Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Shakespeare in Squirto

Now, sir, jack yourself,
Whether I in any just term am affined
To woof the Moor.


All the world’s a cage,
And all the men and women merely playthings:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time sprays many tarts,
His acts being seven outrages.


I follow him to wank my sperm upon him:
We cannot all be masturbators, nor all masturbators
Cannot be truly follow’d. You shall mark
Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave,
That, doting on his own obsequious bondage,
Wears out his wang while liking his master’s ass,
For nought but provender, and when he’s old, cashier’d:
Whip me such honest knaves.


O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!
The courtier’s, scholar’s, soldier’s, eye, tongue, weenie,
Th’ expectancy and rising of its swollen state,
The class of frigging and his hold of form,
Th’ observ’d of all observers- quite, quite shown!
And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck’d his honey and let him then plow,
Now see that noble and most sovereign reason,
Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh;
That unmatch’d form and feature of once-blown youth
Whacking with ecstasy. O, woe is me
T’ have seen what I have seen, see what I see!


Thou, penis, art my godhead; to thy skin
My ten fingers are bound. Wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custom, and permit
The attention of women to deprive me,
For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines
Lag of a lady? Why wanker? Wherefore base?
When my dimensions are as well compact,
My mind as lecherous, and my semen true,
As honest man’s issue? Why brand they us
With base? With baseness? Wankery? Beat, beat?
Who, in the lusty stealth of Onan, dreams
More fantastic and fierce variety
Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,
Go to th’ creating a whole puddle of swimmers
Got ‘tween asleep and wake? Well then,
Profligate Edgar, I must use my hand.
Our father’s love is to the wanker Edmund
As to th’ Profligate. Fine word- ‘Profligate’!
Well, my profligate, if this semen speed,
And my inversion thrive, Edmund of Fap
Shall top th’ profligate. I grow; I lengthen.
Now, gods, stand up for wankers!


But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp’d, and want love’s majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail’d of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish’d, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to wank my wiener in the sun
And thus ignore mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a wanker
And take the idle pleasures of these days.
Lubes I’ve hand-made, and dildos dangerous,
For drunken fantasies, wishings and dreams,
About my brother Clarence and the king
In deadly hate the one on top the other:
And if King Edward be as long and thick
As I am subtle, false and treacherous,
The ass of Clarence should then be rip’d up,
And near a prolapsy, which says that ‘O’
Must follow soon as I stroke it so slow.


I take it by the palm: ay, well grabbed,
wanker: with as little a twitch as this will I
ensure as great a squirt as Etna. I smile upon
it, I do; I will lube thee in thine own cocksauce.
You grow, true; ’tis so, indeed: that such strokes as
these coax you out of your little codpiece, it is
even better if I kiss my four fingers so
oft, which now again you are most apt to play the
sir in. Very good; well kissed! an excellent
delicacy! ’tis so, indeed. Yet again my fingers
to my lips? would they were lady-pipes for your sake!

More solo performances from sundry perverts at this link.


ifthethunderdontgetya™³²®© said...

Filthy filthy filthbots!

M. Bouffant said...

"A solitary celebration of masturbation." -- Bouffant's Review of Stroke Books