IM SLIGHTLY LATE AGAIN BYT HAPPY FRIDAY THE 13!!!
THAT WILL BE ALL, SEE YALL LATER DOODS!
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Here’s an all-new short story (© me, now) free to read:
Why You Should Always Check for Typos in Your Porn Site Searches…
by Jeremy Thompson
Okay, I know that there’s a stigma attached to masturbation discussions, even though I, personally, am terrified of any dude whose genitals are in prime working order, who doesn’t drain his balls at least semi-regularly. Those are the guys who start wars, torture pets and, ya know, whine on social media 24/7. You can identify them by their grinding teeth and throbbing forehead veins. They probably kill flowers just by walking past ’em.
That’s not the point of me writing this, anyway. I won’t be discussing my cock and cojones, or anything that comes out of ’em; don’t worry. No, I’m typing this to tell you the scariest thing that’s ever happened to me.
Well, let’s get right to it.
So, I tend to favor stepdaughter porn. The idea of some hot, young—but not too young—thing throwing herself at me, and not even making me do chores or go to a wedding with her afterwards really appeals to my laziness. Plus, I’m assuming from my past relationships that any gal who’d marry me would be a real monster, so it’s fun to get revenge on this hypothetical hydra.
From time to time, though, I like to switch it up.
On the occasion I’ll be discussing, I was thinking of the film Hex vs. Witchcraft, which I’d watched the previous evening. More specifically, I was remembering the scene where the voluptuous Jenny Liang wriggled around on a bed, buck naked—the part right before the lights went out and she got sexually assaulted. I mean, yowzah.
So, I booted up the ol’ laptop, grabbed a few tissues, and called up a porn site. You can probably guess which one, first try. I typed three words into the search bar and hit return. Instantly, I was seeing results for “Chinese Bug Tits”.
Well, I’d meant to type “Big”, not “Bug”, but the results didn’t seem too ridiculous at first. I saw thumbnails of the Caucasian porn stars Emma Bugg and Lady Bug, plus a variety of Chinese girls with just the features I’d been looking for. Scrolling down the page, I evaluated each in turn. Then I arrived at a video titled “You’ve Gotta See This Freaky Slut!”
Well, there wasn’t much I could tell from its thumbnail, which featured a close-up of a female face almost entirely obscured by one of those Venetian, Eyes Wide Shut-style masks. You know, all gold leaf and black feathers—that sort of thing. I could see enough of her eyes through its eyeholes to know that they weren’t Asian, though. They didn’t have those epicanthal folds to ’em. It’s not racist to point that out, is it?
I was clicking the thumbnail even before I knew I’d planned to do so, then embiggening the video so that it filled my entire screen. Soon, it seemed that my zipper would be descending. “Well, here I go again,” I muttered, pressing play.
The first thing I noticed is that the chick didn’t possess the type of figure that I normally beat off to. I mean, hey, I’m all for body positivity. No one should feel ashamed of how they look. Though I’m no Adonis myself, I can still look in the mirror every morning without flinching, and that’s how it should be for everyone. I truly believe that.
That being stated, my dick doesn’t rise for high self-esteem only. For masturbatory purposes, there’s gotta be at least one Perfect Ten Dream Babe in the mix, or else I might as well be stroking a shoelace. I’m talking perfect breasts and buttocks, a waist you could bounce a quarter off of, a pouty little mouth, and a full head of frizzless hair. Minimal tattoos and piercings, too.
So, yeah, the “Freaky Slut” in question was at least three hundred pounds. I’m talking mucho love handles and cellulite stuffed into a SoftForm bra—that covered her entire chest—and matching granny panties, both black. Not the sort of person that my wet dreams are made of, let me tell ya.
Her performance, as far as I could tell, took place in one of those redneck bars. They’re called honky-tonks, right? Are we still allowed to say honky?
Anyway, its walls were all reclaimed oak and decorated with acoustic guitars, neon Pabst signs, lassos, and framed photos of country musicians. Afore them was a stage, just a few feet above the dance floor. That’s where the lady shimmied to the catcalls of unseen men.
