Project 313 – Post No. 072

This being Sunday (I think — I’m writing this on Wednesday) I thought I’d keep it light and reward the few new readers who stop by with something from back in 2015 when I did a post about Romance. You don’t need to click and read it because I’ll bring in the funny bits from it. 

First off, I tried my hand at writing traditional romance. Note: I edited and changed the name of the horse from PileDriver to Destiny. That’s because in the process of responding to one of the comments I realized that was a much better name. Anyway, here goes . . . 

Disperser Writes Romance

© 2015-2018 E. J. D’Alise

The wind kept Bafio’s hair from blinding him as they raced atop the black stallion, Destiny. Unfortunately, Bafio’s hair lashed at Iofna’s face as she tried holding on for dear life while sitting behind him. Her arms barely encircling his sculpted torso, she wished he hadn’t shaved his chest hair. At least that way she would’ve had something to grab onto. Iofna buried her face in the crevices formed by his also sculpted back muscles and pleaded for him to please stop.

“Stop! I can’t take anymore!” she yelled as Bafio’s hair snapped at her like a jealous lover. Sensitive to her predicament, Bafio slowed to a gentler pace, letting Iofna catch her breath and get a better grip.

“Ouch!” he yelled. “Not the underarm hair!”

She let go and promptly fell off Destiny, who kept on galloping. Luckily, Iofna fell atop one of the stallions massive dumps, which cushioned her fall.

With amazing agility and speed, Bafio dismounted the still galloping stallion, rolled, and ended up next to her in the tall grass, but clear of the dump.

He never gets any shit on him!” Iofna breathlessly thought.

Bafio stared into her eyes as he sought to remove her soiled clothes. He kept staring into her eyes as he fumbled with the knot securing the lacing of her bodice.

After a half a minute or so he lowered his gaze down to the knot. On the way, Bafio’s eyes feasted upon her heaving bosom. He would have gotten lost in the moment had he not remembered his own pectoral muscles dwarfed hers. He looked down at his own open shirt cleavage and did get lost in the moment.

“Hey!” Iofna yelled, “Eyes down here!”

“Sorry,” Bafio replied as he resumed his attack on the knot, now with renewed vigor.

“It’s no use,” he said after a few minutes of trying to get the thing undone.

“You have to use your teeth,” Iofna reminded him.

“Oh, right!”

Bafio dug into the suede material, bit down hard, and pulled with all his might.

The bodice came off and flew above their heads where the wind caught it and flung it at Destiny’s rump. The stallion, startled as it grazed, kicked hard and by sheer bad luck caught both Bafio and Iofna on the side of their heads.

His Destiny had brought them death and — finally united — would now spend eternity in each other’s company . . . unless passing scavengers made off with their various body parts. Damn scavengers!

The End

I thought it a pretty good effort given it was my first attempt at traditional romance writing. Later in the piece, I lamented how looks (beautiful or ugly) and money (poor or rich), or combinations of the two, always determines the romance either happening or not happening and how even if one of the protagonists starts out as ugly and poor, they eventually end up either beautiful, rich, or both.

I wrote this next bit as something you would never read in a romance offering . . . 

Disperser Extreme Romance

© 2015-2018 E. J. D’Alise

She saw him from across the room. The movement of his hand as he adjusted his package drew her eye. Well, it was actually his other hand lifting his overhanging stomach so he could reach his package that caught her eye.

No; truthfully, it was the whole; the gelatinous beer belly, the remnants of a cheese pizza on his pants leg, the unidentified stain on on his shirt (she hoped it was seepage from the open sore on his chin and not ketchup), the slack jaw, shifty eyes, and the way his greasy hair stuck to his scalp. She heard him belch and hoped his farts would be as loud.

Immediately drawn to him and hoping her vast inheritance and ample breasts would be enough to make that man hers, she went to him as a moth to a flame. Unlike a moth, she was already consumed; consumed by his intoxicating presence. No, really; he hadn’t showered for at least a week.

The End

I’ve learned a lot since then . . . maybe one of these days I’ll turn all my gained knowledge about writing romance into a masterpiece for the ages.

And now, the photo:

Project 313 072

Hmm . . . the white frame probably wasn’t a great idea given that the background of the page is also white. Oh well, whachagonnado? 

Recently, someone made the comment that my comments are often longer than their posts. Understand, these would be comments that I leave in response to other people’s posts. My posts are long enough that exceeding the word count in a comment would be truly impressive. 

I think I’ve come close a few times but only if I added all of the comments up and considered them as one offering. 

Anyway, I explained that through the years I’ve become sensitive to being misunderstood. Misunderstandings cause all sorts of  . . . well, misunderstandings. Ergo, even in comments, I tend to repeat what I say two or even three different times using different words and descriptors with the hope that at least one of the offerings sticks and the recipient would have to work really hard at misinterpreting what I’m saying . . . and sometimes, they do. 

Well, It’s getting late and I want to process a few more photos from the Pensacola Naval Aviation Museum. Believe it or not, I never presented any of the photos on this blog. 

I probably got sidetracked by this or that news item that riled me up and caused me to write lengthy castigations aimed at people who would never see them and wouldn’t care if they did. 

I’ve mellowed in my old age. Well, mellowed is the wrong word. I think we’re past the point of no return and are royally screwed and so I don’t see the point of getting all worked up. Even when something is so egregious that it does work me up, it doesn’t last long enough for me to put thoughts into words. Besides, there’s already a lot of my thoughts out there if anyone is really interested.

There is one thing that still gets me riled up . . . or it would if I had one. Right now we’re renting but I look forward to the day when I can once again open the door and yell out . . . Get Off My Lawn!

Get Off My Lawn!

And . . . that’s it

Some of these posts will likely be longer as the mood hits me, but most will be thus; short, uninteresting, bland, and relentless.

You can read about Project 313 HERE.

That’s it. This post has ended . . . except for the stuff below.

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. . .  my FP ward  . . . chieken shit.

Finally, if you interpret anything on this blog as me asking or wanting pity, sympathy, or complaining about my life, or asking for help and advice, know you’re likely missing my subtle mix of irony, sarcasm, and humor.