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Information Poetic Justice of a One Night Stand
Posted by: Frenuyum - 12-27-2025, 08:42 PM - No Replies

   


I feel sick, diseased and lifeless. I saw the darkest parts of myself today and struggled with the reality long after the hope of ever changing had faded into fantasy. I’m dirty and in need of a shower. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
I washed the sheets today; they were stained and filled with memories I’d rather forget. His name was Alex, and I met him at Nola’s last night after I got off work. He was a tall, skinny, brunet with a lopsided grin. In a bar filled with straight women and ugly old fags, he was the only one I’d fuck with the lights on. It was pathetic, awkward, and unfulfilling. A coupling where all you really want is to cum as fast as possible just so the night would be over. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
His breath smelled of unwashed ass, even after I made him rinse out with mouthwash. A putrid smell I swear I can still smell on my dick, hours after I bid him adieu. But tonight I needed a dumpster, a stranger, someone I would never have to see again. Release is primal, and jerking off only takes you so far. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
I saw stains on my carpet. I wonder if Resolve would truly remove them? Alex was cute, tall and gangly but with way too much body hair. I’ve seen less hair in old 70s porno movies. I told him to get his situation under control; it’s 2007 for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t have weighed more than one-hundred-and-forty pounds, and stood at least six foot three. At first I had fears of breaking him in half, though that fear faded once primal urge took over. When he stripped off his clothes, I admit, I was a bit surprised. Because a monster cock that looked enormous on his small frame fell out of his boxers. And though I know cocks always look bigger on skinny guys, his dick was huge. And I found this endowment rather amusing because he was a total bottom. This gives me a small belief in the idea of a god. Because only the twisted god of the Christians would have the sense of humor to give a total cock slut like Alex such a monster cock. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
Having sex with Alex was like fucking a box of ice, cold and slightly numbing. The noises he made were small and in the wrong places. I thought at first he was simply going through the motions, but his freaky cock was hard the whole time. I don’t think he came, though sex was never about him in the first place. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
I washed my sheets today, three times; I think they might still be dirty. Or maybe it’s just the grime I sense inside myself. His name was Alex, and he told me he was just out of a two month relationship with his once confused best friend. I wonder why all gay boys crush on their straight best friends? Again my belief in a god doubles. At Nola’s, he told me he was tired of jerking off and of sleeping alone. All he wanted from me on this random night was some human contact and a bit of compassion. I guess one out of two isn’t bad. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
I scrubbed my carpets this morning, early, right after I told him to leave my apartment. I can still see the look on his face, a sad look of quiet acceptance. It was heartbreaking to see a fellow human so broken, so conditioned by the world to believe the notion that having sex with another male is morally wrong. I saw hints of tears in his blue eyes as he quickly pulled on his clothes. Alex is still young, young enough to have delusions about one day finding true love and lasting commitments. In the brief time he spent in my bed, I think I might have jaded him, tarnished his golden armor, and set him on a path to becoming another jaded fag, just like me. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
His name was Alex and he was beautiful. His hair smelled of honey and mixed berries, I can still smell his designer cologne on my skin. And his breath was intoxicating, a mixture of beer and cigarettes that always drives me wild. Young and filled with passion, Alex was a tiger in the bedroom. The sex, though primal, was filled with passion and sweat. Why does the innocence smell sweeter before the act, while afterwards it reeks of guilt and self-loathing? Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
I washed myself four times today, I still feel dirty, though. Scrubbing the stains from my carpet was something I could control. Elbow grease works, my carpet is once again spotless. Just like my shower, the fourth time I showered I spent most of the time scrubbing it. My skin smells like 409 bathroom cleaner. My toes and hands are wrinkled, and I don’t think I’ll ever feel clean again. Have you ever fucked someone for the sole purpose of trying to feel alive?
Have you just fucked someone over?

