AMATEUR XXX STORIES
-
ALPHABETICAL SEX STORY LISTINGS:
A -
B -
C -
D -
E -
F -
G -
H -
I -
J -
K -
L -
M -
N -
O -
P -
Q -
R -
S -
T -
U -
V -
W -
X -
Y -
Z
Blading in California
Blading in California
By Muse Calliope
Story codes: MF cons, oral
--------------------------------------------------------
This is a work of erotic fiction and should only be
viewed by adults. Minors and those who are easily
offended should not proceed. This is a work of fantasy,
and no resemblance with any living person is intended.
Any such resemblance is entirely coincidental and was
not the intention of the author.
--------------------------------------------------------
1.
Hey there, people, I'm Bobby Brown
They say I'm the cutest in town
My car is fast, my teeth are shiny
I tell all the they can kiss my heini
(Frank Zappa)
I was not dating him for long, since he was not really
my kind of man. Too superficial, too much convinced of
his looks, his sex appeal, and definitely not
intellectual enough for a relationship beyond the wanton
bonking we enjoyed for some time.
To give you an example of his background: On our first
date he took me to a brainless horror of blood
sucking vampires in present day L.A. Don't get me wrong.
I have nothing against L.A. In fact I like California; I
liked it the very first moment I set a foot on Pacific
Beach in San Diego, after a 20 hour journey from London.
London, England, that is; or to be precise: Camberwell,
part of the borough of Lewisham, should you be interested
in some European geography.
Camberwell is probably the grottiest part of Southern
London, and has neither the class of neighbouring
Dulwich Village, nor the bohemian flair of the better
known Brixton. It is, however, the place where I had to
spend the first twenty-five years of my life; and if you
want to understand why I never left San Diego again, you
have to understand the connotation of growing up in
Camberwell. I guess in American you would
compare it with being born at the lower east side
(whatever that means).
For a Camberwell the idea and most definitely the
actual act of inline skating along Pacific Beach towards
La Jolla is like stepping into an episode of Baywatch.
And David (that was his name), even though he had no
resemblance with a certain popular actor, was clearly
something not to be seen in any part of London.
One of the advantages of west bound jet lag is the
experience of witnessing a sunrise at 4:30 a.m. Pacific
Time. It may be more impressive coming from Europe to
the East Coast, facing the nascent sun in the warm waves
of Miami Beach, but for me the cold Pacific, the white
reflection of the wave tops, and the thundering, foaming
water was enough to bring tears to my eyes. You may not
believe me, but I had never before seen the ocean.
Besides Brighton, of course, but that does not really
count.
So, to cut a long short, the ocean and the sunrise
was responsible for dragging me out at first light every
day of my first week. Skating along the beach, dressed
in light clothes with proper protective gear, I studied
carefully my fellow early morning risers, scrutinising
enviously the elegant joggers and skaters that started
to fill the curb along the sand.
Looking at the women with full makeup at 5 a.m., I was
reminded of the game we sometimes played in the London
tube: Guessing the country of origin of the tourists in
front of us. How do you spot an American girl? Look for
the one wearing heavy makeup and runners. That was of
course the time before high platform runners and boots
became the standard foot wear of all over the
world, except maybe Milan, where the natural elegance of
Italian women prevents such tastelessness.
Looking into the bright sunlight, I also realised why
everybody in this country had eyes like an insect, due
to the modern addendum of a reflecting blade across the
face, what our might have called sun glasses.
Now with blades across our faces and blades on our feet,
we resemble more and more those creatures out of early
science fiction movies.
But I am getting a little distracted from my original
intention, which was telling you about David (or Dave,
as in "call me Dave"), whom I met in my second week at
around 5.45 a.m. He bashed into me after haphazardly
overtaking an elderly couple. Due to the facing sun and
my lack of blades, I could not react in time to avoid
the impact. After spinning around and some desperate
movements to maintain balance, I performed an
involuntary summersault across the little concrete wall,
separating the beach from the curb.
Please don't take me for naive. I have been dating
since I was 14, and I lost my innocence at 16 (which
happens to be the age of consent in England). But I have
never really met an American, or shall I say Californian
boy. in Camberwell have generally white skin and
brown teeth. Dave had brown skin, hair, and his
shiny teeth reminded me of a line in a Frank Zappa song.
Well, the next line of named song was a natural thing to
happen later in our acquaintance. But let's not rush
things here.
