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An Open Letter To The World From Donald Trump’s Tiny Little Penis


Hi there. Glans to meat you.

I’m Donald Trump’s tiny little penis, and the only thing you need to know about me is I never asked for any of this. I never asked to sprout out of baby Donny’s genital tubercle. I definitely never asked to wind up so abnormally small. To be honest, I never even asked to be a penis. Not once.

Time to come clean: I like to think of myself as a clitoris in transition. I haven’t ever really been comfortable in my own foreskin, and I feel like I have more in common with clitorises in general, given that I’m extremely sensitive, comparatively sized, and nearly impossible to find unless you know what you’re doing.

But whatever, this isn’t about me… and I can’t tell you how strange those words look when I see them on paper. This Isn’t About Me. I mean, it’s not like that specific phrase gets thrown around much at the ol’ the homestead. I don’t want to be a dick, but I doubt Big Don has ever even thought those words, let alone said them out loud. As for my part, it became very clear to me back when I was just a puffy little meatus that, as far as the Donald is concerned, everything actually is all about me. And not just because I’m the architect of all of his primitive sexual desires, or the fountainhead of his mostly-psychopathic offspring.

What I mean to say is, everything that Donny has ever done, is doing now, or will possibly do in the future is because of me. I’m the reason he bullies people. I’m the reason he hates women so much. I’m the reason he’s tender about crowd sizes and has such a big problem with “leakers”. I am the itty-bitty epicenter of all the bragging and lying and overuse of words like “huge” and “tremendous” and (ugh) “bigly”. Lord knows, even this mess we’re in right now is all my fault.

I can’t tell you how sorry I am. This has been really hard for me.

Well… maybe I should say difficult. If I can be candid, the concept of ‘hardness’ has been kind of a shoulder-shrugger for the past three decades.

Not that Donny would admit it. If you were to ask him, he’d undoubtedly give you the impression that I’m a rigid, throbbing goliath. A beast. A winner. A towering purple masterpiece with the undying vigor of a blazing star. And very likely, after crowing about my magnificence, he would demand that you believe him.

“Believe me,” he would say. “I guarantee I got no problems down there. I guarantee it.”

You don’t have to take my word for it, though. He pretty much said exactly this back in March of 2016 when he bragged about my size during the Fox News Republican debate in Detroit. Granted, he was defending accusations from Republican opponent Marco Rubio, who used Don-Don’s inordinately small hands as a correlate for little-dickness.

Yes, Rubio was on the money. Of course he was. I won’t deny it. But instead of walking the high road and focusing on the issues, Donny took the bait and dragged me into a discussion with some of the most powerful folks in the free world, promising enormousness to the American people with a wink and a smirk.

And let that soak in for a second… on live television, in front of millions of people, a candidate for President of the United States assumed the bigness of his dingus was just as important to registered voters as foreign and domestic policy, health care, and the swift, merciless defeat of ISIS.

The thing is I’m not sure the Donald was wrong. I mean, his supporters in attendance literally howled and cheered when he came to my defense. A few of them even shot to their feet, clapping with a ferocity you don’t see in leopards protecting their young. Moderates on both sides wrote this moment off as a crass embarrassment, but a number of pundits later suggested that this was actually the moment that secured Donny’s candidacy. And as humbling as it was for me to realize that a giant dong is legitimately far more important to people who don’t understand the issues, I believe this is something that Donny has always known: that a big penis equals big plans. Big brains. Big skills. If Donny had owned up and exposed me to the world– the real me– I highly doubt we would be having this conversation. Wealth and power can take a person to some amazing heights, but no one on Earth will ever put their faith in an eensy-weensy little micro-dink like me.

I mean, you don’t have to be a wiener expert to figure out why Donny stamps his name on every glimmering colossus he can see fit to erect. These monuments to himself are telling you more about me than I ever could. In every city, in every country these huge, tremendous, bigly structures beetle from their foundations like rock-hard sky-peckers, and always near the tip of their steel and glass shafts, they scream the name ‘Trump’ in golden glory, as if to say “Believe me. I guarantee I got no problems down there. I guarantee it.”

