Every once in a while I receive a letter from some deluded fool who fails to understand that this is a porn site and that all anyone is interested in is the before, during and after of exchanging seminal fluids. Saddos with real problems. Though when I say real problems what I don't mean is scraping together a life in bombed-out Aleppo or hunting for food in Yemen or even trying to navigate your way across South London as a lone female of an evening. 

No, what I'm talking about is the dreary whining of the self-absorbed me, me, me generation. Is it entertaining? Is it fuck. Is it sexy and erotic and suitable for a nice interlude of grappling with your intimate bits and bobs in a public toilet? Not a chance. It's as dull as some especially brackish ditchwater trapped within the world's least interesting ditch. Yes, indeed. 

Now, I don't know about you, but when I'm faced with a soul-destroying and tedious bit of prose I like to spice it up with a few choice additions. Below, for you to cut out and keep, are ten super duper phrases guaranteed to enliven any mind-numbing piece of shit that you've been forced to read. Why not give them a go with the tiresomely vapid letter. 

"Soapy tit fuck", "nectar glistening cunt lips", "cum splattered flesh", "tongue lashed clit", "throbbing man meat", "plaintive, desperate whimpers", "rampant, pistoning cock", "twinkling anal starfish", "tight, pulsing ball sacs", "cum drenched thighs". 

There you are; and if you find yourself nodding off, just drop your chosen phrase into the letter and you'll be fine for another sentence or two. And so to the letter:

To the letter:

To the letter:

Oh, for Tinkywinky and Louby Lou's sake where is the fucking letter? 

Puts head to one side, repeatedly taps temple, mumbles, "think, think, think, you silly bear of very little brain."

Okay, I believe I know what's happened here. Since we've been doing this pandemic stuff, I've decided that it's in my best interest if I stopped visiting supermarkets. Mostly they seem to be full of germy people intent on killing me, so I've been sending the porcine one instead; because if somebody has to die I'd much rather it was him than me (and who says that romance is dead). Unfortunately, that does mean that he has become responsible for the grocery choices and in recent months that seems to have become limited to multipacks of Wadworth's 4X and Wagon Wheels. A balanced and nutritious diet, I'm sure you'll agree. 

Well, everything was fine until a couple of weeks ago when we finally finished the last of the toilet paper we'd acquired back during 'The Great Toilet Roll Panic' of March 2020. Despite my repeated reminders the useless fuckpig has failed to purchase additional supplies and I've been forced to find alternatives. And what could be a more suitable alternative than endless pages of whiney self-indulgent crap. Clean bottom, clean mind and all that. 

So I guess I'm just going to have to do my best to summarise it for you. 

Pesky Nuisance, the letter writer, works in an all-female office. No, I didn't know they existed either so I'm guessing they're all lingerie models or secretaries or something.  Pesky has a thing for the boss whom she endlessly describes as a golden haloed goddess. Each and every day Pesky brings the goddess a perfect apple which she slices up, buries in the altar of the goddesses divine vagina, and feasts upon the ambrosial juices that cascade into her expectant mouth. Her days are perfect bliss. 

However, as the days and weeks pass she starts to notice that the office is awash with fruit tributes; some loganberries here, a peach there, a carelessly discarded bunch of grapes, even a rather brown and dismal banana. Then horror of horror, one day as she commences her daily tribute her tongue tip is tantalised by the distinct tang of strawberries. The questions start, the suspicions whirlpool through her enraptured mind, the envy and jealousy permeate to her very core. 

Surely her goddess is true, would desire no other fruit but hers, wouldn't be tempted away by the beauty consultants or ballerinas or whatever these other fucking women might be? She wouldn't be seduced by exotic kiwi, plain old pear or the soft flesh of a ripened raspberry? But try as she might Pesky can't escape the endless nagging voices screaming of betrayal. Whereas before stood perfection now all she sees is a whore with a fresh fruit salad rammed into her sluttish cunt; sort of like Carmen Miranda with her headpiece in the wrong place. 

There were a lot of exceedingly dreary words after that, like 'existential crisis' and 'soul destroying' and 'desolation of trust' and so on and so forth. Truth be told, I may have nodded off and it's just possible I dreamt everything because I have been having some rather wild and vivid dreams lately. 

Now, I had no idea what advice to give to such a cringe-inducing, deranged saddo so I decided to seek help by bill posting the letter to every lamppost and bus shelter within a five-mile radius of my home. Then all I had to do was sit back and wait for any suggestions to arrive. Lo and behold, seven days later, my letterbox rattled and I received this wonderful epistle from Starchild Moonfleet who describes herself as a Chakra Therapist and Transcendental Life Coach. 

Dear Ms Cum,

Your correspondent is suffering from classic Bergmann Syndrome. Not the common Ingmar variety, so no point in her playing chess with death, but the rather rare Ingrid version which is sometimes referred to as The Casablanca Complex. All she can see is buttoned up perfection, sexuality oozing from every pour as her heroine tries desperately to navigate the troubled waters of her splintered heart. Rick or Victor? Love or fidelity? It matters not because all your writer sees is a troubled soul battered by irreconcilable choices. 

Which as we all know is palpable nonsense and revisionist history. 

Ilsa is a slut. She's a cock hungry whore who certainly wouldn't say no to a little wet-cunted sapphic attention on the side. No sooner is she 'on screen' than she's trying to persuade Sam to flop out his mighty muscle so that she can gag on its meaty length. As soon as Rick appears she's all over him like some syphilitic rash; mindless with lust she begs him to do the thinking for both of them as he spurts heated spunk into her grateful arsehole. Later, licking her lips, her fingers buried in her pulsing and sodden pussy, she offers to do whatever Rick wants. What Ilsa wants quite clearly is a one lady gangbang with Captain Renault and the entire French Foreign Legion. 

And don't think for a minute that she doesn't have plans for Major Strasser and the Afrika Korps. Not to mention the supporting cast. ... 

Yvonne; onstage before a cheering, masturbating audience, bodies entwined, limbs twitching as they lap and finger each other to endless release. Carl; drinking games with kinky forfeits involving clamps and whips and spiky things that hurt. Ugade; slithering down an alley, sand grit coating his cock as he thrusts it into her sopping sex. Signor Ferrari; golden showers, crossdressing and CBT as the blue parrot covers its eyes with its wing and squawks in disgust. 

There is nothing that slut won't embrace in nymphomanic pursuit of degradation and debauchery. Sound familiar, Cum? Your correspondent's heroine is cut from the same cloth; a sex obsessed harlot with the morals of the Marquis de Sade. 

Unfortunately, dear Cum, there is no known cure for Bergmann Syndrome and your correspondent seems destined for a lifetime of perpetual misery as their delusional fantasies develop in intensity. The only practical suggestions I have is the purchase of several Sindy Slut Dolls and some large sharp pins. Then, whenever she suspects her slut heroine of carrying on with any of that eager, aching, wanting flesh, she can skewer and stab the offending creatures until they either drop dead or learn how to behave appropriately.

Either that or she could try buying a wider selection of fruits. Everyone likes apples, but every day? Not even an occasional tangerine for variety? 

Hope that helps

Starchild Moonfleet

Which all seems like excellent advice to me. Right, who's next? M. Markle. Yadda, yadda, yadda, in-laws, dull, dull, dull, Oprah, boring, boring boring. Nope. Brilliant, more toilet paper.