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 (520/0)
New Names
On my way to Touch Me, I drove through a little town by the name of Look At Me, and as I expected, there was nothing to look at. In Hear Me, there was nothing to listen to; in Smell Me, even the smell of the New Industrial Revolution was lacking; and in Taste Me, tastelessness was quite evident. What happened to the world? Did we become madder? These questions followed by a string of successors ached in my brain, and when the answers seemed to have acquired a central theme, the pain seemed to have receded as well.
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Fiction
What’s Up Pussy
Once upon a time in a somewhat rural town lived a prick whose name is unimportant. He decided it. Let’s call him, M, to at least allude to the subtitle. One evening as M was preparing his dinner, there was a knock at the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone, so he looked through the side window and saw a woman, beautiful even through the glass and the anti-insect screen behind it. Surprised, he replied: How can I help you, Ms.?
By Patrick M. Ohana3 years ago in Filthy
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
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