Shifting her weight all about, she slapped and rubbed her most intimate areas. A perspiration sheen adorned her. Indeed, she seemed on the verge of collapsing.
“Get dem tits out!” some dude shouted. Echoed by others, he’d soon birthed a chant.
The performer blew her audience a kiss, then unclasped her bra. By the time she’d worked her way out of it and dropped it to the stage, the honky-tonk had become perfectly silent.
“Holy…fuckin’ shit,” I muttered, viewing the inexplicable. “What is this, CGI, AI…practical effects? It looks so damn real, though.”
Indeed, though what the woman had unveiled must’ve been the size of D-cups, they weren’t really breasts at all. Instead, what projected from her upper front chest resembled nothing more than a pair of smooth insect heads, as if two Northern Giant Hornets had finally decided to live up to their names. Each was orange and brown, with two large compound eyes and three ocelli. Antennae jutted to each side of their faces like angry eyebrows. Their black-toothed mandibles looked as if they could chew through steel.
Stroking the rightward one from vertex to clypeus, the woman caused it to shudder and bulge. Tapping the leftward one’s frons, at the base of its two antennae, she inspired an identical reaction.
“Oh, it’s comin’ now!” some drunk hick shouted. “You’ve never seen the likes of this, fellas! Best believe!”
Moving her fingers around each mandible, the performer pressed inward and squeezed. And out of them shot a substance—perhaps milk, perhaps venom—that streamed for probably nine feet for at least a dozen seconds.
The crowd went into overdrive—some cheering, some vomiting, some tossing mugs and bottles onstage, which shattered all around the performer, missing her by inches. A consummate professional, she hardly seemed to notice, as she caught the last dribbling drops of the substance in her left palm, even as her right hand hurled her mask from her head, so that she could lick up her own secretion.
Recognizing the ever-dyed platinum blonde hair, the mole just below her left eyelid, the laugh lines that had deepened all throughout my existence, even the strangely wide tongue as it went about its lapping, I felt my gorge rise.
Dry-heaving, attempting to power off my laptop with my eyelids squeezed tightly shut, I just managed to blurt out, “Mom…what the fuck?”
I don’t recall being breastfed, or seeing my mother in any state of undress prior to that terrible afternoon. Did she always have those horrible insect faces where her tits should be, or did something lay eggs in her breasts and those things grew out of ’em? Was I a bottle-fed baby, suckling down only formula, or had I pressed my mouth to those terrible mandibles and gulped down whatever that spray is?
I’ve never met my father. Was he some kind of werehornet? Is that a thing? Am I even biologically related to the woman who raised me? Do her bizarre alterations end at her chest, or does she have a nest of wings and pincers in place of a vagina?
Seeing her there on the screen, in a bar I’ve never been to, performing for a rowdy crowd of unknowns, was the worst thing that’d ever happened to me. I never used that laptop again. Old porn mags and Blu-rays I’ve seen a thousand times are now all I jerk off to. I can barely even maintain an erection.
* * *
For a while, I avoided my mom like the plague, though she lives just a quarter-hour of a drive from me and deposits money in my bank account every month so that I don’t end up homeless. Ignoring her calls and texts, then her Facebook DMs and emails, I thought I might forget what I’d seen and move on with my life.
Then, one evening, as I waited for the chicken schnitzel that I’d prepared to finish baking in the oven, she showed up at my apartment. Spying her through the peephole, I attempted to wait her out, but she just kept knocking and ringing my doorbell, then hollering my name. “I saw your car in your parking space!” she added, as if there was no chance whatsoever that I’d been picked up by a friend or gone for a walk.
Eventually, a few of my neighbors drifted into the hallway. They talked to my mom for ten minutes or so, as she kept knocking and knocking. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and hurled the door open.
“Sorry, I was in the shower,” I lied, as my mom speared me with her scrutiny.
