Patrick M. Ohana
Bio
A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. Most of my pieces (over 2,200) are or will be available on Shakespeare's Shoes.
Stories (494/0)
Writing About Pussy
It’s (how should I type it) queer that writing about pussy, a lot about pussy, within a sexually-oriented story without ever even trying to imply that a woman is defined by her pussy, or as a pussy, raised some reading spirits. I may have on one occasion or two, but it was used ironically and it was funny. Unless the grass kicked in and I found everything funny. No! No! I reread it a few times and it was funny (I proofread at least twice to correct typos and exchange sounds and words).
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
The Position of Thanksgiving 2019
This festive Thanksgiving belonged to Mary, my girlfriend, I guess. We haven’t called it anything, yet. While petite, Mary proffers aplenty to recompense any apprehension pertaining to her amplitude. Of course, I don’t have any. How can I? She is perfect. A smaller woman is still intact and actually offers at least one advantage. I can lift Mary easily, even with my bad back, especially in one of our favourite positions. I guess it’s called the Standing 69 (I call it the Outstanding 69). I stand holding her with her pussy cemented to my face (I can also appreciate the vista of her anus), and my penis, pendulous, is in wait of her mouth and or hands. Being tall (over six feet or over 183 cm), she doesn’t reach my penis unless it’s erect, but then it’s rarely not.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
Marie, Mary, and Maria
I hate bananas. I digress already. Such a hand holding such a banana which had been kissed and then eaten in one way or another is another story. Let’s delve deeper and spread out into our story, my story of Marie, the French teacher, Mary the concierge (resident caretaker), and Maria the pornstar. You’ll understand that I only met two of the three, but the one that I didn’t still rocks my mind and everything else every other day.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
It May Take Two to Tango
Where do I begin? With the pussy, of course, and in this case, two of them. One for each hand. One for each kidney. I love the feeling of a pussy rubbing against my nonexistent so-called love handles, no matter if the pussy is smooth-shaven or hairy but trimmed. Hell! I’d even accept the Wild West bushy variety. It’s still a pussy underneath all that lucky hair. Can you believe it? I was looking at two pussies at the same time, two pussies in a row, one beautiful pussy next to a second beautiful pussy, one pussy across from another pussy. Two for Tuesday, but it was Friday. TGIF? Those were the days. Now, it’s FOIF (Fuck Off It’s Friday). I still can’t believe my luck, and soon, very soon, you’ll discover why. By the way, luck is always involved to a certain degree when more than one pussy is at stake. One pussy for each ear too. Can you imagine listening to a pussy on each side of your head! I actually told them, the women, not the pussies, that I could die in peace after their pussyfication of my being. I felt like a pussy. You know what I mean. I even wanted to sing. I don’t know, maybe “pussy always on my mind” or “hello, pussy” or better yet, “stairway to pussy.” How I love thee, pussy! Pussies! Don’t let me count the hairs.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
The Prick With No Prick
How do I begin the tale of the prick with no tail, the prick with no prick, the real prick? The middle of the story is already revealed: the prick has no prick. I could begin at the end and roll back like a fading orgasm, or start when the prick was born in the 1970s. Maybe I could poll you for the better of the two paths to launch this prick-less story. Why don’t you click on any prick to start the story from the start, or on any other word to die first and then live. I can wait a bit.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
Guess Who Stole Xmas 2019
I mean, of course, that whoever it was (you’ll find out soon enough), only stole my Xmas 2019. It would have gone viral and still been talked about had this occurred to everyone’s Xmas. But imagine if it had happened. This pandemic would have probably not transpired, and if it still had, it would have been beaten by this cat burglar. If this pussycat could have stolen Xmas from everyone, COVID-19 would have been a breeze, a cinch, a five-finger exercise.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
My Sexy Muse
You may wish to read the first story, Muse Love (linked at the bottom) before reading on. What follows is the continuing tale of my lovely muse. The photo of the statue above doesn’t do her any justice. In case you didn’t know, a muse only appears in the flesh to the one whom she loves. And my muse keeps telling me, both in English and French, that she loves me with all her heart, which also makes sense since she feels how much I love her as well. She knows that I could easily die if I don’t see her once in a while. I wish I could be with her every minute of every day, but alas, love and life are the same.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
A Prick’s Pet Tattoo
I thought that it was a figment of my imagination when I saw her tattoo. I had finally found the woman with the perfect inscription. A woman is already perfect. I typed it before. But this tattoo in particular, on this woman, since I can’t be sure that it would have caused the same reaction on a different woman, suddenly became my only preference to a tattoo-less gal. But I’m jumping the gun. Some can also jump a knife. And yes, there was no plane as far as I could see or hear, yet the airport was only about thirty minutes away.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
Muse Love
I could stop here before I even start. It’s all in the subtitle. I’m in love with my muse. But the story, of course, is how did such an incredible event even occur. Yes, that’s the story, and what a story it is. I’m still shaken by what unfolded after I met my muse. I didn’t know that I was meeting my muse. It just happened out of the blue, my favourite colour, and thus always a harbinger of something good. Nothing good happens at night when the sky is black, except, of course, and what an exception, you know, making love, or straight sex without the love. I always prefer love to precede the sex, but that’s just me. I’m not setting an example. I just love women too much to just switch between them as if they were bottles of wine. I only like red, which surprised my muse, since she knew that I loved everything blue. But blue wine, as far as I knew, just didn’t exist and thus surely not easy to find. Unless I could hitch a ride to a Klingon town and settle for some Bloodwine. But then we’re back to red. So, still no blue wine.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
No Matter Whose or When
Sexual tendencies seem to contrast with the pussy’s disposition. There are, of course, coital proclivities that don’t involve the pussy, but those are beyond the scope of this narrative. Take any pussy! Imagine it for a moment! It’s surely easier if you have one already, or if you happen to be in proximity to this wonder. It’s a blessing, a dream come true to meet a pussy. Don’t get me wrong! You meet the woman first. But I’m beyond the head-to-head and heart-to-heart here. I’m referring exclusively to the pussy; that flexible, strapping passage with a soft, supple lining that provides sensation and lubrication, though the latter may require some help once in a while. After all, the pussy connects the womb (uterus) to the outside world (anyone that loves pussy). All those beautiful lips (the vulva), comprising the great lips (labia majora) and the little lips (labia minora), form that heavenly entrance, with the penisway or dildoway (cervix) protruding into the pussy to form the interior end (the best death). Now that we can picture another part of the picture, let’s savour the magic that is the pussy.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy