#as a Pennsylvanian it’s like a source of pride for me personally | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

definegodliness · 5 years

Text

The Amish Brothel

When I was young and wild, well, not that much wilder, but definitely plagued by the hormonal discharges that come with adolescence, it happened. No less than five years into my professional masturbation career (I was a natural), I suddenly found myself fed up with the sport.

Now, you're probably thinking, he did not try hard enough to be a professional jerk-off, but I had tried and brought to fruition the Norwegian Numb Strangler; the Alabama Twister; the Nubian Knob Flopper; the Spanish Sprinkler; yes, the Venezuelan Semi-Flaccid Fold 'n Toss, and even the Japanese Zen Garden Hose, but after five long and hard years none of them could give me the much sought after release of my all-overwhelming horny fornicorny sex on the brain-ness. I believe that is the medical term. But let it go without saying that it was plain and clear to me, I needed to get laid.

Now, how hard could it be for a sixteen year old to get laid; certainly in these days of moral decay? Very hard. You see, I was shy. Very shy. I was so shy that in the presence of the opposite sex I would freeze on the spot. And, as is well known, humans have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. They don't see unmoving things well at all. That's probably the reason why girls never noticed me.

So what I decided then was, that in order to keep my sanity, I needed to lose my virginity. And because I was so shy I realized that the only possible way of reaching this goal was to find a hooker. Which in these days of moral decay seems easy enough. However, it was important to me that she did not live in my home town. You see, I come from a very small town. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

So. Not willing to take any risks, I decided to start my Quest for the Whory Va-jay on the exact opposite side of the globe. But after a couple of days treading water in the Pacific Ocean, just off the New Zealand shore, it started to dawn on me that whores, much like me, were terrestrial beings.

So I swam back home to once again grab my globe, and now, making a concession, find the place that was exactly halfway between me and the exact opposite of the globe. I spun it 'round and blindly stopped it with my finger. It had landed on Pennsylvania, Ohio. I booked a flight immediately.

Long story short, I soon arrived in an Amish town by horse carriage.

Short story long again:

Now this might come as a surprise, but The Amish Brothel was surprisingly easy to find. Not because of any brightly red glowing neon lettering, of course, but because I had arrived in a very small town. Furthermore, the brothel was secret. And in small towns you can't have secrets.

The Amish Brothel was at the back of a bar facing the town’s church, as bars are often situated facing a church, and semi-legal brothels are often situated at the back of bars. In this we might see the duality of man. But that’s food for philosophers. Not for horny sixteen year olds who’ve traveled a quarter across the globe trying to covertly get sum.

Anyway, I went inside with a fistful of sweaty dollars, and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit quarters. Inside, there was a strange atmosphere. First of all it was dead silent, and the people inside seemed to roam about aimlessly trying not to come in contact with each other. The way they moved through the room reminded me of a wind up waddling penguin toy I once had. Strange. However, I swiftly deducted the only logical explanation would be that they were shunning each other.

As by now you might have guessed, I am a man of logic.

There were three women standing in the center of the room, holding a candle. I reckoned these were the nightly ladies I had come for.

So I made my way through the waddling crowd, and, believe it or not, the first thing I noticed about my potential defloweration candidates were their wrists. Wrists, that I've later been told were called the perfect 'butter churning wrists'. They were big. Very big. They were so big that one of them actually wore a belt as a bracelet. I knew it was a belt, because I had bought the exact same belt in the tax-free shop at the airport.

It had a big ol' buckle with the inscription: Big Ol' Buckle.

I knew very little of America at the time. I was just trying to fit in. And when I thought of America I thought of blue jeans, belt buckles, boots, and cowboy hats. You can blame TV for that if the image isn’t fitting.

Anyway, while I was sizing up my potential defloweration candidates I noticed the Amish prefer different qualities in women than I, modern day degenerate, do. The three women did not expose much skin, but the skin that was exposed was rough and calloused. Never before had I seen backs of hands that were calloused. I didn't know it was possible. Suppose it shows how much you can actually achieve when you work hard.

To continue the description of the hookers, it appeared to me they had broad shoulders, in any case much broader than mine. And their large, painstakingly developed trapezius muscles made them hunch over a little like France's most famous bellringer. Each of the three stood little under five feet tall, with hips little under five feet wide, and on sturdy, stubby legs with large all-terrain feet.

Indeed, these were women at peak Amish performance.

I could see that much, despite our cultural differences. And though I personally did not see the appeal, I could understand it.

