![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
The third epistle of JD Nielson. Mezzanine. Mature.
The third epistle of JD Nielson
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
dearest darlingest mitchell,
why yes, i have in fact been out all night, in response to your barely intelligible subverbal muttering when i arrived home yesterday evening (fine, fine, technically this morning, but it's always morning somewhere, mitchell, and by the same token it is clearly always night somewhere too, quod erat et cetera). i will point out that, despite my having been out, in your words, all night, i am still awake before you have managed to emerge blinking into the sun from the land of lethe, como la nascita di venere, although, in the interest of accuracy, the entire process à la mitchell is more reminiscent of the venus of willendorf, and if men are from mars then, yes, mitchell, you are clearly venereal. sorry, venusian. or whatever the fucking adjective is.
mitchell, my belle, and these are really words that go together well, i could indeed have danced all night. oh, wait, i did dance all night, on account of there being absolutely no fucking tops at top to bottom, which, apparently, is not, and since it appears to have been renamed bottomy o'bottom's house of bottomy bottoms and, oh wait, look, some more bottoms, i fear that i may have to find myself another place to find men to fuck me senseless. where, as the song doesn't quite ask, have all the top men gone, long time passing, long time ago? alas, according to my sources, they are not in colorado fucking springs.
i swear to god, mitchell, it was so bottomy in there that i actually ended up having to top. seriously. me. have you stopped laughing yet? perhaps i should give you some whitespace to allow you to do so.
is there a better bottoms' bureau that i can complain to? can i lodge a complaint with the department of assfucking? can i report the bar to the secret sodomy service? i feel that i should have some form of remedy. perhaps, given that we live in the land of the free and the home of the &c, i should sue someone. should i find an attorney at ass to take up my case? can i call 1-800-where are all the fucking tops?
your sympathy, mitchell, is much appreciated, as much as your lack of assistance in finding myself somebody to plumb my fundament is bemoaned and bewailed. if only, mitchell, these were in fact the rivers of babylon, because at least those babylonian motherfuckers got to lie down and weep, which i can only assume means that they were too busy remembering zion to remember the lube, but still, mitchell, assfucking, my kingdom (babylonian, mesopotamian, sumerian, nabatean, carole) for a fucking horse-hung top to start some uphill fucking gardening in my goddamned yard. and by yard, clearly, i mean ass.
i know, mitchell, my love and my heart, that you were busy last night, knitting. knit one, purl one, cast on, cast off, except i was the cast-off last night, mitchell, you heartless bitch, left alone to fend for myself in the wilderness, like a modern-day elijah, except without the whirlwinds taking me to heaven, and allow me to tell you, mitchell, that i would have been entirely content to have been taken to hell by a whirlwind, or even a light breeze, if somebody had been doing any fucking taking whatsoever. your tiny relation better damn well appreciate the jd nielson's sex life memorial rug or whatever the hell it is you're knitting.
i mean, jesus homoerotica christ, i realise that you are southern and backwards, but we do in fact have (a) four fine outlets of baby gap within an hour's drive (i checked on their goatraping flash-based website), (b) more mammon than dolly parton has mammaries, and (c) access to the fucking internet so that you can use some of it to buy shit for your sisters and your cousins and your aunts instead of making it yourself, like you're stuck in a laura ingalls wilder fantasy. not, mitchell, that i am attempting to imply that your kink is not okay. i remember as a boy reading those books and getting preternaturally excited when almanzo was taken out to the woodshed and beaten, like i very much was not being beaten last night, mitchell, in case your befuddled and befogged geriatric mind has already forgotten. i have ever been precocious, mitchell, ach mein liebling, as you well know, and i longed then -- as i did last night -- to put the man in almanzo, or, rather, for almanzo to put his man in me, not to put too fine a point on it, or in it, or, technically, in me.
the problem is, mitchell, that your maddeningly accurate ability to perch on a stool next to the barman in every single leather bar in colorado by god springs and strike up a conversation with precisely my sort of top is, well, maddening. after extensive observational study, participatory research, and everything short of asking the fucking bastards what the hell it is that makes them come talk to you, i am still none the wiser as to the nature of your unnatural ability to find the good ones.
as a result, mitchell, my darling taliswoman, i have decided that i am either going to have to fit time-locked doors to the doors of your insanely, inexplicably and inconceivably extensive collection of twisted sheep hair to stop you taking a notion to knit during the times when it is plainly clear that i need a good hard fucking and a better harder beating, or to take drastic action of some other form.