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Information Horse
Posted by: Frenuyum - 12-27-2025, 08:41 PM - No Replies

   



"You got bills?"
"Yeah, but I don’ wanna play for no money, dude. Just play Horse."
“Don’ work dat way. Wanna play, cost you. Not iff’n’ you win. You win, you take the green. What you got?”
“Got five, but my ma give it to me fo’ to buy dinner stuff. Can’t be playin’ for it.”
“No game then. Beat it.”
“You play fair?”
“You disrespectin’ me, boy?”
“No. No. I jus axing, we fixin’ to play for cash.”
“Don’ be disrespectin’ me, boy, you hear what I’m sayin?”
“I hear. I’m ’bout to go then.”
“No yer not. We ’bout to play. For dat five.”
“I needs to go.”
“After. Won’t take long. Put you five on the groun’ here. Lay it on mine, right here.”
“Well, alright. I’m smaller, I go first.”
“Bullshit on dat. My court. Make this.”
“Hey! I can’t dunk! You know dat. I’m 5-5, you what? 6-5?”
“Not my problem man. Make the shot or get an H.”
“I can’ do dat.”
“OK, H on you, den. Here’s my nex’.”
“Told you, I can’ do dat, man!”
“O then. HO. You a pussy, boy. This is takin’ candy from a baby. Make this one.”
“You just gunna dunk five times? You said you’d play fair. How fair is dat, doin’ sommit’ I can’t?”
“You ’bout to cry, boy? Crying ain’t ’bout to save yer five. I don’ mind, though, you wanna cry. You so pussy, wouldn’t surprise me none, you start bawlin’. What you gots now? HOR? Two mo’, then. Make this.”
“You pretty good at those slams, dude. ’Cept’n I see big dudes like you doin’ shit like over their head backwards, changin’ hands midair, throwin’ down wid their left hands, crazy shit, goin’ all LeBron, not just a one hand stuff wid their right hand. You good, dude, but not dat good, you know what I mean?”
“Hey, what’s this? You talkin’ or shootin’ here? No one axed for no lip from you, little boy. You makin’ dat shot? No? HORS then. Fives ’bout mine.”
“You fixin’ to dunk again then? Yer last shot, an’ you ’bout to do another milk toast white boy grandma’s dunk? I’m not even getting to see anythin’ worth five bucks here, know what I’m sayin’, dude? But dat the best you can do, you go ’head. Best you can do, you do it, man. Wanna see yer best, yer last shot. Even if it is dat cheap-ass little girl dunk you can only make wid yer right hand.”
“You lots of talk fo’ someone who not even shot yet, prolly don’ gots no hair no place either. You wanna see what I gots? OK, man, see this!”
“See what, dude? See you slam the ball off the rim and it bounce nice an’ high and never do go through nuttin? Yeah, I see dat. Also see it’s my shot now.”
“Yeah! Yer shot! Can you make a lay-up little boy?”
“Can make this.”
“Oh, you good, man! Fifteen foot set shot. They shoot those back in the day, man. Ain’t nobody shootin’ like dat no mo’. Maybe you not big ’nuff to shoot a jump shot. Not strong ’nuff neither. Here, watch how you do it. See dat?”
“I sees it, man, ’ceptin’ dat ain’t the shot. I got letters ’cause I not do what you do. You gots to do what I do now. You wanna shoot it right, or you wan’ a H?”
“But no one shoot dat way, cuz!”
“You gots to. Sum a us can’t dunk, neither.”
“Dinna say I can’t shoot dat, just dat no one does. OK, fuck. Give it ’ere.”
“Dat’s an H. Shoot this.”
“Hey! Dat’s crap, man. Shoot a jump shot at least.”
“This my shot, man. This it. Twenty feet away, feet on the ground. Do it man, or it’s a O.”
“Fuck!”
“Oh, don’ cry bro. Just a O. You start cryin’, you miss the next one too, too blurry to see the basket. Here, make this.”
“Dat’s the same shot!”
“Sorta like dem dunks, innit?”
“Gimme the damn ball. Fuck!”
“HOR. Getting tight, man. Pressure’s on. Try this one. Maybe you hit the rim this time.”
“Why don you shoot somethin’ else? Why always the same?”
“I like this shot. Like dat you can’t make it, too, dude.”
“Stop callin’ me dude, asshole.”
“Sure. No need get all agro. All you gots to do is make this.”
“Shit! Fuck!”
“Hey, you comin’ closer, man. You hit the rim dat time, you improvin’! Guess we tied now, HORS each. ’Ceptin’ it’s my shot. Whoa, hard times, man. Too much pressure. I’m shakin’ here man. See me shakin’? Don’ know if I can make this. Oh oh oh oh. Hey, looka dat! Yer shot now man. You not ’bout to let some little kid beat you are ya, man?”
“Just shut the fuck up. Gimme the ball.”
“Here man, don’ be nervous. Only your pride and your five riding on this. No pressure man.”
“Shut the fuck up! I’m tryin’ to shoot here.”
“Lips’er sealed, man, sealed tight. Go ’head.”
“FUCK!”
“Good game man. No hard feelings. Hey! Dat’s my money.”
“Cost a playin’, man. You dinna play fair anyway, dat cheap-ass ol’-man shot. I take the cash, you best get lost for I do mor’n’ take the green. You gots some lip on you, you say some shit to me. Don’ like dat none.”
“Give ’im the money, man.”
“Hey, Mo, what you doin’ here?”
“I be watchin’, boy. You can’t do him dat way. He beat you fair ’n square. Take it like a man. You cheat little boys? No one livin’ in my house gonna be dat way. Don’ wan’ dat rep, do you? I don’ wan’ it bein’ said my little bro do dat neither. Look bad on me. Give it up.”
“Hey, I needs dat bread.”
“Then shouldn’t be riskin’ it. Give it.”
“Shit.”
“Thanks, mister.”
“Better get along, sonny.”
THE END