“Your hair is dry,” she pointed out. “And what’s that I smell baking?”
Ignoring her, I greeted my neighbors. “Hey, Mrs. Tulvin. What’s going on, Russ? Lookin’ good, Sondra. That diet’s really working for you.”
My mom wandered into my residence.
“Well, I’ll catch up with y’all later,” I told my neighbors in parting, with feigned jubilance, even as my gut began churning.
Closing a door that I wished I was on the other side of, I felt the small hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand up. Remembering that the technical term for goosebumps is “piloerection”, I grew even more uncomfortable.
Seeing her there, in her navy tiles tunic, I tried to look anywhere but at her chest, and ended up conspicuously staring over her right shoulder, unable to bring myself even to look her in the eyes. If those insect faces are real, can they see through her clothes? I wondered. Do they have intellects of their own? Are they judging me?
“Well, what are you waiting for?” she asked.
“Uh, excuse me?” I responded, feeling strangely guilty.
“Did you suddenly stop loving me? Make with the hug and the cheek kiss already.”
“Hmm, well, I’d better not. I’ve been feeling feverish all day, and wouldn’t wanna infect you. At your age, a cold could be fatal.”
“Oh, pish posh. I’ve never been sick a day in my life. Have you ever seen me so much as sniffle?”
“Well, now that you mention it…”
“Jeez, you’re so reticent, like you’re only half-here. Is it intrusive thoughts? Suicidal ideation? There’s no shame in seeking help. I’ll pay for any therapies and medications you need. I’ve always been here for you, always will be. You know that, right?”
“I know, Mom. It’s just…”
“Are you secretly gay? Do you need help leaving the closet? I’ll always accept you and any lover you choose.” Hurling herself forward, she then embraced me.
Can I feel insect faces squirming against my torso? I wondered. Or is that just my imagination? “That’s, uh, nice to know. Very modern of you, Mom. But really, I’ve just been under the weather. I was about to have dinner, then go right to bed. If you’d come back in a few days, I’m—”
“Dinner, huh. I’ve always loved your cooking. I’m sure you could spare a taste for your favorite lady.” With that, she bustled her way into my kitchen.
She peeked into the oven. “Looks like they’re overcooked. Here, I’ll turn the heat off. Now, where do you keep your oven mitts? This drawer?”
Pulling the baking sheet, upon which my schnitzel had perished in burnt agony, from the oven, she then placed it upon the stovetop. “And what will tonight’s side dishes be?” she asked.
“I’ve, uh, been meaning to go to the store.”
“Dessert, then?”
“I’ve got some Costco cookies in the cupboard.”
“That’ll do, I suppose. Do you have anything to drink in this palace?”
“Just water and Pepsi.”
“Well, with all the sugar in those cookies, I’ll skip the soda. Don’t want to hurt my liver too much, you know.”
“Sure, sure. You’re not getting any younger. Why don’t I grab us some plates, glasses, and cutlery?”
“Don’t forget napkins.”
“Yes, Mother.”
I set everything out on my little table, then we gnawed our chicken. Choking it down with the aid of gulped Pepsi, I kept wondering about those strange insect heads sprouting from my mom’s chest: Do they eat spiders and honeydew? Are they awake as she sleeps? Do they communicate with each other by clicking their mandibles? My God, it was horrible.
“Hey, uh, Mom,” I said eventually, once I’d finished eating.
“Yes, Son?”
“You’re healthy right now, yeah? You don’t have any…medical issues that I should be concerned about?”
“My little worrywart,” she answered. “Don’t fret, my last physical couldn’t have gone better.”
Then what the fuck did I see on that porn site? I wanted to scream. Instead, I asked, “And what about your last, uh, mammogram?”
“Well, that’s a bit private to discuss with one’s son. Rest assured, though, I’ll be around for years yet.”
She took a bite of her cookie, just as I muttered “bug tits”.
“Excuse me?”
“Bupkis, huh? Not one problem whatsoever?”