Initially their faces, locked in that typical deep creased crinkled frown you see developed in people who are convinced we are here on earth to suffer, came across a little hostile to me. And for a second I doubted the good of my whole endeavor. But I had come all this way with a mission. Surely a couple of minutes of eyes closed defloweration was worth my salvation. It was settled.

I took a deep breath and walked up to the middle hooker, the one with the Big Ol' Buckle bracelet, seeing the two of us at least had some common ground to start off with. Yet as I, in my best English, complimented her on her smashing bracelet, and then nervously, half under my breath, muttered: "How much to fuck?", all I got was a vacant stare.

I reckoned I didn't speak loudly enough. Too nervous. So I took another deep breath, and then, admittedly a bit brash and far too loudly, repeated the question: "How much to fuck?!"

What happened then I can only describe as a Hive Minded Synchronized Telekinetic Charge on my person. As all the waddling penguins in the room instantly and simultaneously turned to face me in intense disapproval. I could not move or resist as I felt myself slowly getting pushed to the exit. It was like a barraging conjoined aura. An invisible force field shooing me.

Later I learned that what I experienced that night in the Amish brothel was nothing other than The Full Power of Shun.

(Source: The Art Of Chores, by Pennsylvanian writer Shun Shoo. A good book, you should read it. Once you take the knowledge in that book metaphorically, its wisdom is still very much applicable today.)

After feeling The Full Power of Shun, I realized that Amish brothels don't work the same way as ordinary brothels do. The kick they get out of it lies in the test of will they subject themselves too. To come eye to eye with the greatest sinful seduction, and persevere, yet in that perseverance feel no pride. To stay unmoved in most rousing circumstances. The Amish find it important to stay unmoved, and soon I'd find out why. Not all too soon though.

First, I made my way out of town, disillusioned, feeling frustrated and lonely, and only guided by the light of the stars and the full moon, but that was also when it happened:

I heard a sharp 'pssst!' coming from within the shades in between two houses. Then, as I turned my head inquiringly, I saw the flashing pale of a bare ankle's skin. I don't know if it was due to me in my depraved deprivedness witnessing a woman's bare skin, or rather because of my body's instinctive preparation in anticipation of sex, but hot blood surged to my loins, so much that I could only follow the boner. I had found her. The town harlot.

Now, if you're from the city you probably don't know this, but it's a well known secret that every small town has one (1) town harlot. These mystical beings do not appear to the locals, who in fact haven't the slightest idea of any aphrodisiacal apparition living among them, but on full moon nights, when the timing is just right, they present their physical manifestation to other small town folk, visiting. So goes the legend.

She took me inside via the back door, then floated upstairs to her bedroom. And I, dragged forward by the tent in my pants, followed after in ascension. Bumpily gliding over the stairs with just the tips of my two shoes. When I entered her room she was already lying on the bed, half-sunken in the soft mattress. Fully clothed and thereby covered, except for her ankles.

Oh, great seductress.

Without moving much, or even looking at me, she curved her index finger to beckon me on the bed. And without any hesitation, I jumped on. Like a wild animal. Like a being of pure instinct, heart thumping in my throat. I might have even growled when I started attacking the layers of fabric that still hid the soppy pink treasure trove of lovin' that would change the boy I was in the man I would be. It went as follows:

Apron, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, underskirt, skirt, dress, cape, fuck there's the mattress, cape, dress, skirt, underskirt, underskirt.

Long-johns!

Hers were tied up with a thick beige string, laced in a bow tie, which I fumblingly undid with trembling hands. Then, spreading the two now loosened pieces of fabric open. Finally. The plain white slip.

Carefully, I pulled it aside with two fingers and witnessed the fiery red version of what I had grown to do The Japanese Zen Garden Hose. It all seemed so long ago. 'Let bygones be bygones', I thought to myself, as I lunged forward into my very first woman, and thereby into the bright star spangled future.

Or so I thought.

Cause at the very second of my second thrust, she gasped and exclaimed:

"No, no, no, stop! What are you doing? Haven't you ever had sex before?"

I, frozen in position, stuttered that I hadn't.

"We need to lie perfectly still, else God will see us. You got that? Lie perfectly still."

And I, greener than the grass of the English Royal Garden on the first bright spring day in May after many many showers, complied. Lying perfectly still upon and within the harlot of whom I did not even have a name.

Lucky for me, she was very soft. And, also lucky for me, I had frozen up in a very comfortable position. In fact, I was so comfortable that it took only a couple of seconds for me to fall into a deep sleep.

That night I dreamt of God.

I was sitting on a stool in the bar that in its back hid the Amish brothel, when I heard a deep echoing voice resonating through my brain.

"Do you want a handjob?"

