“Don’t…tell…me…I’m…not…number one…”

The Boy escapes his grip. The Man wrestles him back onto his cock.

Put your mouth on my dick!” He pumps the Boy’s throat. “Ah that’s it. That’s it right there.” He laughs, “That’s so fuckin’ hot! Jesus fuck!”

“You’re precumming so fucking much,” the Boy says, his words garbled by the bath of saliva in his mouth.

“I’m gonna cum, like, fast,” he says, repositioning.

“Then slow down.”

He puts his foot in the Boy’s face.

“Suck my fuckin’ toes,” he commands.

Like every command, the Boy obeys. And like everything about the Man, his feet are pretty, pristine. He was too hard, he was too beautiful. He didn’t make sense.

“Like this?” the Boy asks, tongue on his toes.

“Yeah. You’re a fuckin’ bottom,” he says as if this is one of his many duties.

“I am.”

“Show me you’re fuckin’ worth it.”

The Man ambles up and places his foot on the Boy’s face and presses it down into the mattress. Then he steps over the Boy and with two hands, spreads open the Boy’s cheeks, and tongue thrusts his clean warm hole. The Boy groans and moans. The Man moans. The Man told him once, eating ass was his second favorite thing to do besides fucking. And this Boy’s ass tastes incredible. Every time the Man goes down on him. The Boy speaks but his words are muffled, as the Man’s weight is pressing him facedown into the bed. But as the Man moves from ravaging his hole, sucking the Boy’s pussylips violently to lovingly tonguing it, kissing it, the Boy’s protests turn to low moans, his arms gripping the Man’s marble calves as if he was falling.

“Oh…” he cries. “Oh…God…oh…!” And the Man takes his worship of the Boy’s hole.

I love it when you get into it!” And with that, he returns to devouring the Boy’s hole.

“Oh God. Oh fuck! Oh God. God!

“Gimme that pussy,” he says as forcefully as he takes it. More moaned words escape the Boy’s lips.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh, Daddy!

The Man moans and says loudly, “Your cunt tastes so fuckin’ good!”

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

The Man takes his arms, wraps them under the Boy’s legs, and pulls his boycunt into his mouth and mauls his hole.

“Oh God. Oh Jesus. Oh God.” Then the Boy falls into whimpering.

“I do not believe,” the Man tells him, briefly taking his mouth off his lover’s boypussy. “That you’ve found a better fuck than me.” Immediately, right back on.

“Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhh.”

“I do not buy that.”

“Oh fuck…Oh fuck…Oh…”

“Because I am always told I am the best fuck in this town,” the Man boasts with a growl. At last he takes his mouth off the Boy’s hole and the Boy heaves with the release of the weight, the pressure, and the pleasure. The Man crawls behind the Boy, leaning his head near the Boy’s wet hole and spits on it for good measure. Just spit. The Man’s preferred lube.

“You know you are,” the Boy says brightly, but still breathing heavily. “I have an embarrassment of riches.”

“What?” the Man grunted, now rising up on his knees planted on both sides of the Boy’s legs, rigid cock at attention, held in his fist just inches above the boy’s pale butt.

“But you don’t see me enough,” the Boy says, lifting his upper body up from the bed. “And I can’t wait for you.” He cranes his neck to look at the Man, who has one hand on his dick and the other hand ready to finger the Boy’s hole. “Hey. Look at me.” He does. “You gotta go in slow first.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

S Knees R updick light
pucple cock
Ste7en reclining pur

 

After I spent a whole day and night on a bunch of music and other tangents, it occurred to me. This guy doesn’t want to see me be clever or funny or any of that shit. I’m giving him candy and you don’t want fuckin’ candy. You want meat. Prime rib. Succulent rump roast. And fruit. Sweet peach ass. Tight, I mean tart, cherry. The only confection you’re looking for is a doughnut because it has a warm hole.I abandoned all that and found my bearings, Captain. So, as the bullethole glass says,
There’s been a change of plan.

 

 

And yes these colors are the ones cycling through the glass. Because that’s the level of detail in this shit! 

We never had a 3way, but I can tell you a little about this one.

I had this guy named Rey once.
He’d come over almost every Saturday
after he ran errands.

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He and his friend of his, “Big Steve,” was in town and while they were out drinking, my name came up and then they’re all ginned up for dp.

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You can see how you measure up. You know “rey” is Spanish for “king,” right? But I never called him that. That’s your nick. One of them.

