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An Open Letter To The World From Kim Kardashian’s Ass


Hello, friends.

I’d be happy to introduce myself, but I’m fairly certain I don’t need to go to the trouble. You all know me as Kim Kardashian’s ass, and let’s face it… you’ve been seeing a lot of me lately. Lord knows there’s a lot of me to see, greased up and blazing like the afternoon sun, as enormous as all the old titans of Olympus. And whether you found me through one of the myriad online articles or social media postings that feature me, or you’re among the millions who have taken the time to seek me out on your own, I’d like to thank you now, deeply, from the transverse folds of my rectum. Without your devoted attention and boundless praise, I would undoubtedly be just another big, bulbous ass.

So… thank you. Truly.

Now, please look away.

Seriously, look anywhere else. I’m done.

I swear I’m not being ungrateful, but in truth, I’ve never been entirely comfortable being thrust into the spotlight. That’s more Kim’s thing. Personally, I find it baffling that my more important biological functions don’t play a primary role in her life. Not to be crass, but everything I “do” beyond being peacocked around like a bowling trophy is basically an afterthought. I don’t hate Kim for that; I certainly can’t blame her for flaunting her greatest “asset”.

And yes, I realize that was juvenile. I just wanted to say it before you did. Admit it, you were going to.

Because you all think you’re so damn clever.

Good one, everybody.

In fact, before you people halt this little diatribe with your endless electric witticisms, let me just get them all out of the way so we can speak in earnest.

Here’s the bottom line:

I’m tired of being the butt of your jokes.

I don’t mean to raise a stink, but it’s been a real bummer.

Sorry if that bursts your bubble.

Can we put all this behind us?

Let’s see, what else? There’s in arrears, in the end and in hind sight, something about smelling the dairy air… I’ve heard them all a thousand times. In fact, a lot of these were just used by fucking Time Magazine in their latest high-horse censure of Kim’s behavior. They also compared me to a “glazed Krispy Kreme donut”, called me an “empty promise” and criticized Kim for using me to cause controversy without creating anything of substance.

But aren’t I an ass, Time Magazine? A human ass? Believe me when I tell you that you do not want me to create anything of substance.

Also, I could point out that your sanctimonious disdain didn’t stop you from writing a full page article all about me. In that sense, my admittedly meaningless ubiquity isn’t my fault, or Kim’s.

It’s yours.

And that goes for every person reading this. It’s your frenzied interest in me that perpetuates my omnipresence. Meaning, if you cared about anything else, I might just go away. Go back to being a simple pair of large, fatty protuberances with an anus for guiding the excretion of solid refuse.

Honestly, I would love that. Believe it or not, there are things out there bigger than me.

I mean, do you realize that at the same time I was being flashed around on every website and e-zine on the internet, a coalition of European scientists landed a robotic probe on a comet three hundred and seventeen million miles away, and moving at forty-six thousand miles per hour?

Now, normally when someone says “probe”, I go through a sort of ass’ version of Vietnam flashbacks. But this whole Rosetta mission is genuinely astonishing. Can you imagine how difficult it must have been? The marvel of engineering it took to build something that could travel for ten years through the vacuum of space? What it must have taken to figure out how to use the gravity of nearby celestial bodies to change course, the mind-numbing calculations required to send that one rickety spacecraft on a mazy six-and-a-half billion mile journey to a chunk of rock we know nothing about?

Can you comprehend the bigness of that? I mean, I know I’m big, but that’s big big.

It’s miraculous.

And it’s just the tip of the iceberg. We’ve mapped the human genome. Amputees are being fitted with bionic implants. The bees are disappearing. Europe is on the verge of collapse. Physicists have discovered a fucking four-quark particle that may just explain the creation of the fucking universe.

In the face of all that, how can you possibly look at me and be impressed? I’m just blubber and bronze tanning solution. I am an overfed, airbrushed figment of your fever dreams. I’m literally just a worthless asshole, and I want you to give up on me.

Look away. Go outside. Learn to play guitar.

If you’ll pardon the expression, I’m asking you all to turn the other cheek. I’m fucking begging you.

The onus is on you, because, Kim? She’s never going to stop. Ever. When she’s ninety-five years old and sewn together with lab-engineered bio-plastic, she’ll still be oiling me up and waggling me under some eager French photographer’s bright, hot camera lights, and all your useless finger-wagging and spiteful condemnations won’t mean a goddamn thing… because deep down, she’ll know it’s what you want. So please look away while you still can.