“Clear skies all around. Thanks for the…delicious dinner, by the way. I guess it’s time to mosey on out of here. Bye-bye, darling boy. Get some sleep and drink plenty of fluids and you’ll beat your cold in no time.”
“Cold? Oh, yeah, right. I’ll do that.”
I walked her to the door and she hugged me again. Something definitely squirmed against my chest as she did so, but I waited until I’d closed the door behind her before shuddering.
* * *
That night, lying in bed, staring into the darkness, I found sleep elusive. One minute, I’d think I heard the humming of wings. The next, I’d be sure that wasp legs were tapping their way across my floor.
Do those creepy heads have entire bodies? I wondered. Do the insects emerge from Mom periodically so as to navigate the world? Burying myself beneath blankets, I yet shivered and shivered. When finally arrived slumber, it was in the early a.m.
Three hours later, I awoke with a burning sensation in my mouth, and a taste of something bitter. My toaster waffle and Pepsi breakfast didn’t get rid of it. Only gargled mouthwash accomplished that trick.
Then it was time for the daily grind.
* * *
I work part time in a beauty product warehouse, packing box after box, feeling more like a half-charged robot than anything human. The job is so soul-crushingly monotonous, I couldn’t help but think about the last thing I wished to contemplate: those terrible bug tits. Then text messages began pinging my phone.
You’ll never guess what I just saw! wrote an old high school bully. Before he could elaborate, I blocked his number.
Digits I’d never seen before sent links to a site most familiar. Blocking and blocking, I realized that my mom had attained notoriety. Were people pleasuring themselves to her bizarre exhibition, even as they messaged me?
At last, I couldn’t take it anymore. Turning my phone off, I then sweated through the remainder of my shift. Growing ever anxious, I detected a pain in my chest. What is this? I wondered. Has one of my lungs acquired a blood clot? Am I on the verge of a heart attack? Could this be gallstones, angina, or just unbridled panic?
Buying a bottle of cheap vodka on the way home, I planned to drink myself senseless. How else could I turn off my terrible thoughts?
* * *
Encountering a middle-aged man outside my apartment, I thought I’d gained a new neighbor. But then I saw his silk tie and custom-tailored suit—not to mention his blue leather shoes—and realized that anyone who could afford such attire would never live in my building.
“Uh, can I help you?” I asked, once his smirk landed upon me. He had an Ivy League haircut and appeared freshly shaven. His cologne probably cost more than my monthly rent.
Nodding at my liquor, he asked, “Throwin’ a party?”
His geniality seemed to mask something sinister. I nearly retreated. But I can’t afford a hotel, so I reluctantly met his gaze and grunted out, “No, just restocking. Can’t let my apartment dry out. The floors will start to creak.”
Chuckling at my lame joke, he stuck his hand out. “My name’s Sholly Jacobs. I’m your mother’s good buddy. She told me about your…financial situation and I offered to help you out.”
“Oh, well, I never take money from strangers,” I answered, switching my bottle to my left hand so as to shake with the fellow. He must’ve just applied lotion; the skin contact seemed strangely intimate. “It’s nice of you to come by, though.”
“No one’s talking about a handout. I’m offering you a job. You see, I run the Hogfoot Bar, on this city’s outskirts. How’s a thousand dollars for an hour’s work sound?”
“Well, that’s certainly kind of you, Mr. Jacobs.”
“Oh, think nothing of it. Greenbacks are raining down, a pecuniary monsoon, and little ol’ me without an umbrella. Why don’t you invite me inside and we’ll have ourselves a nice discussion?”
I rubbed at my forehead. My heart was beating too fast. At least, I think it was my heart.
“Actually, my stomach’s kind of upset,” I lied. “Diarrhea’s oncoming. Why don’t I call you once this intestinal turmoil is over? Maybe tomorrow or the next day.”
Deeply, he sighed. “Fine, have it your way.” After pulling a business card from his wallet and handing it over, he said, “Feel better soon,” then took a powder.