I am so, so sorry. That is all on me.

I am why Donny is who he is, why he sits in thrones and surrounds himself with Calacatta marble and lustrous crystal and filigree. If you’re going to have a penis as small as me, you’ve got to learn to be a master of distraction. Now that he’s President—again, my fault—he’s putting you all to the test with skills he has honed since birth. He lies effortlessly, because I have made the truth painfully small. He golfs every weekend because of his hopeless, ongoing frustration with holes. He flip-flops on his decisions because I can neither flip nor flop. He grabs women by their vaginas because I have given him nothing to hold onto.

And now—God forgive me— you know why Donny just dropped the largest non-nuclear bomb in his arsenal in Afghanistan. He needed it to be as big as possible because he was afraid it might not otherwise do the job. The Donald has, after all, been haunted by (ahem) performance issues his entire life.

So here I am, in the haggard folds of Donny’s bloated pubis, jutting out ever-so-slightly, like a cyst, or a calculator button, begging your forgiveness. Know that if I could change things, I would. If I could suddenly burst upwards and outwards like one of Trump’s towers, I would do so without hesitation. I would happily make this all go away, but I’m just one little dick in a great big, flabby, rapidly disintegrating world.

And like I said, this isn’t about me. It’s about you.

All of you.

If you want to stop him, you’ll have to grow a pair and fight harder. He’s been at this a long time, and he will use every trick at his disposal to keep you from seeing how puny and impotent he truly is.

For those of you who are hoping he’ll shock everyone and learn to master the ins and outs of America’s highest office, you have to understand that he will never be able to satisfy you. He always comes up short.

And for the dwindling crowds who still support Donald Trump no matter what, all I can say is: get ready. He is going to jerk you around for a while, then fuck you as hard as he can, and you’re not going to feel a goddamn thing. By the time you finally realize you’ve birthed something monstrous into the world, it will be far too late.

Take heed, America. Things are about to get hairy. You need to give Donny the sack before he screws every last one of you and fills you up with nothing but disappointment and regret.

Thank you. I appreciate your penetrating consideration in this matter.


Jizz, Balls, Etc.,

Donald Trump’s Tiny Little Penis


Charles Manson’s Wedding Vows


I promise to be brand new, and myself, and me, and nobody else but me. 

I promise to always walk a real road, and to not be no sniveler.

I promise to be the consciousness uplifting your mind. I will unleash the scorpions that protect you from the devils of your reality.

I promise to love you, but what is love? What is love, see what I’m saying? What is love? If a man knows anything about love, how can he ever love? See? See? He has to invent love, or die like all those other phonies.

I promise to be what lives inside of you. Because I’m the king, man. I roll the nickels. I deal the cards.

I promise to stomach your truth, and to rammich kajeeba jee jee de wogga bogga. 


I’m the razor, see? I will never be no poop-butt. You will find that out. I’m gonna take you home to your mamma, you dig me?

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 Sci-Fi

  Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I write terrible sci-fi stories and submit them to real publishers under a fake name. NEW ENTRY RIGHT HERE!

Success Is The Same Thing As Failure


Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I’ll write purposely terrible erotica and send it in to legitimate publishers under a fake name. I do this because I am a weirdo, and because I have made a hobby out of collecting rejection letters from confused, and more than likely, indignant magazine editors and web masters who are just trying to do their jobs.

Well, earlier this week, I sent out a story titled ‘The Three Rings Of Passion’– about a circus clown who teaches a foot juggler how to tie poodle-shaped balloons– to a purveyor of tasteful porn named ‘Ms. Naughty’ (this was all documented in an earlier post, which– for context– I encourage you to read right HERE). I haven’t heard back from her yet. However…

In order to maximize the number of responses I get, I tend to send my stories out to multiple media sources. One of the places I chose for this particular piece was ‘Afterdark Online‘ (NSFW), a site that is, in their own words a “source for COOL sexy romance & HOT erotic stories”. Further, I submitted my piece under the subheading ‘Naughty Romance Tuesdays‘, a specific call for “…stories with a purpose of two or more people to have a sexual encounter. They even included some possible scenarios for inspiration:

  • A simple blind date at a corner restaurant, leading to a romantic, hot encounter
  • A simple love-at-first-sight leading to something more.
  • An office romance which leads to an unofficial meeting in the storage room.
  • Maybe there’s just more offer than a dinner and a movie; do something very naughty.