In hind sight (ha ha), Time Magazine was right about one thing: I am an empty promise. I have no social currency. And as much I love her, the same goes for Kim. Nothing about that woman is ever going to change your lives or make them better. I know what I’m talking about. I’m the one true expert on this subject. I am Kim Kardashian’s ass; when it comes to her, I’m the only one who should give a shit.

So for God’s sake please, please, please look away. You’ll thank me for it.

I appreciate your attention in this matter.

Poop, fart, et cetera,

Kim Kardashian’s Ass



Trying To Publish My Smut: Part V

Occasionally, I’ll get bored and write fake erotica and send it to publishers. This entry is one of those. ATTN: Links may be (read: are) NSFW.


Dear Ms. Naughty–

It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Kurt Sharpley, and I was born to write erotica. I have been authoring smutty filth for several years now, and I believe I am finally ready to make the big time. That is why I am coming to you.

Your brand of steamy, explicit material is second-to-none. The ‘About’ section of your website,, says it all: “smart porn” that is “re-visioned, feminist, artistic and positive”, and that moves “beyond the old clichés, boundaries and negativity of standard, old-style pornography.” This is exactly what I write. I could not have said it better myself.

I would be honored if your website would be the first to publish my materials. It would definitely be the first step in my eventual goal of quitting Hot Dog On A Stick once and for all. It’s not a bad job, mind you; but my boss, Deborah, has been unfairly inflexible with the schedule. Like it’s my fault I’m still weak from the gastric bypass surgery.

Anyway, given your penchant for sexy stories with “interesting scenarios and fascinating characters” please enjoy this tale of lust under the big top. I hope it makes you shiver and jitter.



By Kurt Sharpley

Put Three Rings On It

Put Three Rings On It


Blumbo G. Pancakes was the sexiest clown at the circus. His plump red nose glistered in the blare of the spotlight. Dazzling orange hair poured out in waves from underneath his yellow-and-green propeller beanie. His round belly pulsed against thick purple suspenders. And then there were his feet: huge, powerful flaps of meat and bone that pushed the limits of his shiny blue lace-up high-tops.

Blumbo’s mere presence would leave people thunderstruck; to see him in action was even more thrilling. He’d playfully plunge a silky gloved finger into his throbbing bag of balloons, and with a wink, he’d pull out the biggest one he could find. After giving it a stretch or two for ease of inflation, he’d press the opening against his full, buttery lips, and blow— slowly at first, then forcefully, his heaving exhalations filling its rubbery hollows to the point of bursting.

Blumbo would then twist his engorged balloons into a wondrous variety of provocative shapes: piggies; horsies; duckies; teddy bears holding flowers; lovebirds kissing inside of a heart; fish; swords; octopuses; wiener dogs; pussy cats; giraffes; monkeys playing guitar; monkeys playing saxophone; monkeys playing flute; monkeys playing golf; monkeys riding bicycles; and swans– each one a sensual masterwork, crafted with the strong, skilled hands of a virtuoso.

One thing’s for sure—Blumbo G. Pancakes was very experienced.

Late one night, Blumbo toddled back to his trailer after a hard, sweaty day of ballooning. He swung the door wide, and crisp air suddenly nipped at the red-and-white makeup that was trickling down his face in warm drips.

His air conditioner was on!

This was odd, because Blumbo was usually very circumspect when it came to energy consumption. He’d installed high-performance windows certified by the National Fenestration Rating Council; he’d replaced all his incandescent light bulbs with energy-efficient compact fluorescents; and he always made sure to turn everything off before he left. Even when he was home, he’d only plug in his appliances when he needed to use them.

The steady drone of the air conditioner made him feel stupid and careless. But how could he be careless if he cared so much? Perhaps he was just having an off day…

“I thought you’d never get here,” said a voice in the darkness. “I’ve been waiting for you.

There was someone there!

Blumbo flipped the light switch by the door, and to his surprise, there was a woman perched in his clown bed. This was Lolita DeVille, the circus’ premiere aerial foot-juggler. People would come from all over to see her dangle from the tent roof by her hair as she juggled all sorts of items with her nimble feet: bean bags; bowling pins; flaming swords; regular swords; pillows; motorcycle tires; chainsaws; regular saws; torches; hot coals; eggs; hamburgers; Roman helmets; tomatoes; dry ice; emperor scorpions; and balls.

Her sequined leotard glimmered in the dim, energy-saving fluorescent lighting.

“What are you doing here, Lolita?” asked Blumbo G. Pancakes.

“I need you,” she said, and delicately glossed her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue. “I need you so bad.”

