Clit-Orations

Born in 1984, I may or may not have been named Nikki after the Prince song — but I do have some things in common with the song:

I knew a girl named nikki
I guess u could say she was a sex fiend
I met her in a hotel lobby
Masturbating with a magazine
She said howd u like 2 waste some time
And I could not resist when I saw little nikki grind

She took me 2 her castle
And I just couldnt believe my eyes
She had so many devices
Everything that money could buy
She said sign your name on the dotted line
The lights went out
And nikki started 2 grind

Nikki

The castle started spinning
Or maybe it was my brain
I cant tell u what she did 2 me
But my body will never be the same
Her lovin will kick your behind
Oh, shell show u no mercy
But shell shonuff shonuff show u how 2 grind

Darlin nikki

Woke up the next morning
Nikki wasnt there
I looked all over and all I found
Was a phone number on the stairs
It said thank u 4 a funky time
Call me up whenever u want 2 grind

Oh, nikki, ohhhh

Come back nikki, come back
Your dirty little prince
Wanna grind grind grind grind grind grind grind grind grind

{backwards at the end…}
Hello, how r u? Im fine. cause I know
That the lord is coming soon, coming, coming soon.

No Comments | Tags: about Nikki Nines, bitch, masturbation, music, Poetry, sex fiend

Sir John Suckling wrote that a lover serves for the love of service, nothing more:

After all, the wages will not be high, for [his heart] hath been brought up under Platonics, and knows no other way of being paid for service than by being commanded more; which truth when you doubt, you have but to send to its master and your humble servant

He will follow her will blindly, asking not the reason:

Yet, hearing you have resolved it otherwise for me, my faith shall alter without becoming more learned upon it, or once knowing why it should do so.

Though he is not ashamed to worship her, he knows that he has no more claim to her beauty & favors than any man have to light and beauty, secrecy is essential:

though you have left behind you faces whose beauties might well excuse perjury in others, yet in me they cannot, since to the making that no sin love’s casuists have most rationally resolved that she for whom we forsake ought to be handsomer than the forsaken, which would be here impossible.

…yet since the world is full of profane eyes, the best way, sure, is to keep all mysteries from them, and to let privacy be (what indeed it is) the best part of devotion.

And always, he accepts both his own nature and hers:

And now, since I know your ladyship is too wise to suppose to yourself impossibilities, and therefore cannot think of such a thing as making me absolutely good, it will not be without some impatience that I shall attend to know what sin you will be pleased to assign me

No Comments | Tags: Poetry, submit to your mistress

For a piggy — who is more like an ornery kitten, and knows who he is…

i like my body when it is with your

i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite a new thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones, and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz
of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big Love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you quite so new

It’s a dream for most of you piggies… The sort of worshipful scene only one of my pets can hope for. Most delicious!

For piggies — and men in general — who would do well to ascribe to such beliefs to Me…

the boys i mean are not refined

the boys i mean are not refined
they go with girls who buck and bite
they do not give a fuck for luck
they hump them thirteen times a night

one hangs a hat upon her tit
one carves a cross on her behind
they do not give a shit for wit
the boys i mean are not refined

they come with girls who bite and buck
who cannot read and cannot write
who laugh like they would fall apart
and masturbate with dynamite

the boys i mean are not refined
they cannot chat of that and this
they do not give a fart for art
they kill like you would take a piss

they speak whatever’s on their mind
they do whatever’s in their pants
the boys i mean are not refined
they shake the mountains when they dance

And to be completely clear…

Any shaking of mountains when they dance, I take this to mean they anger the Goddess with their supposed dances of joy, for they leave women and the world wishing they would learn proper manners & appreciate wit. Such unrefined pigs are a bore.

Thankfully, they do not last long with Me.

No Comments | Tags: erotica, Poetry