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The first epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.
The first epistle of JD Nielson
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mature themes and content. A transformative work.
dear mitchell,
i feel certain that it cannot have escaped your notice that tonight was the inaugural meeting of the front range lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning and queer business networking group. it certainly did not escape your intrepid reporter's notice, on account of having lost that fucking bet you tricked me into, which exploits ended up with yr ob'd't s'rv't standing outside the charming faux-colonial façade of the colorado springs hampton inn hotel & suites.
not, you will doubtless wish to know, the hampton inn & suites colorado springs air force academy (go air force). nor, may i say, the hampton inn colorado springs/i-25 south. yes, mitchell, you damsel with a dulcimer, it was in fact the third fucking hampton inn in our delightful metropolitan area that yours truly visited. allow me to highlight at this point that on precisely none of the fourteen emails sent out by the committee of frlgbtqqbng - as it is snappily called on its delightful website and promotional materials, in times new fucking roman with a taupe gradient background, no less, and which acronym is by no means a keymashing expression of irritation by your beloved moi - was this potential confusion mentioned, nor a precise street address given.
be that as it may, i had arrived, suited (suited! i! never say i do not love you, mitchell) and booted, at the delightful hampton inn & suites. now, frlgbtqqbng neither asks, nor tells, but boy howdy, my dear mitchell, have i never in all my queer, queer days seen as many closeted ladies and gentlemen of our beloved air force, current and past, skulking around and pretending they were there for the manager's happy hour. (believe me, o apple of mine eye, the manager's happy hour consisted of a lonely paunchy balding road warrior and a man in a raccoon hat; it was still more lively than frlgbtqq as i walked in.)
ignoring with a will the exotic siren call of the manager's happy hour, however, i proceeded forthwith to the function room, and was presented with a delightful glass of what was apparently that vinegar you use to make your strawberry and melon fruit salad. it certainly wasn't, as advertised, chardonnay. i proceeded further into the room, only to spot a certain gentleman of our mutual acquaintance, who looked upon me as if i were the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. which simile, dearest mitchell, may well assist the synapses in your addled, elderly mind to fire in a fashion slightly improved upon their usual army cadet accuracy: it was none other than horse-hung henry.
you remember, mitchell, the six foot three redhead with the prodigious cock and predilection for japanese rope bondage. you will also recall your exclamation on my beginning the aforementioned shibari on his entirely equine erection: "well shit, nielsen, i don't know what you're braggin' about, that ain't much different from crocheting an afghan". you will also recall (or, at least, i swear to god that i will whine at you until you do) that i had to flog horse-hung henry's ass for a good five minutes to get him hard again after his laughing fit, and all so you could ruin a set of my ropes by dripping candle wax on his dick. i will, however, allow that he moaned very prettily as you did so.
let us return to the recent past; that is, slightly over five hours ago. horse-hung henry, who (according to the list of attendees i scanned upside down on entering the function room) goes by the name of h. james williamson, iv, and who (ditto) is vice president of operations for hsw systems, spotted me from across the room and instantly flushed a rather fetching shade of pink. (a shade of pink, i do not mind saying to you, mitchell, rather reminiscent of the colour of his cock once i had finished binding it as he was hanging in kataashi age tsuri shibari, and upon which you were forbidden to comment on pain of death or at least severe complaint.)
now, mitchell, you know that i am not a nasty person. sadistic fucker at times, true, but - fine, fine, i will reword the beginning of that sentence. you know that i am not a needlessly nasty person, so i raised my glass of piss-vinegar to horse-hung henry, iv, and gave him a smile. at which point he dropped his beer on the floor. i bet you didn't know that my superpowers extended that far, did you, mitchell? i thought not.
further awkwardness was avoided by the introduction of the speaker for the evening - an overly chirpy pr lesbian who spoke in an impressive mixture of bullshit and platitudes - followed by an hour of mingling in which horse-hung henry maneuvered himself to ensure he was on the opposite side of the room from yr ob'd't s'rv't at all times, before the blessed conclusion of the evening and fervent exhortations from the committee to attend the next frlgbtqqbng event - to be held in april, in one of the fucking other fucking hampton fucking inns in colorado fucking springs, and to which i will bring you despite any protestations of not officially being part of the lgbtqq community. i swear to god, mitchell, if necessary i will buy you a stripper so you can, hand on heart, say you're a dyke and attend the next one.
i remain, madam, yours, as ever,
jdn.
ps. jim from dynasyne sends kisses and wants to come over for a fisting session next tuesday. i told him yes, subject to you not having used all my fucking unopened cans of crisco for biscuits.
pps. it is not ipso facto a problem if you have indeed used all my fucking crisco for biscuits. i am a great supporter of your biscuits, and especially in favor of having them made when i am craving them, even if your store cupboard is out of shortening; however, while i understand that your ancient and befuddled mind classifies crisco as a foodstuff and that you consider it therefore in your purchasing demesne, please tell me if i need to buy some more before i reach the point of wanting to punchfuck a bottom and realising there's none left in my stash. j-lube is not my unguent of choice.
ppps. i now want biscuits. damn you and your baking, mitchell, damn you both to hell.
