For all your bloarder fantasies.
- kingdad69 was alone on the couch on a saturday night, empty beer in hand. his tv was the color of a tv tuned to a dead channel. i.e., it was grey static. i.e., it was the color and texture of his soul - ever since bl@rdman had left xis life. ah, how long had it been? he picked at the label of his michelob ultra. sigh. siiiiiiiiiigh. he wondered if he should change the channel. his eyes lazily searched the cumstained, piss stained carpet of his cheap apartment in wichita, nebraskee. nebraskee. sigh. that's exactly how bloardm@n used to prenounce it. kingdad69 slowly, silently mouthed the word. "neh. brahh. skee." only the "sk" was audible. he made an exaspirated fart noise with his mouth. the MGD64 in his hand was warm. the bottle was warm. it was see-through. it was warm, see-through, and about 10 inches long. it felt as hefty as blordman's c*ck. he sniffed the opening. ahhh. the faint smell of highly processed fermented beverage. it was more water than beer. just like blortman used to say when they woke up together in the morning. kingdad56 looked at the clock. it was unplugged. the face was blank. an unknown hour. the witching hour. the witching hour in witchita. haw haw, he thought. i'm not very clever. not without... HIM here... he laid down sideways so that he could only see the tv with one eye, the other being obscured by a combination of coutch and sex-swing-which-had-replaced-coffee-table. he closed his eyes. he was too tired and depressed to even cry. how could a grown man in his 60s feel this way about a that 18 year old runaway? kingdad felt not just a deep and depraved/fucked up/totally kinked-out sexual desire for the young boy who still had an entire life of gay sex aheda of him. he felt a fatherhood-like connection with the lad. he sighed out of his crusty, white-haired nostrils, and closed his eyes. perhaps, perhaps paul blardman bloard cop would come back to his arms - crash into him - like that dave matthews song from the 90s - and i come into you. in a boy's dream. and a couple tears hit the fart-smelling cushions.