Surprised, I looked over to the side, inspecting the silvery haired man sitting next to me. There was no one else at the bar, so I just said:

"Excuse me?"

"Do you want a handjob?” He smiled comfortingly. “I noticed you are lonely. I get lonely too sometimes. Handjobs help then. If it’s any consolation, it isn’t all that different from a Norwegian Numb Strangler."

He was right, of course. I was lonely. And, in all honesty, a Slipside-reversed Numb Strangler didn’t seem so bad. Even if it wasn’t a proper Norwegian one. But in the end I did politely decline, and silence fell for a short while, until I cleared my throat to ask the big question:

"Are you God?"

"It's you that say I am."

"Then you are. How peculiar, I was just thinking about you today. Is it true you can't see people... ya know..."

Here, I made a gesture by repetitively penetrating a circle made by the thumb and index finger of my left hand with the outstretched index finger of my right hand. In some cultures this gesture is considered vulgar.

"Fucking", God interrupted.

"Yes... fucking... when those people lie perfectly still?", I completed my question.

"Ah, my child, yes. That is true. You see I have a basic amphibian visual system: it's attuned to movement. I don't see unmoving things well at all."

"Ah, like humans."

"Made in my image."

I don't know about you, but everything started making incredible sense to me at that point. Even more so, I started to like the guy. He seemed like a pretty honest and straightforward chap. That's why I empathized, remembering the little sentence he dropped priorly. Which I had so rudely ignored.

"You said you get lonely too sometimes."

"That is true. These days it happens oh, so rarely that people see me. In fact, you are the first one in hundreds of years. To be honest, it really makes me doubt myself. I worry..."

"Hey now, come on, God. You seem like a good guy. There must be a logical explanation for all of this. Something we're just not seeing."

At that time the irony of my statement still eluded me.

I took a big gulp of the whisky that had been standing in front of me, and looked to the side observing the still, silvery figure next to me. He looked absolutely dejected. But then it hit me:

"Do you move around all that much?"

"I am omnipresent."

"Well there's your problem. If your everything is everywhere at any given time, how can you create the movement needed for our basic amphibian visual system to see you.” I gulped down the rest of the whisky. “Can't you be less present? Like, semi-omnipresent. Half... omni... present?"

"Alas, no. That I cannot be. For if I'd be anything other than omnipresent, I'd be subject to the laws of relativity. Then, there is always a bigger fish. Probably by my own making, but, you know, it's like Greek Mythology states: 'The son always overthrows his father'.

He paused. Then started jabbering:

“T- that's always been the rule. I mean, I found a loophole, but..."

God stared in his glass pensively. Then, as awoken from a daydream, suddenly sat upright, speaking clear again:

"No, any other existence cannot be. I cannot allow myself to get in such a predicament."

"Aren't you all-powerful as well; how can anything that is created by you, and therefore is you, be more powerful than you?"

"I am a man of many paradoxes."

"Same."

I tapped on the rim of my empty whisky glass for a while, thinking about omnipresence. Trying to find an easy fix. But all I could think about is how omnipresence and non-existence are two different words used to describe the exact same phenomenon, limited by the vocabulary containing our understanding of the world and the ever-expanding universe around us.

I thought about our amphibian visual system, and wondered what else we can’t really see that is there. Or could be. Or...

“Hey, wait a minute, why can I see you?

I looked at God inquiringly. God, with his kind smile. He nodded at me.

"It's time for you to wake up."

With that I opened my eyes. It was morning, and never had I awoken so well rested. I pulled my shriveled, flaccid penis out of the now cork dry crevice of once meat marinating mind-boggling pleasure, and heard the harlot whisper: "Best sex I ever had." I took her word for it, after all, she was a harlot, and harlots are like experienced pros when it comes to the game of fleshy be-bop-a-lula.

As a matter of fact, I am proud to say that I have become quite an MVP in this game as well. No one lies stiller than I, and these days I can stay awake for a solid two minutes. I leave girls in such ecstasy they do not dare to lay with me twice, afraid to be maddened by the mind, body, and soul shattering sensation of unrivaled pleasure.

I promise I am wielding this power responsibly.

Of course, at the time I had no clue what a stud I had become that day. All that mattered was that I lost my virginity (does it count when you don't cum? It does count, doesn't it? Anyway), I was a man now. And as a man I strutted back into my small town village. Straight back, head upright. All would behold my manly stride. And all did, until Hank the bicycle repair guy cupped his hands in front of his mouth like a makeshift megaphone and shouted:

"Hey Bozo, how was the Amish brothel?!"

I hate living in a small village. You can't have any secrets.