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mature themes and content. A transformative work.
dear mitchell,
i feel certain that it cannot have escaped your notice that tonight was the inaugural meeting of the front range lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning and queer business networking group. it certainly did not escape your intrepid reporter's notice, on account of having lost that fucking bet you tricked me into, which exploits ended up with yr ob'd't s'rv't standing outside the charming faux-colonial façade of the colorado springs hampton inn hotel & suites.
not, you will doubtless wish to know, the hampton inn & suites colorado springs air force academy (go air force). nor, may i say, the hampton inn colorado springs/i-25 south. yes, mitchell, you damsel with a dulcimer, it was in fact the third fucking hampton inn in our delightful metropolitan area that yours truly visited. allow me to highlight at this point that on precisely none of the fourteen emails sent out by the committee of frlgbtqqbng - as it is snappily called on its delightful website and promotional materials, in times new fucking roman with a taupe gradient background, no less, and which acronym is by no means a keymashing expression of irritation by your beloved moi - was this potential confusion mentioned, nor a precise street address given.
be that as it may, i had arrived, suited (suited! i! never say i do not love you, mitchell) and booted, at the delightful hampton inn & suites. now, frlgbtqqbng neither asks, nor tells, but boy howdy, my dear mitchell, have i never in all my queer, queer days seen as many closeted ladies and gentlemen of our beloved air force, current and past, skulking around and pretending they were there for the manager's happy hour. (believe me, o apple of mine eye, the manager's happy hour consisted of a lonely paunchy balding road warrior and a man in a raccoon hat; it was still more lively than frlgbtqq as i walked in.)
ignoring with a will the exotic siren call of the manager's happy hour, however, i proceeded forthwith to the function room, and was presented with a delightful glass of what was apparently that vinegar you use to make your strawberry and melon fruit salad. it certainly wasn't, as advertised, chardonnay. i proceeded further into the room, only to spot a certain gentleman of our mutual acquaintance, who looked upon me as if i were the fifth horseman of the apocalypse. which simile, dearest mitchell, may well assist the synapses in your addled, elderly mind to fire in a fashion slightly improved upon their usual army cadet accuracy: it was none other than horse-hung henry.
you remember, mitchell, the six foot three redhead with the prodigious cock and predilection for japanese rope bondage. you will also recall your exclamation on my beginning the aforementioned shibari on his entirely equine erection: "well shit, nielsen, i don't know what you're braggin' about, that ain't much different from crocheting an afghan". you will also recall (or, at least, i swear to god that i will whine at you until you do) that i had to flog horse-hung henry's ass for a good five minutes to get him hard again after his laughing fit, and all so you could ruin a set of my ropes by dripping candle wax on his dick. i will, however, allow that he moaned very prettily as you did so.
let us return to the recent past; that is, slightly over five hours ago. horse-hung henry, who (according to the list of attendees i scanned upside down on entering the function room) goes by the name of h. james williamson, iv, and who (ditto) is vice president of operations for hsw systems, spotted me from across the room and instantly flushed a rather fetching shade of pink. (a shade of pink, i do not mind saying to you, mitchell, rather reminiscent of the colour of his cock once i had finished binding it as he was hanging in kataashi age tsuri shibari, and upon which you were forbidden to comment on pain of death or at least severe complaint.)
now, mitchell, you know that i am not a nasty person. sadistic fucker at times, true, but - fine, fine, i will reword the beginning of that sentence. you know that i am not a needlessly nasty person, so i raised my glass of piss-vinegar to horse-hung henry, iv, and gave him a smile. at which point he dropped his beer on the floor. i bet you didn't know that my superpowers extended that far, did you, mitchell? i thought not.
further awkwardness was avoided by the introduction of the speaker for the evening - an overly chirpy pr lesbian who spoke in an impressive mixture of bullshit and platitudes - followed by an hour of mingling in which horse-hung henry maneuvered himself to ensure he was on the opposite side of the room from yr ob'd't s'rv't at all times, before the blessed conclusion of the evening and fervent exhortations from the committee to attend the next frlgbtqqbng event - to be held in april, in one of the fucking other fucking hampton fucking inns in colorado fucking springs, and to which i will bring you despite any protestations of not officially being part of the lgbtqq community. i swear to god, mitchell, if necessary i will buy you a stripper so you can, hand on heart, say you're a dyke and attend the next one.
i remain, madam, yours, as ever,
jdn.
ps. jim from dynasyne sends kisses and wants to come over for a fisting session next tuesday. i told him yes, subject to you not having used all my fucking unopened cans of crisco for biscuits.
pps. it is not ipso facto a problem if you have indeed used all my fucking crisco for biscuits. i am a great supporter of your biscuits, and especially in favor of having them made when i am craving them, even if your store cupboard is out of shortening; however, while i understand that your ancient and befuddled mind classifies crisco as a foodstuff and that you consider it therefore in your purchasing demesne, please tell me if i need to buy some more before i reach the point of wanting to punchfuck a bottom and realising there's none left in my stash. j-lube is not my unguent of choice.
ppps. i now want biscuits. damn you and your baking, mitchell, damn you both to hell.