Posts Tagged ‘Sex’

It is 5 minutes to midnight now. I was in my bed, trying to sleep only if I could stop hearing screams of the Judge who was angry and awake in my head.

“No, no…that is not porn…it is not pornographic at all…something isn’t quite right!” No, it is not matter of right and wrong but what is it that is burning my gut in the middle of the night?

“So what is porn Uncle Google,” I asked when I sat at my desk, millions of bugs in my mind, the Judge still staring at me in its back yard.

“Pornography is the portrayal of  sexual subject matter for the purpose of sexual arousal,” answered Wikipedia.

“What does the girl in this image do to cause sexual arousal?” asked the Judge with no gender.

bacak aramda

“Nothing, she seems to have been undressed forcefully…which is why she is looking down with shame,” I replied.

“Exactly! What kind of soul can get sexual arousal from such image?” asked the Judge.

“Oh God!” I exclaimed. The Genderless Judge looked happy…no not because s(he) made me feel sick but s(he) managed to teach.

“Have another close look,” said the genderless judge. And I looked at the image below which was the book cover of my first poetry book.

“Yeah…I mean she is not human is she…she is a robot…and made by a man,” I whispered to myself and looked back at The Genderless Judge.

The Genderless Judge smiled and disappeared.

Now I am asking you, was The Genderless Judge right?

Should I create another cover or should I insist on using this one?

I am going to bed now.

By the way, the content of the book is nowhere near pornography…it is all about gender war…

I am going to talk to the stars in the balcony for a few minutes just to miss my warm bed…otherwise I won’t be able to sleep…unless they say something to oppose The Genderless Judge…Oh God!


And a Philosopher Goes to a Whore

philosopher and a whore

Endless arguments through which men seemed to be searching the truth had finally tired him in one of the cold British evening in December. It was almost the end of the year and he was melancholic once again.

“It is all nonsense; constant classification, definitions, explanations, all nonsense!” he heard his wife again.

“All you do is to divide people, things, thoughts and censor their emotions! If religions stand between God and humans; you, philosophers, stand between every living being like an invisible membrane to separate them from one another!” shouted she with anger when he returned home after midnight exactly this time last year.

“Not only that! You stand even between them and their real selves! Who do you think you are?” she shouted again appearing in the window of the bar. And he went pink, sitting in the corner of a bar, breathing the noisy and smelly air. He gulped down his fourth pint and sighed bur she continued:

“I read your work and your friends’, no matter how intellectual how smart how superior you think you all think you are, you are still unable to think without your penises, in fact you think in the shadow of your little penises and write with your penises!”

And he finally punched her in the face.

“Just say it, if you don’t love me anymore, say it, stop behaving like a whore!” he shouted. It began snowing outside, just like it did when he had left her bleeding and unconscious on the floor that night.

“I cannot love you when I know what you really do to humans and our humanity!” she barely said when he stormed out, slamming the door.

“That was not rational, was it?” asked his ideal philosopher self on his way, walking at dark snowy night.

“I know but what she said was not acceptable!” he replied.

“You could have explained it to her, you live for explanations remember!” reminded his ideal self.

“Yes but I was horny! I was defeated in an argument and needed a relief!” he finally confessed.

“So she was right then?” boldly asked his ideal self as he turned to the red light district that night.

“I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher, I am a philosopher,” he murmured and gulped down another big pint.

Hello everyone! You have just read the fist half of the sixth story. Join the Magic Book Writing Project now to discover, improve and sharpen your creativity.

Love Must Survive to Keep us Alive

“I cannot do that my sweet darling,” said she lying on the left side of the bed still naked.

“Why?” asked a voice, no one heard but her.

“Because…because…I don’t think I have a right to that to you!” replied she.

“Then do it for me if you cannot do it to me!” said the little voice.

“I cannot!” whispered she.

“Then don’t say that you have no right to do that to me, say that I have no right to do that to you! Don’t lie!” exclaimed the little sperm.

“I do not lie! What the fuck do you think you will be doing here when you come?” asked she, holding the wet condom in the air.

“What the fuck are you doing there without me?” asked the little sperm.


“Who the hell are you talking to?” asked he, as he walked into the bedroom half naked.

“Nobody!” replied she quietly.

“Yes you were…you were talking to someone!” exclaimed he with a paranoid face.

She looked at him, read his thoughts and found no way of explaining herself to him. In fact she was tired of doing that. She was tired of narrowing her mind for the sake of their love. Maybe it was the time for her to accept the fact that, they had never intellectually matched. Maybe it was the time for her to be true to herself. How long am I going to narrow down my imagination for him, she asked herself in her silent and deep stare.

“Are you…are you really?” asked he painfully.

“Yes!” said she and sat up on the bed completely naked.

“I don’t want to know about him! Just dress up and go!” exclaimed he.

“You might regret!” replied she and laughed.

“No!I won’t!” said he and put his black shirt on.

“Here!!” exclaimed she and threw the condom filled with his sperms at him.