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Information Superheroes
Posted by: Frenuyum - 12-27-2025, 08:39 PM - No Replies

   


The world keeps changing. Have you noticed? We keep moving on, moving forward, sometimes striding, sometimes stumbling, but the movement itself is steady, persistent—moving onward. This occurs in all facets of life, too, from architecture to zoo keeping, from abacuses to super computers, from ‘Mr Watson? Come here; I need you’ to ‘If you want information on your account, please press one.’
Even stories are different today. In the 1950’s a scintillating sex novel appeared in the bookstores. Peyton Place it was called. It was scandalous and had a sex scene between an intoxicated, savage father and a winsome daughter among other libidinous rowdiness. This was new and shocking. Such stories are common fare now, and that book wouldn’t raise even spinsterish eyebrows, where it raised the stock prices of smelling salts companies then.
Comic book superheroes have been updated, too. Those in the early days of the invention could fly, and pictures of them doing so stirred the imagination of every boy who escaped to his bedroom to read them. Many of those, so fired by the pictures and thoughts of the impossible, used bath towels as capes, zoomed around the house with their arms in front of them looking like divers in need of a pool, and some of them were so inspired they leaped off roofs, only to learn that comic books and real life were vastly, sometimes fatally, different.
Today’s superheroes do more than fly. The list of their abilities includes such attributes as technopathy, cryokinesis, intuitive aptitude, empathic mimicry, space-time manipulation, telekinesis and phasing.
Today’s boy of ten isn’t just beguiled by seeing his hero rescue a damsel from a burning building or catch a safe that’s about to crush her. Today’s boy is faced with abilities that yesterday’s boy doesn’t even understand. He takes these abilities in, and his mind is expanded, and he moves forward, much as the architect and the zookeeper do.
But the old is good, too. I look at that list of superhero attributes and shake my head, wondering why, if you were to choose your super-abilities, you would select, say, empathic mimicry, or intuitive aptitude, over super strength, or the ability to fly. Why would you do that? What’s wrong with the old-fashioned super abilities?
I get it when someone wants to be faster than a speeding bullet, leap buildings—hell, they can be tall or short for all that matters, they’re buildings, for God’s sake—in a single bound. I get it about being more powerful than a locomotive; that sounds totally cool in that it defies the laws of physics, like it isn’t every day that my 160 pounds is going to stand on a railroad track, facing off against the ginormous size and lumbering tons of a locomotive and actually stop that mother. Doing that always sounded like a fun thing to do, even if it did make my wrists sore. So doing things like that, having the ability to do things like that, makes sense. Flying, seeing through things, being stronger than anyone else, and faster, too, being able to become invisible or hear a conversation being whispered four blocks away underground in the middle of a heavy metal concert, all that seems a given for a kid’s wish list. But empathic mimicry? Intuitive aptitude? Give me a break here!
In the first place, I’m not even sure what those are. The boy of ten probably does, as he’s a product of his environment, an advanced creature of his times; these things probably are part of him. He may even have a bit of empathic mimicry flowing through veins, part of his bloodstream. Intuitive aptitude? What that sounds like is some sort of super-sized intuition. So it’s kind of girly, right? Intuition, girly, yeah. But maybe what he’s thinking is, it’s some sort of advanced version of gaydar, and what gay kid wouldn’t like to have one of those, right out of the box?