* * *
Turning my phone back on, once inside my apartment, I saw that I’d missed forty-three calls, mostly from unfamiliar numbers. My unread text messages numbered in the hundreds. I was inundated with social media DMs. A few folks had even emailed me.
None went as far as to mention the bug tits, but there were many, “So, how’s your mother?”-type messages, accompanied by various emojis and porn site links I didn’t click.
How famous is my mom? I wondered. How wealthy, for that matter? Can she lend me enough money to change my name and relocate to a new country? How can I bring up that video without instigating the most painful conversation of all time?
I uncapped my vodka and glug-glugged it down, forgoing all thoughts of dinner in my rush toward oblivion. The next thing I knew, it was the next morning.
Awakening on my couch, fully dressed, I endured a hangover that left me feeling like a rabid pitbull’s old chew toy. After puking all over myself, I made for the bathroom.
Lurching like I’d just stepped off of a boat after a long voyage at sea, squinting as if that might stop my skull from splitting, I managed to shed my shirt, slacks, socks, and boxers and climb into the shower. While soaping myself down, I made a discovery.
Rubbing my hands across my pectorals, I felt a soft squishiness, and realized that my middle and ring finger had entered a hole that existed where my right nipple had been.
Did it fall off in my sleep? I wondered. Or was it eaten from inside of me? Before a third question could occur, a pain flash had me “Aah!”ing.
Pulling my fingers from my chest, I saw that they were bleeding. Something had bit me deep, nearly down to the bone.
I’ll probably need stitches. Ain’t that just dandy?
* * *
Well, I’ve dried and bandaged myself, swallowed some Advil, and called in sick at work. I can’t put it off any longer. As soon as my stomach settles and I’ve managed to choke down some breakfast, I’ll be driving over to my mom’s house for an agonizing convo.
What revelations await me there? Have I become infested? Would Raid solve my condition? Did my lineage even begin on Earth?
It seems to me that, every time I accept my lot in life with a shred of serenity, something crawls up from some realm infernal to prey on my psyche. It’s been this way since childhood. Birthdays segue to bullies. Christmases gift me food poisoning. Now this, of all things. I mean, what the fuck?
I can’t imagine that having insect faces protruding from my chest will lead to higher self-esteem, or any sort of romance I’d ever want. I don’t want to follow my mom’s new career path. I just want to be comfortable.
But, hey, enough about me. How’s your masturbation going?
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Mark & Cindy Fight Monsters: Episode Thirty
Blush with Power
It all started with an estate sale.
Cindy wasn’t even trying to buy anything cursed. She was looking for vintage glassware and maybe a fun chair. But tucked between a dusty taxidermied badger and a box labeled “DO NOT OPEN (seriously, Brenda)” sat a pristine, untouched makeup kit.
It gleamed. Literally.
“Don’t you have one just like that already?” Mark asked.
Cindy blinked. “Mark. That’s like saying, ‘Don’t you already own a fork?’“
[[MORE]]Back home, she opened it. The compact shimmered like moonlight on champagne. The lipstick whispered her name. The mascara curled… on its own.
Mark was alarmed when the mirror fogged and spelled out:
“SLAY, QUEEN.”
But Cindy was intrigued. She had a dinner party to attend. A little mystical highlighter wouldn’t kill her.
(Probably.)
The Powers:
- Lipstick of Truth: Once applied, she could force anyone to reveal their most embarrassing secret.
(The UPS guy cried. So did Mark.) - Blush of Strength: Her cheekbones now doubled as registered weapons. She crushed a cantaloupe with a wink.
- Mascara of Mind Control: One flutter of her lashes and the HOA board agreed to allow hellhounds in the neighborhood. Toast barked in triumph.
- Setting Spray of Invulnerability: Bullets? Mean girl comments? Splatters from exploding casserole dishes? Nothing touched her now.
Cindy went from “woman with a good cardigan game” to goddess of glam and chaos.
