Sinister: ListSmut to ListSlut in one pretentious move.

[paul 'garish in pink' sallis]

The recent levels of smut and self-gratifying filth on
this hard to find (but richly rewarding once
discovered;) sinister niche has been quite frankly
shocking! 
This used to be such a pleasant area, you used to able
to trust your neighbours and leave your doors wide
open without fear of midnight prowlers and buggery
(err, burglary). But now you can’t even walk down the
street without having female masturbation forced down
your throat, or ring-piece manipulating wanking
confessions thrown in your face. What will the
well-to-do family’s think of us? – The Steps community
alone will be up in arms to try and stamp-out all this
‘old-chap’ & ‘front-bottom’ related mayhem, and with
their nicely tanned arms and well choreographed
stamping, you know, we don’t stand a chance.

There was a time when I thought you were all such
dainty wee flowers, gently swaying in the garden of
eternal tweeness, how wrong I was. 
I may have to sojourn to the sadomasochistic list just
to spare my blushes and recapture my lost innocence.
Only to raise my head again at a time when the
unbridled element has coaxed this thread to a climax,
spent its copious load of debauched narrative and
withdrawn forthwith to a more modest pliant position.

Hmm, but for the time being I shan’t try and wade
against the tide of 'bodily fluid inducing actions'
any longer. And to prove it, here is an extremely wee
story written in the eighteenth century (believe it or
not) which I think will go down quite well with you
wicked wicked young scallywags. Well, It made me laugh
like an imbecile anyway, and it did instantly turn my
thoughts to you my carnally obsessed brothers &
sisters:


*** The Horse-Chestnut Flower: ***

It is alleged, I would not vouch for it, but some
learned men assure us that the flower of the
horse-chestnut tree definitely possesses the same
smell as that abundant seed which it has pleased
nature to place within the loins of men for the
reproduction of their kind.
   A young girl of about fifteen, who had never left
her father’s house, was walking one day with her
mother and a sophisticated Abbé down an avenue of
horse-chestnut trees whose flowers filled the air with
the scent which we have just taken the liberty to
describe.
   ‘Oh good gracious, mother, what an odd smell,’ said
the girl, not realising where it was coming from . . .
‘what is it, it’s a smell I know.’
   ‘Be quiet mademoiselle, don’t make remarks of that
kind, I beg you.’
   ‘But why not, mother, I don’t see what’s wrong in
telling you that I’ve smelt it before, and I
definitely have.’
   ‘But, mademoiselle . . .’
‘But, mother, I recognise it, really I do; Monsieur
Abbé, tell me, I beg you, what’s wrong in my saying to
mother that I recognise that smell?’
   ‘Mademoiselle,’ said the Abbé, adjusting his jabot
and speaking in a piping voice, ‘there is certainly
nothing very wrong in the fact itself; but we are
walking beneath horse-chestnut trees and we botanists
admit that horse-chestnut flowers . . .’
   ‘Well, horse-chestnut flowers . . .?’
   ‘Well, mademoiselle, they smell of spunk.’

*** Fin ***

I hope you liked that, that last line is such a
corker, whoever translated it from the original French
version must have had a truly sinister edge to them.

Well, its competition time folks: the first person to
correctly identify the author gets, err, their very
own copy of the hit parade of MY ten biggest wanks
(~you lucky lucky person you~). 
Please calm yourselves, try not to kill anyone in the
rush to submit the answer, and send it to me, NOT DA’
LIST.  (phew! This way I avoid the embarrassment of
no-one answering it, ha ha hah, err wait a minute, did
I say that out loud or just think it? Pants!)

au revoir mes petites fleurs,
xxx paul xxx

"the fey quality was there, the ability to see the
moon at midday"


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