But I still have to think, of that list, good gaydar might not be the preferred choice. Let’s think on it a sec. Let’s imagine.
Okay, so you’re in a bad part of town, it’s just a little after midnight, and you tell your gay friends you’ve had enough bar hopping for the night and just need to be alone. They’re thinking you’re depressed; you’re thinking jock itch and scratching. So you walk away into the fog. The only sounds you hear are the lapping of the cold ocean water against the docks two blocks away, a lonely foghorn stirring the hairs on the back of your neck, the occasional bark of a dog being territorial, and a drunk barfing in a doorway. You walk on and think there might be footsteps behind you. You look and see nothing. Still, your heart is beating a little faster.
You see a dark alley ahead and slip into it. I mean, why not? Doesn’t everyone walk alone into dark alleys late at night in the bad part of town? Well, you do, because, well, because you’re endowed with super powers. You have Intuitive Aptitude.
You’re well off the street now, back in the alley, and you see it dead ends into a solid brick wall. Around you are overflowing garbage cans, the litter of a tired and uncaring population, and the smell of urine, long since decanted. You turn to get out of the trap you’ve wandered into, and see three older teens standing in your path. Ugly, brutish and cruel looking teens. One of them steps a half step forward and shoves you on the shoulder so you stumble backwards, and says, “Hey, look what we get to fuck with tonight.”
Another says, “Yeah, fuck with and then fuck up.”
The third gropes his crotch and cleverly ripostes, “And then just fuck. I got firsts. When we’re ready.”
Well, are you worried? Of course not. Because they don’t know of your powers. You stand in front of them acting like you’re calm, because of your superior powers and all, but somehow there’s a trickle of cold sweat etching its way down the back of your neck. You keep your cool as much as possible and activate your power, thinking while doing so that you know in advance what you’ll learn. Two of the guys will be frightened and won’t really want to be in any sort of scuffle. They’re only there so they can fit in with their friends. What they really want is to be home watching the Beaver on Nick-at-Night reruns; one of them actually has the hots for Barbara Billingsley. The third thug, the one who pushed you, well, he’ll actually be eager to get it on, but you’re sure your powers will tell you that he’s been beaten on by his drunken father, and you know, you just know, if you can make him see how sorry you are for his past problems, put your arm around his shoulders and tell him you’re there for him, he’ll warm up to you.
That’s what you’re pretty sure you’ll find when you do your scan. You press your left thigh with your left thumb while clicking your heels together and saying to yourself, there ’s no place like home, and suddenly you can read their thoughts. They come to you in a crashing wave. You’re aghast. All three of them want to fuck you up, over, around and, well, that way, too.
So what are you thinking as they move in, and the first of them begins hitting you in the nose and the second one kicks you in the balls, solving your itching problem in the worst way, then cuts away your belt with his blade and yanks down your pants? You’re thinking about that list, aren’t you? And thinking the more- powerful-than-a-locomotive skill set might be more useful about now than Intuitive Aptitude.
THE END