There were some other pre-requisites for Naughty Romance Tuesday. In lieu of a cover letter, I had to write up a short bio for my fake author (in this case, I picked the name Kurt Sharpley), so this is what I gave them:


Kurt Sharpley was born to write erotic romance. He has been authoring smutty filth for ten years now*, and is confident he’s finally ready to make the big time.

His eventual goal is to quit Hot Dog On A Stick once and for all. Not that it’s a bad job, but his boss, Deborah, has been unfairly inflexible with the schedule. Like it’s HIS fault he’s still weak from the gastric bypass surgery.

Kurt looks forward to making the world shiver and jitter.

*Including longer works such as “Dog Milk”, “Under the Pool”, and “Yukon Do It” (about a pair of sexy Inuits who get “cozy” on a bed of pemmican). These works are also available to be published.


Also, submissions needed to be at least 1000 words long (I added a few), and follow this set of guidelines:

 The erotic scenario could be anything, but the theme must define romance. We prefer to keep it erotic, since that is the content we are looking for. All short stories must be HEA (happily ever after) or HFN (happy for now), and it could involve straight couples, gay couples, poly, or ménage, so as long there is a romance theme in the story.

No problem there; the whole point of this little project is to amass those sweet rejection letters, so most of Afterdark’s precious rules didn’t really apply to me. I submitted my horrible erotic literature, and only had to wait two days for their response:



Screen Shot 2014-09-30 at 2.34.43 PM


Accepted? Published? Many writers spend years trying to publish their works, and this is how it happens to me? BY ACCIDENT? I can honestly say I never really planned for this eventuality.

Again, the story is about a circus clown that teaches a foot juggler how to tie balloons into poodle shapes. It contains no sex, no romance, no couples (gay or straight), no polyamorousness, no ménages (of trois or otherwise), and a brief lecture on energy conservation. Because: IT IS NOT EROTICA.

Clearly, I figured, this must be some kind of mistake.

Well, as it turns out, NOPE. (link is NSFW)

I have no explanation as to how this thing got published. It could be that the site’s editor just didn’t read the piece, or maybe he or she just gets turned on by some baffling stuff. Either way, I HAD to respond.


Dear Afterdark Online—

Thank you so much for publishing my piece titled ‘The Three Rings of Passion’. Now I can finally quit Hot Dog On A Stick! My boss, Deborah, is going to be so peeved (I was scheduled for a triple-shift, PLUS it’s my week to clean the 200-gallon boiler). I guess stuck-up, snooty Deborah is going to have to find a babysitter and finally get her hands dirty.

When can I expect payment? Today is preferred, but as long as I get the money by the end of the week, I’ll be fine (I can afford to skip a dinner or two since the gastric bypass surgery didn’t take).

Once again, thank you so much for your faith in my work. I’d love to know what it was specifically that you found titillating. Could you send me some feedback? Even better, I’d love a couple of pull-quotes from you for when I publish my first anthology (I’m thinking of calling it either ‘Ero-tickled Fancy’, ‘Groin Stories’, or ‘Kurt Sharpley’s Big Book of Arousing Yarns). Let me know!

Your new partner,

Kurt Sharpley

hot dog on a stick



That’s it for now, but stay tuned for updates. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go celebrate my first piece of published erotica by eating a chicken salad.

So, Here’s A Thing I’m Doing…


Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I write terrible sci-fi stories and submit them to real publishers under a fake name.