---

21-12-2019, M.A. Tempels ©

#short story #write #absurdism #prose #long read #story #fiction #creative writing #writers on tumblr #writer #alt lit #literature #spilled ink #spilled writing #spilled thoughts #spilled words #words

148 notes · View notes

inkwell-awards · 5 years

Text

2019 INKWELL AWARDS VOTING RESULTS AND CEREMONY

A little late posting this here…

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE (New Bedford, MA/USA—April 13, 2019) The Inkwell Awards released the list of winners of its 11th annual awards for excellence in the art form of comic-book inking. Nominees were chosen by a separate and independent nomination committee. This year the process was enhanced by inviting professional ink artists to submit their top work for consideration in each category. Nominators could also submit their own nominees and include inkers from both sources. For the first time, the same candidate could no longer be nominated for both the Favorite Inker and the Props categories. Voting by professionals and fans took place in February for two weeks on the official ballot at the non-profit advocacy’s website. One winner was chosen in each of five categories based on American interior comic-book work cover-dated 2018.

In addition, the Inkwells’ internal committee selected the two inductees of the annual Joe Sinnott Hall of Fame and two recipients for the Stacey Aragon Special Recognition Award (SASRA). Some of the winners were present (along with special guests) to receive their trophies on April 12 at The Great Philadelphia Comic Con! in Oaks, PA, the new host show for the Inkwells.

Winners are listed below with nominated credits and the percentage of votes received, where applicable. In four of the five categories, winners won with approximately twice as much as the next leading candidate, the largest margins in the awards’ history.

Walden Wong

FAVORITE INKER: Walden Wong (48%) (Astonishing X-Men, Captain America Annual, Incredible Hulk, Marvel Two-In-One, Venom [Marvel]) Other nominees: Jay Leisten, Mark Morales, Joe Prado, Trevor Scott, Dexter Vines

MOST-ADAPTABLE INKER: Walden Wong (50%)

(Same above credits.) Other nominees: Marc Deering, Jay Leisten, Norm Rapmund, Cam Smith

Elisabetta D’Amico

PROPS AWARD (inker deserving of more attention): Elisabetta D’Amico (30%)

(G.I. Joe [IDW]; Avengers, Fantastic Four, Spider-Men II [Marvel])

Other nominees: Eber Ferreira, Ruy Jose, Daniel Henriques, Jordi Tarragona, Le Beau Underwood

Stefano Gaudiano

S.P.A.M.I. (Small Press and Mainstream Independent): Stefano Gaudiano (37%) (Walking Dead [Image]) Other nominees: Andrew Pepoy, Brian Albert Thies, Le Beau Underwood, Ryan Winn

Lee Weeks

ALL-IN-ONE (pencilling and inking together): Lee Weeks (31%) (Batman, Batman Annual [DC]) Other nominees: Joelle Jones, Mike Perkins, Andrew Pepoy, Liam Sharp

THE STACEY ARAGON SPECIAL RECOGNITION AWARD (SASRA): Jack Davis and Marie Severin Other nominees: Pat Broderick, John Buscema, Sal Buscema, Frank Chiaramonte, Johnny Craig, Mike Esposito, Michael Golden, Don Heck, Rick Ketchum, Peter Krause, Erik Larsen, Norman Lee, Steve Lieber, Todd McFarlane, Frank McLaughlin, Dave Simons

Mike Pascale wrote “Today we have two posthumous winners, but they have more than that in common. Both are Atom-Age alumni of the legendary EC Comics:

First is JACK DAVIS, one of the most loved and prolific artists in both comics and illustration. Jack was first published in Tip Top Comics, 1936, at the tender age of 12. After a stint in the Navy, the University of Georgia’s magazine and inking newspaper strips, Jack eventually joined Bill Gaines’s EC bullpen in 1950 as their fastest artist, pencilling and inking every genre including horror, war, western, science fiction, drama and of course humor. He was the cover and lead artist for Al Feldstein’s Tales From the Crypt and a founding member of Harvey Kurtzman’s “Usual Gang Of Idiots” for MAD, where he created laughs for 40 years. Over a half-century, Jack’s intricately inked and controlled color chaos graced the covers of TV Guide and Time magazine, several iconic trading card sets from Topps and others, and dozens of movie posters and album covers. Jack passed away in 2016 at the ripe age of 91. He was a SASRA runner-up in 2015 and nominee again in 2017.  