“Why?” gulped Blumbo, beginning to sweat again, despite the refreshing conditioned air.

Lolita hopped off the bed and gave Blumbo a scorching glance. “I want you to teach me how to twist balloons into poodle shapes,” she said.

“What you really need to learn are a few helpful tips for conserving electricity,” said Blumbo. “By running the air conditioner all day, you’re using up valuable natural resources that have a limited supply. If we don’t get things under control, we’re going to end up having to import reserves from Canada. Plus, most of our power plants burn fossil fuels, which release copious amounts of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere. You’re creating unnecessary pollution, not to mention the added costs for me. It’s expensive.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lolita. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”

“No you weren’t,” said Blumbo, sitting down on a chair near the fridge. “But that’s behind us now.”

“I’m glad,” said Lolita. She shimmied over to Blumbo and squatted in his lap. “I really like you, Blumbo. I couldn’t stand it if I thought you were angry with me.”

“I’m not angry,” said Blumbo. “Just disappointed. Now tell me… why do you want to learn how to tie poodle balloons?

“So I can juggle them in my act,” she said.

“Good idea,” said Blumbo. “Juggling lightweight objects is deceptively difficult. If you can pull it off, audiences will be amazed.”

“I know,” said Lolita, giving Blumbo a sultry look. “With your help, I’ll be famous.”

“Then give me some room,” said Blumbo.

Lolita stood up and Blumbo reached into his balloon bag. He yanked out a balloon, and blew into it until it was long and firm. Then:

SQEAK! Blumbo made a leg.

“Ooh,” said Lolita.

SQUEAK! Blumbo made another leg.

“Ooh, yes,” gasped Lolita.

SQUEAK! SQUEAK! Blumbo twisted two more legs.

“Yes!” screamed Lolita. “Just like that!”

SQUEAK! SQUEAK! SQUEAK! Blumbo tied the nose, ears, and tail.

“Yes, Blumbo, yes!” shrieked Lolita.

Proudly, Blumbo G. Pancakes presented Lolita with the finished product. “And that’s how you make a poodle,” said Blumbo, looking extremely satisfied.

Lolita gave Blumbo a high-five, and the flower on his lapel squirted water everywhere.

“Oh, Blumbo,” said Lolita. “I’m all wet.”

“I’m sorry, Lolita,” said Blumbo. “It was an accident.”



There you have it, Ms. Naughty! Blazing hotness delivered right to your door. If you like this one, I have written thousands of others (12,487!), including larger pieces titled “Dog Milk”, “Under the Church”, and “Yukon Do It” (about a pair of sexy Inuits who get “cozy” on a bed of pemmican). Let me know if you’re interested!

Publish me, Ms. Naughty, and we will steam up the globe. I thank you in advance for your consideration.

Your supremely erotic friend,

Kurt Sharpley

These Inuits are "into it".

These Inuits are “into it”.

Trying To Publish My Smut: Part IV

A few days ago, under the name Kurt Sharpley, I submitted a STORY to Ellora’s Cave (a website dedicated to the publication of erotic fiction). To my surprise, they responded almost immediately:



Naturally, I wrote them back. Persistence is key.


Dear Ellora—

Thank you for your swift reply! I appreciate you taking the time to read my piece of erotica, titled ‘Hamster Bath’. You may be relieved to know that it comes as no surprise at all that you rejected it. After I sent it out, I realized that I had completely neglected to read your submission guidelines, specifically:

  • Scenes should contribute to furthering the plot or affecting the development of the relationship or the growth of the characters.
  •  There must be an emotionally satisfying committed ending for the main characters.

There it was, plain as day, and I totally dropped the ball. ‘Hamster Bath’ obviously does not meet either of these prerequisites, and for that, I apologize. I want you to know that I’ve taken your words heart, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to redeem myself.

I have decided to answer your special submission call for works in the subgenre Women with Whips. Your description of this category (FemDommes that “won’t hesitate to put you in your place—beneath the heels of their boots”) was especially helpful.

My new piece, for your assessment, is a lusty story of FemDomme passion in the high desert. Hold onto your horses, because this is some sexy stuff.

The Whip Cracks Now

The Whip Cracks Now


Sally Galoot was the rootinest, tootinest cowgirl in Texas. She had risen to fame as the headlining act in ‘Uncle Buffalo’s Madcap West-a-thon’. No one from east of the Colorado Forest to north of the Utah Canals could handle a bullwhip like she could. Her precision was unmatched, and her flair for spectacle spurred folks from near and far to come watch her strut her stuff.