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Information Struggling to See the Light
Posted by: Frenuyum - 12-27-2025, 08:38 PM - No Replies

   


His lungs burned as he ran down the alley casting terrified glances over his shoulder every few steps. With each passing moment, the pain in his side intensified until he could no longer bear it and collapsed in a tired heap. Rolling over, he leaned against the brick wall and wiped the sweat from his eyes as he peered back down the alley, listening for any sounds of pursuit.
He pressed a hand to the wound in his side, and winced as blood seeped through his fingers. He could feel his life ooze slowly from his body and knew the end was approaching; the pain already subsiding as the blood pooled beneath him.
His mind, blurred by heroin and lack of sleep, struggled to comprehend between fantasy and reality.
Though only sixteen, he had no illusions about death. He learned long ago that life was seldom fair and for those that lived on the street, life was nothing but stalking demons.
Slumping forward, he began to cry.
And it wasn’t the fact that he would die alone in some deserted alley that caused his tears to stream down his cheeks. It was the realization that he would never get to see his brother again.
Had it only been a year since his father threw him out with a warning to never return? It felt like a lifetime ago, and in his present state, numb from the loss of blood, he thought back to that horrible night when his secret was thrust into the light. In his dementia, the scene played out again, his father bursting into the room, catching him bent over the side of the bed while some stranger thrust wildly into his body. He watched his father nearly beat the man to death before turning his hatred on his own son.
His brother had always been his best friend, and for a moment he wondered what would have happened that night if his brother had been at home instead of being away at college. But that thought quickly slipped away as pain caused him to cough uncontrollably.
So many times he had picked up a pay phone only to hang up before the first ring. How could he tell his brother that for the last year he had been selling his body for heroin?
Quickly, if not painfully, he learned to survive on the streets by first selling his body for shelter, then later for drugs until he existed in a world filled with pain, hunger, and an endless search for drugs. And all this he faced bravely, fighting day to day to preserve this tenuous grip on life.
Despite his religious upbringing, selling himself came easily. Especially when he realized that during the sex, he held all the power over his older companions. And for the first time in his life, he was the one in control, even if that control only lasted for an hour at a time.
There were times, brought on by the daze of drugs when he fantasized about facing his parents, to show them what he had become, to rub it in their faces. But the love for his brother stopped him. His greatest fear was that his older brother would find out the truth and disown him like his parents had so long ago. That thought alone stopped him from ever returning home long after there was a need to stay away.
Shifting his body till his legs were stretched out, he leaned his head back and stared up into the night sky. Looking into the haze above him, his eyes strained to see through the pollution and twinkling lights of the city.
For as long as he could remember, he would peer at the night sky and try to count the stars in the heavens. Knowing it was impossible; he would lay there for hours and count himself to sleep.
As he lay there gripping to the last threads of life, staring at the night sky, he wondered once again if there really was a God up there that looked over humanity. An all-seeing, all-knowing being that loved humanity so much that he would die for them. In his short life, he had never seen evidence of that kind of love, but if he ever needed to believe, that time was now.
Gathering what remained of his strength, he lifted up his eyes, and said in a raspy voice, “Forgive me, I’m sorry.”
As he took the last breath, the sky above him suddenly cleared and the last thing he saw on this earth was a single shining star. His face broke out in a smile and he shut his eyes for the last time.

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Information Way Beyond Empty
Posted by: Frenuyum - 12-27-2025, 08:37 PM - No Replies

   



