This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.


Sean was born on Christmas morning. He was big and early and tore his mum up in the process. She was given stitches and told no penetrative sex for a month. She was a devout catholic and rejoiced for the first week with her little jesus.

Sean's Dad was a drunk and liked to come home in the early hours and fuck his wife angrily and clumsily in the dark. He let his balls hang boiling for seven nights, before returning home in a whiskey rage forcing her down with open palm slaps to stop her crying and burst the stitches with the violent stabbing of his cock as each stitch burst the bedsheet became wetter with crimson and Sean bounced on the edge of the bed to rhythm of his Father's sex, crying as he came.

Seans father rolled off and wiped his bloodied hand on his week old son's still soft head, he left that night and never came back. Sean's mother rejoiced less and left the house rarely. Sean never knew where his father was, or why his mother flinched when he held her eye, only that he was born on Christmas just like Jesus and that made him special somehow.

Sean tried to tell himself he wasn't bitter, when he made those comments about her and people asked him,

"still bitter?"

He would say no he just enjoyed the sensation of harsh words on his tongue. He told himself he wasnt bitter when he sat alone and almost sent her texts, some desperate, some disgusting, some drunk and dirty. He told himself he wasn't bitter when he tried to force her black bob mask on every girl he saw and masturbated to her however hard he tried not to, however guilty low and empty it made him feel. He remembered how he told his mates,

"she fucked like a demon"

And told himself he wasn't bitter, just lonely and angry as usual.

Sean told himself he wasn't bitter because he was alway out and always smiling and always feeling himself with free drinks. Sean was funny and people liked the way he said things. He had a sharp tongue and positioned himself above the socialising masses with ha ha moments and tales of all he'd seen and done, embellished with the glaze of good timing and the structure of a good story.

Sean wasn't bitter cause he got laid alot with different girls. That's what your meant to do when your young and good at getting people to look at you and stay staring, and it's what he wanted when he was with her anyway. Sean liked sex alot, like most happy people and rejoiced in his own filthy theories about how to predict a cunt's appearance by her fingers and her teeth, and how from licking out you can tell a girls diet.

Sean told himself he wasn't bitter and that he didn't hate the girls he fucked. They are more than notches, more than something to soothe the tension in his heart. To distract from the way the tension has more pull the longer he continues breathing, the way it makes him tap his foot and speak too fast the way it blesses him with black out moments of sweeping rage that takes over his torso and can only be exorcised by by the swift contracting of his arms and the abuse of his knuckles, the middle one swollen from this practice and the little one sunken and hanging back behind the rest.

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