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Stevie FrBl2

Now I've always had a major orange crush on Stevie Nicks

In fact, this is my favorite incarnation, Seven Wonders Stevie

And it’s not just because I have a jones for 7s. I will say that “Seven Wonders” is not written by Nicks, but instead is a song her friend Sandy Stewart who, after Nicks got her a record deal and Cat Dancer tanked, that was pretty much the last we heard of Sandy until Tango In The Night came out. (I was, actually, one of the ten people that bought Cat Dancer and dug it.) It’s always been a musical sweet spot for me—I love any song where that airhead thought the lyric was “I went down all the way to Emmaline” which makes no sense, but she kept such a hard on for it, that’s how the song was recorded. 

So when my line producer friend Holly called me outta the blue one night and asked me to meet her and her friends at the sushi place by my house, when she told me that “the friend” was Sandy fucking Stewart, I put on my pretty boy clothes and jetted over there. Sandy was a doll and that “ten people that bought it” line? I stole that from her. But I told her that was WAY back in cassette days and I’d looked to replace it forever but it’d gone out of print long ago. So the next day, I get a freshly burned Cat Dancer CD (CD…CD…eh, eh?) delivered to my door. Yeah. I’m a charmed guy like that.

So: I love Stevie. But only if you stretch the imagination is she the composer of fuck songs. I know she was a little slut, and maybe I’m just too gay, but I don’t wanna fuck her, I wanna lay in her gypsy draped bed and gab all night, if she doesn’t get too loopy or self-involved.  I suppose you could make love to “Sara.” “Angel” has some dance hall saloon action that’s a little slinky. But you don’t listen to Nicks and think, Let’s bone.

And Daddy, from here on out we’re all about sex. So here are

THE MATRIX BELOW consists of: a Heat Index—Is the song Lovemaking As Art or is it more like The Art of Fucking, the prior being not as violent, nasty, carnal as the latter, though songs can have elements of each, which is where the third measurement comes in, where the lower 50% means the song leans more toward the more intimate/romantic/”boyfriend” sexual experience, the upper 50 means hope you’ve stretched beforehand. Then there’s the song, the singer or singers, and a slider of visuals and text, each assembled so you don’t have to scroll them, you can come in at any time and you won’t be missing any “beginning.”

And if you’re still with that only-listen-to-the-spotify-Mac-channel dude, just skip to the next non-musical sextion. But you’ll find the link to the song if your cursor turns into a hand icon as it hovers over.

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"Cruel World" by

Lovemaking As Art

Lana Del Rey

The Art of Fucking

From Ultraviolent

Median

Lana Del Rey is a fatal beauty. A retro lounge singer-slash-moll by way of California surfer chick and the two disparate personalities would seem to be completely split. She’s a total American—indulgence, dependent independence, the kind of daughter, on the surface, any Republican would be proud to call their own. That is until she winds up running guns, falling for every slick gambler, Ivy League rogue, Bad Guy, and temper beast who happens to cruise by her in just the right car or bike.

“Cruel World,” from her third album Ultraviolence isn’t as musically prismatic as her recent masterpieces like the universally adored Norman Fucking Rockwell, but she emerged practically fully-formed and has only polished the fine, strong marble she was born with, so any Del Rey album from Ultraviolence on is a superior work by one of the most adventurous songwriters working today.

Written off as a cartoon gimmick and practically run out of the music industry by fire and pitchforks after a too-early Saturday Night Live appearance where she practically transformed into Sue Storm and by the time the stunned barely-there applause began, she had all but disappeared. But record companies are dicks who turn talents into label harlots and Del Rey was taking laser-focused notes.

Which is why “Cruel World” is such a great Del Rey song and why it’s a fantastic fuck tune. With Del Rey, you’re always going to get the full surround sound experience—the girl has a producer’s ear that could make Jack Antonoff irrelevant—but “Cruel World” replaces the luxury lounge aesthetic with almost menacing tribal drums, dreamy and doomed echoes, silkily moving from airy whisper to throaty vamp to cliff-jumping scream. She’s might not have escaped heartbreak but she’s nobody’s patsy. This song is meeting your ex lover for one last fling. Despite his claims he doesn’t love you anymore, you know better. So you slink in front of him in your carelessly sexual skin and keep your distance only to invade his personal space enough to make him want you, only to slide out of reach again.

Then you get to know each other again, bodies moving together, remembered lust, and just as your sufficiently hard as granite, she grabs your dick and twists it. It hurts at first, but she knows you like your buttons pushed, just as you pretend that you have all the power. You move in for a kiss and as you close your eyes to soft lips, they snap open seconds later when it’s less lip more teeth. This is a sexual partner who knows your weaknesses.