The other recipient is MARIE SEVERIN who’s never been nominated for this category but regrettably left us just last year at 89. Another comedic action master, Marie started in comics in 1949 as a colorist for her brother John at EC. She studied color and its applications, making EC stand out amongst its more garish imitators. Marie’s comics artist career began at Marvel when they needed an artist for an Esquire magazine article. Upon seeing her work, Stan Lee gave her the art chores on Doctor Strange. In addition to a stint as their head colorist, she drew many major characters including a historic Silver Age run on The Incredible Hulk. She won an industry Shazam Award and was nominated for two others in the humor division for her landmark work in Not Brand Echh! and Crazy! magazine. In 1976 she designed and co-created Spider-Woman. She had a 50-plus year comics career and was inducted into the Eisner Hall Of Fame and won a Comic-Con International Icon Award.”

THE JOE SINNOTT HALL OF FAME: Neal Adams and Dan Adkins

Other nominees: John Beatty, Brett Breeding, Karl Kesel, Bob Layton, Pablo Marcos, Allen Milgrom, Bob Wiacek, Bernie Wrightson

J. David Spurlock shared: “Neal Adams is one of the most celebrated artists in the history of comicbooks. His work on Batman, Green Lantern, X-Men, Deadman, and the Avengers is literally, legendary. Adams has likewise been a staunch, innovative supporter of creator rights over the decades, fighting for art returns, royalties for all comics artists, and in the ’70s, he was key to securing a pension for the creators of Superman. This is the first time Adams has been celebrated specifically for his unique virtuosity with brush and ink.”

“Dan Adkins’ career spanned from T.H.U.N.D.E.R. Agents with Wally Wood, to drawing Dr. Strange in the far-out ’60s, launching Conan the Barbarian with Barry Windsor-Smith, classics featuring the Sub-Mariner and Silver Surfer with John Buscema, to art for sci-fi magazines and Creepy horror comics. Adkins’ work helped entertain millions of people, and he mentored a new generation. It is very deserving that the sometime Pennsylvanian is being honored here and now.”

Joe Sinnott, the award’s namesake and first winner, made the following statement about this year’s inductees: “I was thrilled to learn of the 2 newest members to be inducted into the Inkwell Awards Hall of Fame. Neal Adams has certainly made his mark in the comic industry. When I think of Neal, I am drawn to his work on Batman and Green Arrow. Also running Continuity Associates Studio in NYC that gave many new up and coming young artists their start in comics. Neal and I were fortunate enough to work together on two Thor stories (#s 180 & 181). Then decades later we were asked to work together once more on a Batman blank cover to support the Inkwell Awards. That was certainly a lot of fun.

“Dan Adkins has also had a long distinguished career in comics. Dan was a great penciller in his own right, but primarily as an inker. His work on the Dr. Strange comics is what I remember him best for. Dan, like me, was a very sought-after inker, having inked a number of artists, far too many to count. His ink line sure brought out the best in many pencillers. He is truly missed.

“It is with great pride and pleasure that we get to welcome these two fine artists and inkers into the Inkwell Awards family. Congratulations on your election into the Inkwell Awards Hall of Fame, and the newest recipients of the Joe Sinnott Hall of Fame Award, class of 2019.

“Well done, Gentlemen!”

Joltin’ Joe Sinnott

Joe Sinnott

The live awards ceremony featured an introduction by Inkwell Awards founder and director Bob Almond as host/MC, followed by Guest of Honor and 2012 Sinnott Hall of Fame Award recipient Mark McKenna (scheduled keynote speaker Scott Hanna, a 9-time Inkwell award recipient, was sick and not available Friday) who discussed the art form of comic-book inking and his 30-year career. Both were joined by two hostesses and spokesmodels as “Ms. Inkwell,” portrayed by Hailey Skaza-Gagne and Kathy Denise Taylor. Convention host J.M. Clark presented the five category awards. Clark and Almond each presented one of the two lifetime achievement awards.

Continuing for the second year was the Above & Beyond Award, for organization members who have performed exceptionally (or others in comics who have made special efforts to advance the art form of inking). Two were handed out by last year’s winner, Hailey Skaza-Gagne (the longest-running Ms. Inkwell spokesmodel), to Michael Hoskin, the second person to annually serve on the nomination committee for its 10-year existence; and Shelton Drum, creator/promoter of HeroesCon, who invited the organization to host its first live ceremony at the show in 2011 and annually through 2018.

Almond also awarded “Silver Inkwells” for five years of service to four nomination committee members: Jim Johnson, Edward Harris, Damon Owens and Shawn Pryor. Full acceptance statements from the winners will be found in the “Award Recipients” section of the Inkwell Awards’ website in the near future.

Mark McKenna

Shelton Drum

2019 INKWELL AWARDS VOTING RESULTS AND CEREMONY was originally published on

0 notes