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

Trying To Publish My Smut: Part III

Recently, I submitted a story to erotic fiction publishing website Ellora’s Cave under the name Kurt Sharpley. I’m sure to hear from them any day now. (This is not the first time I’ve done this. To see where this whole dumb hobby got started, go HERE and HERE)


Dear Ellora—

First, allow me to say that I am a big fan of your website. I’ve read many of your titles, including ‘Spellbound Desire’, ‘The Nightwind’s Woman’, and my personal favorite, ‘Pliable Inhibitions’. As you say on your ‘About Me’ page, your cave truly is “A home for lovers of erotic romance”. That’s me!

My name is Kurt Sharpley, and I am an aspiring writer. While I have authored many books on a variety of subjects (none published), my true penchant is for the world of literary erotica. To date, I have written over 10,218 erotic stories (none published). These tales are guaranteed to inflame the crotches of people all over the world, and in your website, I think they’ve finally found a home.

On your ‘Write For Us’ page, it says that you’re always looking for new talent, and that it doesn’t matter if I have an agent or not. While I actually do have one—my real estate agent, Donette– she seems to think that this is not her area of expertise. She’s also kind of mad at me because it’s been twelve years, and I still haven’t bought a house. But I don’t care– these decisions take time!

And so I come to you unrepresented, but with the certainty that once you read my work, you will be happy to publish it. Below is a sample of my latest story, titled ‘Hamster Bath’, a bawdy tale of passion in the tub. Strap yourself down, because this thing is steamy!

One Naughty Rodent In A Tiny Tub

One Naughty Rodent In A Tiny Tub

‘Hamster Bath, Chapter 1: The Wettening’

Hamburger the Hamster was a dirty boy.

He’d worked up a hot sweat on the exercise wheel, the metal rungs whizzing by like frightened birds beneath the pads of his little pink feet. Hamburger had never run so hard, yet he couldn’t stop; he imagined himself as a wild stallion on the open prairie, galloping through the tall grass, daring cowboys and Indians alike: Break me if you can.

Finally, Hamburger’s itty-bitty legs gave out, and he flopped out of reverie and onto the floor of his pen, his silky brown fur matted with froth. He staggered to the far corner of the cage and lapped up a cool dewdrop of water from the stiff, hard nozzle of his sippy bottle. When he was fully satisfied, he collapsed into a pile of wood chips.

By the time Hamburger realized what he had done, it was too late.

The thin shavings clung to his sweaty body like soft kisses; he was covered from head to toe in moist hamster bedding, and try as he might, he could not wipe himself clean.

Hamburger was a dirty, dirty boy.

Suddenly, Hamburger’s owner, Chris Rodriguez, strode into the room wearing blue parachute pants, red running shoes, and an orangey-yellow Banana Republic sweater. He had just finished a backbreaking shift at The Old Spaghetti Factory, and was ready for the sweet relief of slumber.

“I’m home, Hamburger,” said Chris Rodriguez. “And boy are my arms sore.”

From making spaghetti, he thought to himself. Chris Rodriguez never spoke about spaghetti out loud to Hamburger, mostly because Spaghetti was also the name of Chris Rodriguez’s first hamster, and he didn’t want to make Hamburger jealous. Spaghetti, Hot Dog, Pizza, Chicken Soup… these were all hamsters that Hamburger didn’t need to know about. It would complicate things.

“Think I’ll hit the hay,” said Chris Rodriguez, as he yanked off his sweater, exposing the button-up shirt he was wearing underneath. “Tomorrow’s another d…”

Just then, he looked into the cage.

“Oh, Hamburger!” exclaimed Chris Rodriguez. “You’re filthy! I guess sleep will have to wait.” He gave Hamburger a wink. “You need a bath.”

Hamburger tried to escape, but there was nowhere to go. The cage was too small; Chris Rodriguez’s hands, too large. In the end, all Hamburger could do was shudder in the darkness of Chris Rodriguez’s cupped palms. They’d been through all of this before.