The house was dark and upon first glance he did not think Scott was home. But upon closer inspection he could see the outline of the blond sitting out on the balcony staring up into the night sky. He didn’t think he could cry anymore but the sight of his boyfriend in the moonlight caused the tears to once again cascade down his cheeks.
He wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and went to the refrigerator to grab the bottle of vodka from the icebox. He filled up a glass and walked outside. He leaned against the rail and lifted the glass to his lips and drank deeply.
“That isn’t going to help, you know.”
He spun around and faced his boyfriend, anger flashing in his blue eyes. “Fuck you.”
“It’s your stomach,” Scott said with a shrug of his shoulders. He leaned back further into his chair, thankful the darkness hid the pain in his eyes.
Justin threw the glass out over the balcony. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Justin threw his hands in the air. “Is there someone else?”
“No,” Scott answered immediately. “There could never be anyone else but you.”
“Then why?” Justin asked as he sunk to his knees in front of Scott. “Don’t you love me?”
Scott tucked his long hair behind his ears and caressed Justin’s cheek. “Of course I love you.”
“Then why did you say no?”
Scott sighed. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Tell me, please,” Justin begged.
Scott looked up as he searched for the right words but he knew there was nothing he could say that would make Justin understand why he could not accept his proposal.
A part of him, a very big part, wanted to marry Justin, someday. But he didn’t want it to happen like this, not without something to offer in return.
“Well, I don’t really believe in marriage.”
“What?” Justin asked, clearly confused. “What do you mean?”
“Even if I was straight and you were a girl, I wouldn’t marry you,” Scott said in a quiet voice. Though by the look on his boyfriend’s face he realized he shouldn’t have blurted out that way.
Justin’s face darkened and his temper boiled to the surface.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Justin asked, scooting back a few feet.
“I just don’t see the point of going through a ceremony that wouldn’t even be legal. I love you, you love me; why can’t we just leave it at that?”
Justin stood up. “Because it’s about commitment, about standing up in front of our friends and family, acknowledging our love for one another.”
“Have you ever doubted my love?” Scott asked as he slumped further into his chair.
“Not until tonight,” Justin admitted as he walked back to the railing.
“How can you say that?” Scott demanded as he stood up.
“In front of everyone I asked you to marry me, and you said no. How the fuck did you think I was going to feel?”
“Just because I don’t want to marry you doesn’t mean I don’t love you.”
“I know, it just means you don’t want any strings. You love me on your terms but not on mine.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.”
“Is it?” Justin asked as he clenched his fists. “After everything we’ve been through together, all the bullshit with your drug problems, Scott, don’t you think you owe me… this little thing?”
“Owe you?” Scott shouted. “That’s the problem, I feel like I owe you everything.”
“What?”
“All this,” Scott said as he waved his arms. “This isn’t my house, it’s your house. The car I drive, even the fucking clothes I wear aren’t mine. How can I marry you when I have nothing to offer?”
Justin rolled his eyes. “Why does everything come down to this tired argument? How many times have I told whatever I have is yours?”
“That’s not me,” Scott shouted. “I can’t keep living on your good graces. It drives me crazy having you buy me stuff. I can’t even buy a pair of shoes without getting money from you. I can’t stand it.”
“Really, you didn’t have any trouble spending my money for your fucking rehab.”
“That’s beneath you,” Scott stated in a quiet voice. He ignored the tears that started to fall down his cheeks as he turned away and walked into the house.
Justin stormed in the house after him and grabbed his arm. Scott spun around and pushed Justin down on the couch, his left arm raised and his fist clenched. Anger flashed in his eyes and Justin realized he might have gone too far. He closed his eyes and waited for the blow to drop.
“Fuck!” Scott yelled as he punched the pillow next to Justin’s head. “I didn’t want this to happen again. I fucking swore I’d never hurt someone I love again.”
Justin stared up at him, his eyes wide and filled with fear. But when Scott collapsed next to him he breathed easy. He reached out to touch his boyfriend but pulled back when Scott said, “Don’t.”
Scott stood up and walked towards the front door. He paused when Justin called out, “Where are you going?”
“I don’t know, but if I stay I’ll do something that both of us can never forgive,” Scott stated as he opened the door.
“Are you leaving me?” Justin demanded as he clutched his stomach.
Scott called out over his shoulder, “Never you, Justin. I’m leaving me.”
The door shut behind Scott and Justin fell back on the couch and curled up into a ball. He cried until the tears stopped falling. After a while, he went back to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle of vodka.

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