At first, it was fun. She cleaned up neighborhood crime by blinking. She forced that snooty Whole Foods clerk to apologize for rolling his eyes. She glowed.
But then… she saw her.
Brenda. From high school.
Brenda with her loud laugh, and her yacht, and her “Oh, Cindy! Still shopping at Not-Athleta?” energy.
Cindy clenched the cursed compact.
The blush pulsed.
The power whispered: “Wing that eyeliner. Wreck her.”
Mark intervened.
“Hey,” he said, softly. “You okay?”
“I could end her,” Cindy hissed, eyes glittering with both eyeliner and vengeance. “I could make her cry in Nordstrom.”
“You already won, babe. You’ve got a hellhound, supernatural confidence, and cheekbones sharp enough to slice toast.”
Toast barked in agreement. Possibly in fear.
That night, Cindy stood in the bathroom.
The makeup glowed in its case.
It begged.
Just one more swipe.
Just one more spell.
But Cindy closed it.
And gently placed it back in the box marked:
“TO BE DEALT WITH LATER (or thrown into the river).”
The next morning, she wore no makeup.
Just confidence. And a little smugness when Brenda spilled cold brew on herself.
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some horror monster design concepts
these are concepts of an horror game monster enemies ive made 2 years ago and wanted to share them.
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The Mafu Cage (1978) Horror Movie Review — Plot, Cast, Analysis & Where to Watch
The Mafu Cage (1978) Horror Movie Review — Plot, Cast, Analysis & Where to Watch
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Nothing makes you feel more like a indi horror game protagonist then going out in the middle of the night in a small village to take photos so you have to take all the photos with the flash on and you can’t really see in front of you so you have to keep taking photos
Like omg what is wrong with me iv lived in this village for all of my life what is wrong with me, I’m to white for this 😭🥱😭😭😭
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The scariest episode so far.
spoilers for the Mandela catalogue
seriously this is like one of the most artistic absolutely well animated episodes. I think I’ve ever seen.
Next to the claymation and that one scared the shit out of me.
But I think the one vol 6 I don’t know what it is, but there’s just something unbelievably disturbing about it. like for some reason like this is probably the one that probably disturbed me the most, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt that way in a long time.
I think the closest thing that’s disturbed me when it comes to horror. It’s probably the exorcist the original Japanese ring movie, the garage, both the remake and the original Japanese one, Uzumaki, and the Long Dream.
As I said before this new episode, reminds me so much of Junji Itō’s works.
and the ones that absolutely scared the shit out of me is Uzumaki, The Long Dream and The Enigma Of The Amigara Fault. 
absolutely one of my favorite buyer.
I feel like this whole episode was like a mixture of like Junji Ito’s work and the Blair Witch.
but for some reason, I absolutely got more Ito-San vibes from this episode.
I mean, if you are a GEO fan and you know about his work, you know exactly what I’m talking about. It just has that dark disturbing feel to it..
and that’s what I think. I fucking love about this episode.
Like I said, if you know anything about June though he just has a way of using black ink in his drawing is just makes everything so disturbing really.
And I think this is what I absolutely love about this episode. It just has like Junji Ito vibes the way it was shot filmed, and animated.
Like my God the part with Adam is tearing his flesh apart that fucked with me that was like one of the most screwed up scenes I’ve ever seen in my life and I loved it.
And the part, where like he appears above the mirrors, reminds me of the reminds me so much of like the last scene from the Blair witch project when you see the guy standing in the corner.
The way you know I was just wandering around the house and seeing like Adam’s face appear above the mirror reminded me so much of the last scene from the Blair witch Project, where the guys just standing in the corner.
I don’t know why, but that moment from the Blair witch always stuck with me.
I am so glad the Mandela catalogue is back.
I can’t wait to see where the series goes. It’s it’s so good to be back dude.
and it also makes me want to reread some more of Junji Ito’s work.
also, if you never heard of Junji Itō, I highly recommend checking out his work. If you like horror or weird stories, I highly recommend checking out some of his manga.