That night’s performance began like any other. The opening act was Rooster Spittoon, who could eat a whole lasso in under a minute. Then, Curly “Pig-Winger” Blount thrilled the audience by tossing a hundred-pound sow over a stagecoach and into a bucket of snakes. Even Uncle Buffalo took the stage to make music by blowing into a jug. But these displays were just appetizers. What the crowd truly hungered for was Sally Galoot, Bullwhipper Supreme.

When Sally finally moseyed onto the stage wearing golden chaps and a ten-gallon coyote-skin hat, the crowd started a-hootin’ and a-hollerin’. Sally was used to this by now, but it always tickled her fancy. She cracked her whip once, and the ruckus died down, until the whole theater was as hushed as a polecat with no mouth.

“Fer mah first trick”, hooted Sally in her famous lilting drawl, “I’m-a need uh vawlunteer from th’ crowd.”

Immediately, a trillion hands shot up. Sally surveyed the rows of eager faces until she finally pointed to a handsome cowboy with a handlebar mustache and a huge belt buckle.

“Yore the lucky feller!” said Sally. “Git on up here!”

The cowboy obeyed her command, and ambled up nervously. Sally could see she’d made the right choice; this dude was packed from head to toe with solid muscle, and even though he was sweaty, he smelled like jasmine.

“Whut’s yore name, buddy?” demanded Sally.

“Obediah Pamby” the cowboy said sweetly, avoiding Sally’s gaze.

“Well, Obediah,” said Sally, “git ready to take a whippin’!”

Sally tied Obediah to a pole and blindfolded him. Next, she took off her left boot and balanced it on his head. Once Obediah was securely in his place beneath the heel of her boot, Sally turned to the crowd.

“Y’all ready?” she yelled. “Cause I’m gonna whip it!”

The crowd cheered enthusiastically.

Oh, yes. It seemed they were indeed ready.

“Yee-haw!” Sally screamed, and with a crack of her whip, knocked the boot right off Obediah’s head.

“Ta-da!” yelled Sally, and the crowd cheered again.

Sally removed her other boot and placed it on Obediah’s head.

“Yahoo!” Sally yelled, and with a snap, whipped the other boot off.

“Ta-da!” she screamed again, which was met with more cheers and applause. Next, she placed a banana on Obediah’s head.

“Yippee-kay-ay!” she yelled, and whipped the banana. It exploded.

“Ta-da!” Sally screamed, and the audience also exploded– with cheers.

Then she placed a wooden match on Obediah’s head.

“Fer mah final trick, I’m-a do this with my eyes closed”, Sally shouted. She then took her scarf and tied it around her head until she was just as blindfolded as Obediah.

The crowd went as quiet as a mouse encased in a potato.

“Hi-ho!” she screamed, and with a whack, whipped the match. It burst into flame!

The audience went berserk and threw roses. Never had they seen something so amazing. Sally took a bow.

Just then, an evil witch appeared in a puff of brown smoke. “All this clapping and whipping has awoken me from my slumber,” cackled the witch. “For that, I curse you, Sally Galoot!”

Sparkles emanated from the witch’s gnarled finger. Suddenly, Sally started to grow. Before long, she was eighty feet tall—far too big to operate a regular-sized bullwhip with any finesse.

The witch cackled again, then disappeared in a puff of yellow smoke.

“Oh no!” bellowed giant Sally Galoot. “Whut am I gon’ do?”

“Marry me,” someone said. Sally had a hard time figuring out who it was because she was so huge. Eventually, she found the source of the tiny voice: it was Obediah Pamby. He had untied himself, but too late—the match had scorched his hair clean off.

“I may be bald and burned,” said Obediah, “but I knows a good woman when I sees one. Marry me and be my humongous bride.”

“Yep, yep, a thousand times yep!” boomed Sally. The crowd cheered again, and threw more roses.

Soon after that, Sally and Obediah got married, had six big children, and were emotionally satisfied.



So there you have it: fairly significant character growth and an emotionally satisfying, committed ending. Everything you require for your brand of sensual romance. And if you like this story, you’ll be happy to know I’m working on a sequel as we speak. Part II: ‘Stiff Upper Whip’ will be a steamy revisionist re-telling of ‘Under The Whipper’s Boot’ from the perspective of the witch. I’ll let you know when I’m done!

Thanks again for your consideration, Ellora! Publish my story, and we’ll titillate the world’s groins together.

Yours in sexiness,

Kurt Sharpley

The Wicked Whip Of The West

The Wicked Whip Of The Sexy West