"Are you alright?". He was leaning over the wall staring
down on the tempting my body must have provided
lying like a beetle on sand close to the rising tide.
His metallic eyes did not reveal his expression, but I
gave him the benefit of the doubt that he was genuinely
worried about the consequences of his aggressive
skating.
Spitting out some sand and clumsily rolling over on my
side, I blinked into the bright light and asked the
shadowy creature still lurking over the wall.
"Is that your way of chatting up girls?"
He started to stutter some response, but I was not in
the mood to listen to his excuses.
Looking along the wall, I realised that the next steps
where about 50 yards away. No chance to reach them
without getting out of my skates. I slowly stood up,
which caused me to sink ankle deep into the dry sand,
checked my bones and looked to the face above me.
"Well, you clearly succeeded, because I need you to help
me up that wall."
After a brief moment of hesitation, he reached out and
offered me his hands. I stood one foot against the wall
and grabbed his upper arms, while he tried to get a grip
under my shoulders. Ready to scratch his face, should
his hands move closer to my breast, I found reassuringly
firm deltoid muscles under his shirt.
"Here you go!" he said and I felt his strength pulling
me off the ground. Since he was still wearing his
skates; and I was considerably lower than he, it was not
an easy task. Half way up, with both my skates on the
brim of the wall, my sweltering anger overcame my good
upbringing. Pressing against the wall with both feet, I
had no difficulty breaking whatever balance he had left,
heavily bent over and connected to the ground merely by
a few inches of round rubber.
"Shit!" was all he screamed, before I hit the ground
again. This time I was prepared for the impact. His body
landed heavily on me, which took my breath away. His
razor blades fell off, and I was looking into green
eyes; they were as green as the foaming waves, that
started to reach up to us. (Romance, here I come!)
"Quid pro quo." I said with a smile.
"Wha'?"
"Pleased to meet you. I am Calliope."
"Wha'?"
"That's the name of a Muse, you know."
"You're not from here. Are you Irish?"
"No, I am from Camberwell."
"Wha'?"
2.
Oh God I am the American dream
I do not think I'm too
An' I'm a handsome son of a bitch
I'm gonna get a good job and be real rich
(Frank Zappa)
We ended up along the beach, sitting outside a coffee
shop, where we did not have to get out of our skates. At
six in the morning the place was not exactly full, and
the smile of the waitress was still a little bit rusty,
when she scanned our sand covered bodies.
Of course it was David who suggested this joint after
more small talk overusing the word "what" on his side. I
did not make it very difficult for him, since I found
myself genuinely interested. To give him credit, he
tried pretty hard to keep a conversation going; and
after his ears got used to my southern London accent,
even the frequency of the whats dropped to a bearable
number. He asked me what I was doing in San Diego, and
when I told him that I was here to escape the London
wheather, he gave me a shiny smile. His physical shape
was more impressive than his eloquence, but since the
opposite maybe true for me, I counted myself content.
When the waitress came to take our orders, I went for
fresh orange juice and scrambled eggs. Once I ordered
tea outside Britain, but you are supposed to learn from
your mistakes.
"Thought you English drink tea in the morning?" he asked
with a polite smile.
"You probably listened a bit too often to a certain
song. Do you have Werewolfs in New Orleans, like Sting
sings in "Moon over Bourbon Street"?"
This was the first crucial mistake in my conversation.
His smile broadened, and I was swiped by a fresh
eagerness in his behaviour: "Hey, you're into horror
movies?"
Of course I could have turned his immediate invitation
down, but I was a bit flattered by the fact that this
handsome guy was asking me out on a date. Later I
realised that San Diego is swarming with similar looking
guys, and that David was by no means the handsome son of
a bitch of the Zappa song. But he was fascinated by my
white complexion and black hair, which reminded him of
one of his favourite comic book characters, some Lady
Death as he explained, written by a bloke from London,
as he explained eagerly. But my guess was that his
curiosity was more raised because up to that day he had
not fucked a from England, and clearly not one from
Camberwell.
So I followed him to this swarming cinema complex, where
from all the available he selected the one with
the vampires. I barely managed to sit through it. So
after the big vampire villain was dead and the half
vampire hybrid was cured, David and I ended up in his
car.