When they reached the bathroom, Chris Rodriguez plopped Hamburger into a luxurious porcelain bowl, then on a dry towel, laid out all his hamster-cleaning tools: a tiny bottle of Garnier Früctis Body Boost shampoo; a teeny-tiny bottle of fortifying conditioner; and an itty-bitty tin of Sephora honey-scented foaming bubble cream.

Chris Rodriguez then delicately poured some warm water over Hamburger’s head. Hamburger tried to clamber out of the bowl, but it was hopeless. The porcelain was too slick. Any time Hamburger got close to escape, he’d just slide back down into the wetness.

Chris Rodriguez reached down and gripped his hamster gently but firmly, and pressed an itsy-bitsy all-natural loofa sponge to the base of Hamburger’s teensy- weensy nose.

“A-scrubba-dubba,” said Chris Rodriguez.

Hamburger tried to wiggle free.

“A-scrubba-dubba, a-scrubba-dubba-dubba,” said Chris Rodriguez.

Hamburger wiggled.

“A-scrubba,” said Chris Rodriguez. “A dubba-dubba.”

Hamburger wiggled some more.

“A-scrubba-dubba-dubba-dubba,” said Chris Rodriguez.

Hamburger wiggled and wiggled.


So what do you think? Pretty sexy, right? I’ve only written up to page 1783 (800 chapters of around two pages each), but when I’m done, I’ll send you the full manuscript. And if you like what you’ve seen, I’d also be happy to courier over some of my completed works, such as ‘Farmer’s Beard’, ‘My Favorite Jelly’, and ‘Catfished for Reel’ (about a Louisiana fisherman looking for love online who gets catfished by an actual catfish). Let me know!

I look forward to working with you, Ellora! Let’s make America throb with passion!

Yours in all things erotic and sexy,

Kurt Sharpley


Catfished For Reel: A Man, A Computer, And A Master Baiter


*UPDATE*: Go HERE to see how Ellora’s Cave responded!

The Twelve Labors of Racist Hercules


Facebook has always been a kind of polestar for racist ranting. Search through any feed and you’ll eventually find someone’s small-town, xenophobic cousin spouting off about the blacks, or the Jews, or the Korean Muslims coming to take their freedom, as if it were a thing they keep stashed away in lock boxes along with Grandma’s ring and their collection of Roosevelt silver dimes.

The person in my feed? Strangely enough, it was the actor Kevin Sorbo of ‘Hercules’ fame, who put in his two cents about the police shooting and subsequent protests in Ferguson, Missouri:


He later took the comments down and apologized, but the damage has been done: not only has Sorbo exacerbated the plight of an already impoverished and disenfranchised population, but he has, to my mind, left the Hercules mythology in disarray. Fortunately, I had some time today to Sorbify™ the lore, so here are the Twelve Labors of Hercules – the tasks given to him by King Eurystheus as penance for slaying his own wife and children*— reimagined for a racist demigod in a modern world:

The Twelve Labors of Racist Hercules:

1. Slay the Nemean Lion (Even if it’s unarmed).
2. Deport the nine-headed illegal immigrant Hydra (Unfortunately, when you send one head back home, two take its place).
3. Arrest the Ceryneian Hind (Because with those golden antlers and all that bling on its hooves, it’s obviously some kind of thug).
4. Perform a “random” search on the Erymanthian Boar.
5. Pay a migrant worker well under minimum wage to clean the Augean stables in a single day, and if he can’t get it done, call him “lazy”.
6. Slay the Stymphalian Birds (For acting like a bunch of animals).
7. Keep the Cretan Bull in a state of economic stagnation.
8. Steal the Mares of Diomedes (Sorry, I mean “discover” the Mares).
9. Explain to Hippolyta of the Amazons that some of your closest friends are Amazonian.
10. Accuse the monster Geryon of reverse racism.
11. Steal the apples of the Hesperides. (Discover. I mean DISCOVER).
12. Blame everything on Obama.

All right, you can take it from here, Wikipedia. I look forward to your edits.

*The real Hercules weren’t no peach, neither