Because you’re young, you’re wild, you’re free
You’re dancing circles around me
You’re fucking crazy
Oh, you’re crazy for me

And it’s that madness that brought you into her bed in the first place. And the song Valhallas sounding far away and intimate at the same time and you find yourself using all your usual, used moves but this time there’s something a little cruel about it, which is part of the appeal. You had her, now you’ve lost her, and you’re never getting her back. So this rapturous, ravenous reunion you’re trying to capture something that’s not yours anymore and there’s a newness to her moves and you’re a little thrown off your game. She’s stronger than you gave her credit for and now you’re seeing that played out on sheets and the dying of the daylight. This might be the best sex you’ve ever had with this partner and, sorry, pal, this is your last hurrah. But knowing the ending can help you with the existing, so you make the most of it while you can.

You appreciate these nuances that are new to you. The kisses don’t make you dizzy because as her tongue entwines with yours, you’re sobering with the fact this is the last time you’re going to have that flavor. So you enjoy it more. Thinking maybe if you’re as good as she is, maybe…you’ll be back.

"Miss Amor"/"Miss Cameraderie" by

Lovemaking As Art

Azealia Banks

The Art of Fucking

From Broke With Expensive Taste

Median

If I, could lay next to ya, boy I, boy  I
See eye, oh see my heart
Modern witch I are
Delightful miss amor, señor señor
Be mine, oh be my art
I’m gonna make it work, for you ya ya

“Miss Amor”


It’s the sound, the hip and hip and now
When I hip you…
Hip you hound, get down or get tied up and twound…
Who’s the hip new, bitch you found?

“Miss Cameraderie”

Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

"Fly Me Away" by

Lovemaking As Art

Lana Del Rey

The Art of Fucking

From Ultraviolent

Median

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Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

.

"I Wanna Be Your Man" by

Lovemaking As Art

Lana Del Rey

The Art of Fucking

From Ultraviolent

Median

Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

"Cruel World" by

Lovemaking As Art

Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

Curve

The Art of Fucking

Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

From Ultraviolent

Median

Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.

.

"Cruel World" by

Lovemaking As Art

Scissor Sisters

The Art of Fucking

From Ultraviolent

Median

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"Cruel World" by

Lovemaking As Art

Lana Del Rey

The Art of Fucking

From Ultraviolent

Median

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text for azealiah

 

Lana Del Rey is a fatal beauty. A retro lounge singer-slash-moll by way of California surfer chick and the two disparate personalities would seem to be completely split. She’s a total American—indulgence, dependent independence, the kind of daughter, on the surface, any Republican would be proud to call their own. That is until she winds up running guns, falling for every slick gambler, Ivy League rogue, Bad Guy, and temper beast who happens to cruise by her in just the right car or bike.

“Cruel World,” from her third album Ultraviolence isn’t as musically prismatic as her recent masterpieces like the universally adored Norman Fucking Rockwell, but she emerged practically fully-formed and has only polished the fine, strong marble she was born with, so any Del Rey album from Ultraviolence on is a superior work by one of the most adventurous songwriters working today.

Written off as a cartoon gimmick and practically run out of the music industry by fire and pitchforks after a too-early Saturday Night Live appearance where she practically transformed into Sue Storm and by the time the stunned barely-there applause began, she had all but disappeared. But record companies are dicks who turn talents into label harlots and Del Rey was taking laser-focused notes.

Which is why “Cruel World” is such a great Del Rey song and why it’s a fantastic fuck tune. With Del Rey, you’re always going to get the full surround sound experience—the girl has a producer’s ear that could make Jack Antonoff irrelevant—but “Cruel World” replaces the luxury lounge aesthetic with almost menacing tribal drums, dreamy and doomed echoes, silkily moving from airy whisper to throaty vamp to cliff-jumping scream. She’s might not have escaped heartbreak but she’s nobody’s patsy. This song is meeting your ex lover for one last fling. Despite his claims he doesn’t love you anymore, you know better. So you slink in front of him in your carelessly sexual skin and keep your distance only to invade his personal space enough to make him want you, only to slide out of reach again.

Then you get to know each other again, bodies moving together, remembered lust, and just as your sufficiently hard as granite, she grabs your dick and twists it. It hurts at first, but she knows you like your buttons pushed, just as you pretend that you have all the power. You move in for a kiss and as you close your eyes to soft lips, they snap open seconds later when it’s less lip more teeth. This is a sexual partner who knows your weaknesses.