"You look great, girl!" was his invitation to proceed
with more lively matters. Although I knew what was about
to come, I enjoyed the compliment like most other
would. I left the initiative to him, and was only hoping
he had a decent place to go. Heavy physical exercise on
the rubber matt of his car was not high on my agenda.
Nothing against sex in a car. I have wonderful memories
of my first boyfriend burying his face in my wet pussy,
kneeling before my seat, my legs spread wide open, one
tucked behind the wheel and the other resting on the
dashboard. All windows were fogged from inside by our
steamy action, and it took us some time to get a clear
view before we headed back through the cold London night
to my place. It also took some time to get the
deep grid marks left by the rubber matt out of my
boyfriends knees. That was true love, kneeling on this
floor while giving me my first orgasms! But since I had
a wage suspicion that with David I would end up on the
rubber grid, I was relieved when he suggested coffee at
his place.
I always find it an exceptional example of pseudo
communication, when a guy asks a at 11 p.m. to have
coffee at his place, when in reality all he wants is
sex. This is a cross cultural phenomenon, except that in
non Anglo Saxon and culinary more advanced countries,
like France, Germany or Italy, the offer mostly includes
some alcoholic beverage. But since for many people in
Britain or the US alcohol and sex have similar sinful
connotations, the politically correct surrogate offer of
a late night coffee is widely used.
I slightly got David on the wrong foot went I suggested
to substitute coffee for a glass of dry Chardonnay. In
turn I was surprised to hear (instead of a what) that he
did not have any at home, only some Miller light.
Although I do not share the arrogance of my European
friends, who would laugh at the offer of American beer,
I dared to ask him whether we could buy a bottle of
California wine. But since my request (" Do you fancy
getting some from the Off License?") generated another
"what", followed by a blank look, I quickly embraced his
coffee invitation.
His place was fairly decent, a small condo close to the
Beach on the way to La Jolla. I settled on a chair, some
distance away from the bed, and took the Miller light
option after David realised with some embarrassment that
he was out of coffee after all. Somehow his lack of
preparations comforted me in my line of thought that he
did not plan to take me home. But soon the suspicion
grew, that he might not care much about the wishes of
his conquests in the first place.
Some people judge the owner of a place by the furniture
or the pictures at the wall. Well, the furniture was
cheap and the pictures comprised of a few posters with
either sporty women at the beach (at least no
centrefolds), and some horror or science fiction heroes.
Personally, I judge the owner of a place by the content
of the bookshelf, since books tell me enough about the
person who lives in the room. To my surprise Dave was
the owner of a modest wooden construct, which qualified
for the description bookshelf by the skin of it's teeth.
I stepped closer and my eyes flicked over the back of a
few well thumbed books. Based on the experience of
tonight, I did not expect to see Wardsworth or Byron,
more authors like Lovecraft or Poe, but the books were
mainly collections of monthly DC or Marvel comics. As I
started to browse, the tune of the Sting song filled the
room. I don't take coffee, I take tea, my dear. Grinning
from ear to ear David fiddled around with his HiFi
tower, which he must have bought from the designer of
the Space Shuttle cockpit.
After several long and boring discussions with my
brothers on the advantages of certain amplifiers and the
right length of a speaker cable, I was convinced that
adolescent spent their money either on the tuning of
cars or on their HiFi system. I'm an alien, I'm a legal
alien. I'm an Englishmen in New York. Thanks for
reminding me.
He sat down on a chair next to me, opened his can with a
splash, and started to gulp down the cold liquid without
taking his eyes from me. I sipped my beer and endured
his stare. I was a little bit surprised that he did not
start getting physical immediately.
"So what're you doing?"
"Why I am here in California?"
"Yeah!"
"To escape the London whether."
He laughed, more relaxed now compared to this morning.
"Vacation then?"
"Nope. Job offer."
"What sort of job?"
I gave him an inviting smile. "Three guesses. If you
guess right, I owe you a favour. You guess wrong, you
owe me a favour. Deal?"
"What sort of favour?"
"Deal?
"Deal."
He looked me over and pursed his lips.
"You're an actress, or a model."
I laughed at his compliment. He was pretty clever.
"That's cheating. The answer is no to both of your
flattering suggestions. You're two down.
"Come on."
"Ok. Second try.
He paused for almost a minute. I could see his mind
working. Why would somebody from England come to San
Diego?
"You're in the travel business. You work for a travel
agency."
"Wrong. Not even close."
