Patrick M. Ohana
Medical writer who prefers to read and write fiction and some nonfiction, though the latter may appear at times as the former. anthi-and-m.com
I Love Women More
I love women more. No, you don’t! you may think for a little while. Well, you may know some things, but as you’ll read very soon, there’s a lot more to love about women. I wish I could write an encyclopedia dedicated to the sphere of women. I could subtitle it: Two Singular Sexual Tendencies. If Women is the first, what’s the second? you may ask. You may be able to guess this one. I, of course, mean the Pussy. Yes; with a capital P (like the one attached to my first name)! It is, without any doubt whatsoever, just a little important part of a woman. However, given all the realities (facts) and mysticisms (wishes) purveyed to this irresistibility that is the Pussy (any pussy), it has to exist in a realm of its own. Directly linked to the world of Women, of course, but standing on its own against the Prick! It, the Prick, has its own world. Most of you already know about it. But the real world is the Pussy. Where was I?
I Lost a Word
I lost a word perhaps there were two If I find the first I may find the second too The problem is I don’t know which word or words I lost
There’s no story, whoever you are. I’m the raccoon whisperer; I tell no lies. It started over twenty years ago when I met a raccoon.
How Many Writers
First make sure you are a writer It may hurt a lot Even if you write every day Just ask any honest typist or typer You need at least one other reader
I never got involved with any of my neighbours or befriended any one of them. A simple salutation seemed more than sufficient, that is until I met Dora Boyd. She was determined to make me speak further to ascertain my full name. I think that I would have told her everything. I found myself talking to her as if I had known her since her Doris days. I even invited her, as soon as our chat was nearing its end, to my apartment for a homemade diner.
All That String?
Ben befriended everyone and everything, from the beggar on the beach to the brush in his bathroom. His favourite if not beloved other was, however, a string; blue and close to six feet long. He thought about it throughout the day at his desk, analyzing medical data and wondering, for instance, whether the more widespread type II diabetes should have been called type I, and then thinking that he would have liked the string best even if it had been black, the worst colour, or lack of it, he could imagine. By the same token, he also considered white to be quite unattractive, comprising all the colours as if scared of the darkness to come. At home, the string was always beside him when he was not rolling it around his penis or neck to better contemplate death either way.
I was tired of his musings. Your pussy this and your pussy that. What a prick! I was basically a mobile pussy for him. He wanted to fuck me all the time. What the fuck! What a prick! It was good and hard, and pretty. Nice balls, too. Two. Sorry, astronauts! What? Their balls shrink in space.
I Took Her Inside
This story is hard to tell. I may need to skip some parts. Don’t worry! It won’t be the sex. It was too good to be left out. But before I start, just to set the mood, I want you to read the following haiku. You don’t have to. I left enough space to allow you to skip it. If I can skip some parts, so can you. Yet it’s only seventeen syllables long. Even a prick may be longer.