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Yes, I’ll admit it, I’m obsessed. Yes, I’ll admit it, it has affected my work, social life, and sleep patterns. Yes, I’ll admit it, I may have a problem. Do I? Hmmm, it seems strange to read those words. “A problem.” Is it a problem? Did Joyce have “a problem”? Did Melville have “a problem”? Did Vladimir have “a problem”? Did Vera discover his manuscript of Lolita and say, “You know Vlad, we have to talk. . .”?

I mean, forget the hyperbolic comparisons to the greats, but this is an artistic creation that is a natural extension of the artistic creation I call “my life.” I don’t care about money. I don’t care about fame. I don’t care about being “normal” — whatever that means. I care about art; making art and living artistically. And that’s what I’m doing here on the page. To hell with the rest of it. The rest of it isn’t worth a farthing. Money problems? It’s just fodder for my writing. Relationship problems? Again, give me a blank page and I’ll turn those problems into a page-turner. The whole of my life — every mind-numbing moment of boredom and each mind-blowing thrill of exhilaration — is fodder for the fire.

Look at that box there — page after page — hundreds, maybe thousands of them — of an earlier work. Unfinished, yes, but there is potential there. And after that, a many yearlong “emotional affair” played out mostly in correspondences that I am willing to wager also runs into the hundreds if not thousands of pages. And then came Lo and the poetry — poetry of a force and power and illumination that I thought myself not capable of — and the prose and the desire to share all of that with others. And before all that, there are the reams and reams of diary entries going as far back as my late teens. Looking back on it, there was never an extended period of my adulthood that I didn’t spend writing prolifically. Most of it is crap — I grant you that. But the fact is, I had to write. I wrote for the same reason I breathed — it was almost unconscious and without it I would die.

. . .

“Will it upset you if I read it?” she inquired.

I shrugged my shoulders again and, after a moment, said apathetically, “Do whatever you want to do. I don’t really care.”

For a small eternity we lay there in silence and then I felt her reach for her phone. She turned on the cold blue light of the screen and within a few moments I could hear her breathing grow deeper with some long, heavy sighs. I could feel the slight rhythmic jiggling of the bed as the fingers of her right hand found their way to her pussy. I felt the movement in the darkness as she pulled off her pajama bottoms and spread her legs wide and I could hear her begin to moan. She then whispered, “I’m so wet. I’m so wet.” I could feel the motion of the bed as her right hand plunged deeply into her pussy, pounding it with three, four, maybe even five fingers. She groaned and sighed in the telltale way that indicates she’s climaxing. She grabbed my right hand from around her and pulled it down to her crotch and forced it between her legs to feel how wet she was, how her pussy was dripping down the sides of her groin.

“Slap me, Daddy,” she begged, “Teach me a lesson. Punish me.”

I slapped the top of her pussy once, right on her clit. Her whole body convulsed and, a second later, she let out a little moan of delight. “Again,” she said. I slapped her again. “More,” she said. I slapped her four or five times, very hard.

Her right hand moved to her pussy, pushing mine away, and she was at it all over again. Again she climaxed. Again she asked me to slap her. Again I did. And all over again she was diddling her pussy, clit, cunt. As she did so she said, “I can’t stop.” Her left hand reached to feel my groin and see if my cock was hard. It was. “Do you want me, Daddy?” she asked.

[Excerpt from the story, “Transformation,” from the blog:]

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Just your average nymphomaniac next door. I love fan mail:

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