Again he paused, than he shrugged his shoulders.
"I give up. You work in a hotel."
"Cold as a dead fish. You think I am a waitress?"
"So what are you doing?"
"I started a job as a postdoc."
It took some time for the meaning of this words to sink
in. He became slightly irritated.
"You're a doctor?"
"Yes, but not a medical doctor. I am a scientist. I have
just finished my PhD and this is my first job as a
postdoc. I work at the University of Sand Diego in La
Jolla."
He stared at me, as if I had told him I was an
astronaut. A scientist did not fit into his of
potential female jobs, not in the same ball park as
model or travel agent.
"So what about the favour?" I asked with a smile.
"Go on. What do you want?"
"Later, we have enough time for this. First tell me what
you are doing."
He hesitated, than he grinned and as I expected he got
the idea.
"Three guesses. Same conditions."
I accepted. So how should I start. I wanted to be fair
on him, but the first thought that came to my mind was a
David Hasselhoff look alike coast guard in swimming
trunks on a chair with the typical glasses on his face.
"You are in the sports business. You run a fitness
studio, or a health club."
"Not bad. But wrong."
I got bored of my own game.
"You are bodyguard of a Hollywood star."
"Come on, be serious."
"No, you are an actor! Everybody in California is
somehow in the business. At least that's what I
heard back home."
He had an uneasy smile over his face.
"Not really, but I do some acting. Otherwise I work for
a local security company."
I was surprised to have guessed it right.
"What kind of films do you make? Have I seen you?"
He blushed and did not look me in the eyes:
"I do porn movies."
3.
Eventually me and a friend
Sort of drifted along into S&M
I can take about an hour on the tower of power
'Long as I get a little
(Frank Zappa)
Well, when you accept the coffee invitation (or the
Miller light), you also accept the sex that comes with
the package. This is part of the non verbal
communication, and you should be fair enough to follow
it through even on your first date. How far the sex goes
is certainly up to you, but I was well aware of the
rules, when I turned around and accepted his hungry
kiss. His tongue was penetrating my mouth and his hands
marched from the shoulders to my breasts. When he
pressed me against the bookshelf, I felt his strength
and his arousal. I must admit I was pretty horny,
despite the still lingering jet lag.
The last time I had had sex was ages ago on the other
side of the world. Maybe not ages, but a few weeks could
sometimes feel like an eternity.
Writing up my PhD had left me short of my active life
besides science books and the laboratory workbench.
Although I had avoided a stable relationship for various
reasons, the usual ongoing laboratory gave me
enough opportunities to forget my experiments in the
evenings. Not all scientists are the dull nerds people
believe them to be. In fact working together long hours
creates a lot of tension between colleagues. I had ample
opportunities to relieve some of this tension in places
like the darkroom, while my experiments kept on cooking
or incubating on the bench next door.
A science lab is almost never deserted, at least if it
is a productive and cutting edge institution, where each
inch of lab space is competed for by numerous people
from all over the world. Sometimes researchers work in
shifts, just to avoid the cluttering of equipment or the
cueing up for crucial machines. But the dark room was
the one room in the department, where you could lock
yourself in without raising any suspicions.
Instead of messing around with photo developer and X ray
films, I got messy with the of a couple of guys. Off
course time was a crucial factor. My record blow job was
one minute and 25 seconds with my PhD supervisor, who
was a high flying immunologist at the peak of his
academic output and in desperate need of a tenured
position. Afterwards we had still enough time to develop
two gel X rays, that allowed us to frown over some
inconclusive data while walking past the waiting
outside. The cleverer ones might have guessed, but they
did not dare to mention anything to the head of the
department.
I know, it was totally unethical of my mentor to start a
relationship with a dependent student, but you have to
understand the pressure these work under.
Approaching middle age, fighting for a tenured position,
competing for grant money and publication space, and
absolutely no time to date, since all free time is
focused on their Nobel price aspiring work, which so
very often ends up in the bin next to the crap of an
undergraduate freshman.
So if a nice enters the field of science,
they forget their Oxbridge education, and let their
sperm level cloud their brain. Especially since
attracting undergraduates into science is a
difficult one. The pay is lousy and you could earn
easily ten grand more a year (pounds Sterling off
course) just wiggling your ass on high heels in a bank
or a fairly decent company.