“What are you doing?” shouted he.

“That is who I was talking to!”replied she.

He looked at her with confusion. “My sperms!” asked he with riddled eyes.

“No, your rebellious sperm!” replied she and stood up.

“You were talking to my sperms?” asked he. No he did not believe: “That is a good try but since when sperms are able to talk?” asked he and laughed unhappily. He put his jeans on, sprayed some perfume and walked out of the room.

His little light brown puppy followed him, murmuring something in her own language.

“You cannot run away from me, I will be in every condom you will ever see and touch!” said the little sperm.

“What the fuuuuuuccck!” she screamed standing in the middle of the bedroom of her boyfriend Jack.

Jack rushed into the room with short of breath.

“What was that for fuck’s sake?” asked he and stared at her beautiful body. He was no longer himself again. He walked toward her, he began touching her face with his right hand while the left stroked her soft and sexy back.

“What was so good about him?” whispered he, hiding revenge and anger in his voice. He killed all her enthusiasm, desire, love she had for him, for their relationship, for life with that tone. And he was still blind to her sensitive nature through which she could detect and sense tiny little differences in him and in everything around her. It was even more painful for her to tell him about all that; she expected him to be sensitive enough to see real her. She questioned sincerity of his love many times but she was not right.

Please visit  Magic Book Writing Project to read the rest of the story that was completed by a very enthusiastic and incredibly creative participant and co-author of the Magic Book Writing Project.

The Magic Book Writing Project is open to everyone, you are welcome to join now to sharpen your creativity collectively.

The first half of the fifth story will be published later today. Are you ready to complete it by the next week?

Freedom was on sale in the vanity street’s overly lit shops and young women were choosing the colour and the style of their freedom , with many others around them before young Saturday got inflamed .The music was extremely loud, distractive, suggestive, and daring and was getting infused into young bloods and minds with no permission. It was setting millions of colourful birds free in their currency.

Every look was a little explosion flamed with their deepest frustration and confusion. These women,their eyes had the picture of their weekly captivity. They were all thirsty for a sip of freedom that they couldn’t even define. Were they ever going to taste it?

A woman statute in a glass cubicle.

The answer was ironically standing in the middle of the giant shop. A colourless sad looking young woman’s statute was sat in the corner of the glass cubicle and wrapped with yesterdays’ newspapers. Her eyes were closed just like her doors, her way was blocked and her window was covered with the same old papers. Her hands were free but her mind was handcuffed. Wasn’t that the picture of these young women’s caged souls that they were trying to find in new clothes, new bag and new shoes? Wasn’t that the biggest sarcasm of all times?

A woman in high heels and shinny leggings walked in the shop and passed by the glass box. Her hair was as red as her bleeding heart and her lips were coloured with the blood of murdered fox whose skin was now keeping  her body warm. But that wasn’t enough. She was looking for another one to extend her freedom that was now on sale. And she was supposed to hurry, not think even for a minute, but hurry. Everything was thought and everything was ready. All she needed to do was to hurry until her purse was empty. But was that going to stop her heart from bleeding?

She picked a few of the hung items and went to the fitting room to try them on her marketed body. “Any good?” ,asked the staff with a standardized smile on her face when she got out of FITTING ROOM. Where or what were all those women trying to fit in, in those little rooms?

“Hmm, I am not sure, I want something, something like …Oh I don’t know.”, she replied. Yes, she really didn’t know what was taken away from her .And those clothes were not going to bring that back. She felt it but she couldn’t describe it. They were not good enough to heal the hole in her soul which was bigger than the one she stylishly had on her leggings just below her million times sexualised and commercialised bum. Was she ever going to recover?

“They all look lost, don’t they?” asked the woman, surrounded with misinformation of old newspapers in the  glass cubicle, to her mad looking friend.

“You sound like you are recovering .But, yes for the first time you are right. They don’t seem to know what they are looking for, why they are in such a sneaky place like this.”, replied the mad one.“Look at their face, they have no expression any longer, they are all frozen, just like how you looked before you ended up here.”

“Be careful we might end up in a bloody dark glass. Don’t forget we are not allowed to talk, they might turn us into human again. God, that was painful! ”

“Oh, I don’t think you will ever recover. But at least you could have chosen to be frozen in a better mood. Sometimes it feels like a psychiatry ward in here.”

“And you always look mad, why did you choose that?”

“It was less painful my dear and it still is less painful!”

“When we were human looking for freedom, when we didn’t know that our freedom was murdered and sold us in those colourful big shops, bars, clubs and flights to farthest countries. When we didn’t know our freedom was limited with our bank account, how else did you try to taste the freedom?”

“Well, you really confuse me now. You sometimes manage to make sense with your malicious knowledge. But when I was human, I and most women were infected with the same thought. We really believed that our freedom was in between our legs and we all tried to taste it in sex. But that was only a sip of real freedom.”

“What if they realise that they have no real freedom and want to come  here and be a statue like us?”

“Oh, shut up, that will take them ages.”