Because you’re young, you’re wild, you’re free
You’re dancing circles around me
You’re fucking crazy
Oh, you’re crazy for me

And it’s that madness that brought you into her bed in the first place. And the song Valhallas sounding far away and intimate at the same time and you find yourself using all your usual, used moves but this time there’s something a little cruel about it, which is part of the appeal. You had her, now you’ve lost her, and you’re never getting her back. So this rapturous, ravenous reunion you’re trying to capture something that’s not yours anymore and there’s a newness to her moves and you’re a little thrown off your game. She’s stronger than you gave her credit for and now you’re seeing that played out on sheets and the dying of the daylight. This might be the best sex you’ve ever had with this partner and, sorry, pal, this is your last hurrah. But knowing the ending can help you with the existing, so you make the most of it while you can.

You appreciate these nuances that are new to you. The kisses don’t make you dizzy because as her tongue entwines with yours, you’re sobering with the fact this is the last time you’re going to have that flavor. So you enjoy it more. Thinking maybe if you’re as good as she is, maybe…you’ll be back.

"Cruel World" by

Lovemaking As Art

Lana Del Rey

The Art of Fucking

From Ultraviolent

Median

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he cries. “Oh…God…oh…!” And the Man takes his worship of the Boy’s hole.

“I love it when you get into it!” And with that, he returns to devouring the Boy’s hole.

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“Gimme that pussy,” he says as forcefully as he takes it. More moaned words escape the Boy’s lips.
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he cries. “Oh…God…oh…!” And the Man takes his worship of the Boy’s hole.

“I love it when you get into it!” And with that, he returns to devouring the Boy’s hole.

“Oh God. Oh fuck! Oh God. God!

“Gimme that pussy,” he says as forcefully as he takes it. More moaned words escape the Boy’s lips.
And this is what happenes wht
i return

 

 

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he cries. “Oh…God…oh…!” And the Man takes his worship of the Boy’s hole.

“I love it when you get into it!” And with that, he returns to devouring the Boy’s hole.

“Oh God. Oh fuck! Oh God. God!

“Gimme that pussy,” he says as forcefully as he takes it. More moaned words escape the Boy’s lips.
And this is what happenes wht
i return

 

MODULE TITLE

THE AMAZING FEATURE TITLE THAT HAS AN AMAZING AMOUNT OF WORDS INN IT

he cries. “Oh…God…oh…!” And the Man takes his worship of the Boy’s hole.

“I love it when you get into it!” And with that, he returns to devouring the Boy’s hole.

“Oh God. Oh fuck! Oh God. God!

“Gimme that pussy,” he says as forcefully as he takes it. More moaned words escape the Boy’s lips.
And this is what happenes wht
i return

 

 

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Exploding onto the rap/hiphop scene in 2013 with nary an album to her name with the kind of reception and level of talent that would fuck anybody’s mind up, Azealia Banks is, six years later, still one of the best rappers—of any gender—working today. So much rap today seems to have taken a cue from the mumblecore movement, but Banks’ lyrics are crystal clear while consistently freshly innovative, disarmingly smart, and orchestrated with fluid dexterity. She’s a major talent.

Instead she’s now known as social media maniac, for some inexplainable reason deciding to explode her career by taking up arms against the likes of Iggy Azalea, Nikki Minaj, Zayne Malik, Kendrick Lamar, Rhianna, even Beyoncé, and most famously furiously freaked out after spending a weekend with Elon Musk and Grimes, not yet pregnant at the time with her and Musk’s space baby. No matter. If she only produces the one album, she’ll still be remembered as a major talent, if a major whackjob. If anything, she’s a brat. And the one-two slap of both “Misses” (“Amor” and “Cameraderie”) are perfect examples of that brattiness.

So much hip hop is great fuck music but this duo, sister songs in a way, begin with playful, speedy xylophone. It’s spontaneous sex—a slap on the ass as your lover’s walking by you not quite dressed for that dinner date that turns into the reason you wind up apologizing for showing up at the salad course. It’s tickling, touching, flirting, teasing but it gets down to business real quick, deep synth pulsating and a melody that turns lush and full when just seconds early giggled with “ba-da-da-ba-barump-bump-bump” rhymeplay. Suddenly the clothes are off, your mouths are hungrier than they were gonna be after that stingy appetizer—what was up with that?

The “Miss” duet is sex that throws your head back, laugh, or yell, “This ass is so good!” but it’s no laughing matter, this is serious fucking. Playground sex still, but you’re messing around with the schoolyard bully. And with any picked-on/bully dynamic, there’s a powerplay buzzing underneath where that color turns just a shade, it’s really all about sexual politics. She’s a button pusher outside the studio and in, with layered dynamics (wait for the hero trumpet in “Miss Cameraderie,” timed like triumphal cumming), kitchen sink enthusiasm, and studio vet confidence. This is cumming too quick but not regretting it. This is the quickie. This is why you come back for (longer) seconds.