So I did not blame my boss, when I saw the huge bulk in
his pants on those occasions, when we worked late and I
had to lean over him to reach for some of a gel
or a printout of my petty scientific work. Since
virtually his entire waking life was spend in the lab,
he was pretty desperate for a good lay, and it was easy
for me to lure him into the dark room.
Once he had sprayed his hot over me for the first
time, I had him literally by the balls. Not that sexual
harassment is a big issue in the UK, at least not money
wise, but you know how funny we English behave, when it
comes to sex. We mostly pretend it does not exist.
Taking advantage of a student on departmental premises
is unlikely to increase any changes you might have to
get this senior lecturer position. My boss was not
stupid.
Do not misunderstand me, I am not the stupid bimbo, who
slept her way up to an academic degree, like in so many
silly stereotypical on high school tarts
graduating with their oral and vaginal skills. I really
like science, and I passed my BSc and my PhD with
honours.
Fucking my supervisor was more useful in other matters:
It got my name as first author on some of his scientific
publications, although I had done hardly any work for
it. It helped to persuade the bitchy departmental
administrator to cough up the money for this very
important scientific meeting at the Breakers Hotel in
Palm Beach, Florida (where one single shark could have
wiped out the entire scientific elite of cellular
immunology, as they were all paddling in close vicinity
by the hotel beach, showing off their pot bellies in the
warm water). And ultimately it made him write to his
former boss, a professor of immunology at La Jolla and
definitely the biggest name in my scientific field.
The Professor happened to be in desperate need of a new
postdoc. After all, besides being a good lay, I also had
a pretty impressive scientific track record, which
certainly helped with the application. My former boss
and I parted as friends, since I always live up to my
depts. But I refused to marry him, no matter how much he
pleaded after our last clandestine encounter in my flat,
where I had introduced him to the, shall we say, kinkier
aspects of sex.
All this went through my head while Dave was fondling my
breasts. He was much too tender for my liking, and
obviously needed some encouragement. I reached down and
got a strong grip around his groin, taking the whole
package in one hand.
"Easy baby!" he gasped.
I bit his lower lip. "I think you are somebody who likes
his sex hot, don't you. So stop playing with my
and show me something real. People say male porn stars
are selected for their size. How about you? Strip to
your bare ass!"
4.
Oh God I am the American dream
With a spindle up my butt till it makes me scream
An' I'll do anything to get a head
I lay awake nights saying: "Thank you, Fred!"
(Frank Zappa)
I certainly enjoy a muscular male body. Even more since
I am a lazy couch potato. Not that I am fat or plumb or
even chubby, I am just not much of a gym person. I keep
a natural fitness by my inline skating, which also helps
to keep the cellulite in check, so my ass is pretty much
the best part of my body. But Dave was a real beauty.
Firm arm and shoulder muscles, all well defined, deep
tan, flat stomach, nice firm ass. He was a real dish,
almost like a birthday surprise, your friends might
organise for you as a treat.
I enjoyed touching his body, stroking his shaven chest.
As soon as his circumcised cock was out of his pants, I
held tight, pulling him to his bed.
The difference between being a good lay or a bad lay is
very much based on the way you give head to your beau in
question. I am not talking about romance, or love, or
feelings or the emotional part of a relationship. All I
mean is the pure, straightforward sex on a one night
stand or with a distant acquaintance. At the end, for a
man, it all comes down to blow jobs. Even if he is one
of the rare exceptions, who does not want to come in
your mouth, or all over your face, he still likes the
wet foreplay of having his dick (and balls) at
least as much as the actual act of shagging you.
If you are good at him off, you are a good lay,
if you are pathetic, you are a lousy lay. Period. You
ever come across a bloke who tells you the opposite,
don't trust him, don't fuck him, don't even date him,
because he is most likely a liar (or if not, he is a
virgin and has never had his dick in the first
place). In any case, the wrong guy for you.
Therefore, I was absolutely in control with Dave. I went
on my knees, took a tight grip, looked him in the eyes
and whispered: "I am going to suck you baby! I am going
to make you come all over my face. "
Hell, this is what I learned with my first friend
(the one with the rubber grid on his knees). He made
damn sure I learned it, even buying me books on "how
to". Giving a good head is not easy, it requires some
practise. You don't have to go to the great length of
deep throating any monster cock that comes in front of
your mouth, this is just a juvenile porn fantasy. The
secret of giving a good blow job, is to concentrate not
only on one thing at a time.
This is were most inexperienced fall short. Don't
think having his dick in your mouth will do the trick.
No, you have to support your mouth by some handy work. I
always use two hands. One hand has to stroke the shaft
of his penis, while I suck and lick and lick and suck.
The other hand has to work his balls. The best thing is
to grab his scrotum with one hand from behind, so that
his balls are fairly tight and exposed to your tongue.
Then, change the rhythm, move up and down the shaft with
your mouth, make him wet all over, alternate between
sucking his balls and his dick. Make slurping
sounds, grunt, moan, but never forget to support your
action by stroking the shaft of his penis.
Very advanced experts also involve his prostate gland,
by sticking up the lubricated index finger of one hand
deep into his anus, pressing to the base of his penis
root. That in combination with the will send
every over the edge.
On top of this, you can drive him wild by talking dirty.
What you say does not matter, even silly platitudes like
"come all over me!" or "shoot it baby!" will do the
trick. I always found eye contact very important.
Now comes the Shakespearean Question: "To swallow, or
not to swallow?" Sorry to be pedantic, but if you don't
swallow, you only get 8 out of 10, even if the rest is
perfect. The reason? A male orgasm may not be as long as
one of ours, especially once you have mastered the multi
orgasm bit, but it takes at least a few seconds. So, if
you do not follow it through by staying tuned to his
desires, you take away the ultimate satisfaction.
I am not saying, he won't like the 8 out of 10 version
(provided you do everything else right). That will
definitely do for weekdays. But on Saturday night, you
have to go for the moon and the stars. Afterwards you
could probably ask him for anything you want, from a
Ferrari to a Diamond ring, if he is loaded. So it is
worth the effort.
However, if you do not want to exchange bodily fluids
(like I did not with Dave), you have to introduce a
rubber at some point in your play. Again, if you are
experienced it is not a problem. Just make sure his dick
is very wet, than take the rubber in your mouth (make
sure the outside is in your mouth), and with one quick
move, supported by your hand, you can slide it down his
shaft. If you do this just before he is about to come,
you won't spoil much of his pleasure.
One more word about the position. like to watch. So
sitting with his back to him, hiding your face behind a
curtain of hair, or doing it in complete darkness is not
the best idea. I prefer to sit between his legs with him
on a chair, looking him in the eyes when I talk dirty to
him, so I can also bring my into action, rubbing
his balls against them, in case I go for his prostate
and need a third hand.
There is one disadvantage to treating your like
this. He might prefer your blow jobs to intercourse. So
if you like being fucked, it is a setback.
"That was absolutely great, baby" was all Dave could
moan, after I was finished with him. Unfortunately, he
was in not much condition to keep up his erection, or to
stay awake, not even talking about returning the favour.
It was my own fault, since I should have known better.
Here was I, playing with myself, dripping wet and horny
like hell, with an American porn actor lying next to me,
whose muscular body could have fucked my brains out, but
whose snoring was breaking my concentration. I let him
sleep.
I give him credit, he fucked my brains out on several
later occasions, but he was spoiled and demanded more
and more blow jobs. Eventually, things entered into the
kind of relationship that has no place in a like
this: The usual boredom, him watching football instead
of fucking me. Me, ending up in his kitchen. We even
stopped inline skating in the morning.
So, in lack of mutual things to talk about, a strikingly
different taste for movies, books, music, food, even
cloth. I told him it was over. He almost cried but I did
not relent. The sex was good until the end, but sisters
in arms, is that really enough? After all, we are not
men.
Eventually I started dating my present boss. The
professor of immunology. Of course he was to
some dried up prune, whose owned half of southern
California. According to his account, the marriage was
not very happy. I did not really care either way, as
long as there were no kids involved. Call me
conservative, but a with a is
definitely off limits.
I did not suck him off in the dark room, but in his car
(back to the roots, I guess). He was a witty,
intelligent, warm hearted and very entertaining
gentleman. The sex was not as good as with Dave, but you
can't have it both ways. We even ended up married. This
is, however, a totally different story, and should be
told elsewhere.
Oh God, Oh God, I'm so fantastic!
Thanks to Freddie, I'm a sexual spastic
And my name is Bobby Brown
Watch me now, I'm going down
(Frank Zappa)
Copyright by Muse Calliope 2002. Do not post this
without my permission.
musecalliope@hotmail.com