do you think that the local leather bars would mind you knitting on a bar stool?
i have the great displeasure to remain, bitch, neither y'r exc'd'ngly disob'd't s'rv't, n'r anyb'dy else's s'rv't, ob'd't or otherwise,
-jdn
by Anchises
Mezzanine universe. Mildly mature themes and content. A transformative work.
dearest darlingest mitchell,
why yes, i have in fact been out all night, in response to your barely intelligible subverbal muttering when i arrived home yesterday evening (fine, fine, technically this morning, but it's always morning somewhere, mitchell, and by the same token it is clearly always night somewhere too, quod erat et cetera). i will point out that, despite my having been out, in your words, all night, i am still awake before you have managed to emerge blinking into the sun from the land of lethe, como la nascita di venere, although, in the interest of accuracy, the entire process à la mitchell is more reminiscent of the venus of willendorf, and if men are from mars then, yes, mitchell, you are clearly venereal. sorry, venusian. or whatever the fucking adjective is.
mitchell, my belle, and these are really words that go together well, i could indeed have danced all night. oh, wait, i did dance all night, on account of there being absolutely no fucking tops at top to bottom, which, apparently, is not, and since it appears to have been renamed bottomy o'bottom's house of bottomy bottoms and, oh wait, look, some more bottoms, i fear that i may have to find myself another place to find men to fuck me senseless. where, as the song doesn't quite ask, have all the top men gone, long time passing, long time ago? alas, according to my sources, they are not in colorado fucking springs.
i swear to god, mitchell, it was so bottomy in there that i actually ended up having to top. seriously. me. have you stopped laughing yet? perhaps i should give you some whitespace to allow you to do so.
is there a better bottoms' bureau that i can complain to? can i lodge a complaint with the department of assfucking? can i report the bar to the secret sodomy service? i feel that i should have some form of remedy. perhaps, given that we live in the land of the free and the home of the &c, i should sue someone. should i find an attorney at ass to take up my case? can i call 1-800-where are all the fucking tops?
your sympathy, mitchell, is much appreciated, as much as your lack of assistance in finding myself somebody to plumb my fundament is bemoaned and bewailed. if only, mitchell, these were in fact the rivers of babylon, because at least those babylonian motherfuckers got to lie down and weep, which i can only assume means that they were too busy remembering zion to remember the lube, but still, mitchell, assfucking, my kingdom (babylonian, mesopotamian, sumerian, nabatean, carole) for a fucking horse-hung top to start some uphill fucking gardening in my goddamned yard. and by yard, clearly, i mean ass.
i know, mitchell, my love and my heart, that you were busy last night, knitting. knit one, purl one, cast on, cast off, except i was the cast-off last night, mitchell, you heartless bitch, left alone to fend for myself in the wilderness, like a modern-day elijah, except without the whirlwinds taking me to heaven, and allow me to tell you, mitchell, that i would have been entirely content to have been taken to hell by a whirlwind, or even a light breeze, if somebody had been doing any fucking taking whatsoever. your tiny relation better damn well appreciate the jd nielson's sex life memorial rug or whatever the hell it is you're knitting.
i mean, jesus homoerotica christ, i realise that you are southern and backwards, but we do in fact have (a) four fine outlets of baby gap within an hour's drive (i checked on their goatraping flash-based website), (b) more mammon than dolly parton has mammaries, and (c) access to the fucking internet so that you can use some of it to buy shit for your sisters and your cousins and your aunts instead of making it yourself, like you're stuck in a laura ingalls wilder fantasy. not, mitchell, that i am attempting to imply that your kink is not okay. i remember as a boy reading those books and getting preternaturally excited when almanzo was taken out to the woodshed and beaten, like i very much was not being beaten last night, mitchell, in case your befuddled and befogged geriatric mind has already forgotten. i have ever been precocious, mitchell, ach mein liebling, as you well know, and i longed then -- as i did last night -- to put the man in almanzo, or, rather, for almanzo to put his man in me, not to put too fine a point on it, or in it, or, technically, in me.
the problem is, mitchell, that your maddeningly accurate ability to perch on a stool next to the barman in every single leather bar in colorado by god springs and strike up a conversation with precisely my sort of top is, well, maddening. after extensive observational study, participatory research, and everything short of asking the fucking bastards what the hell it is that makes them come talk to you, i am still none the wiser as to the nature of your unnatural ability to find the good ones.
as a result, mitchell, my darling taliswoman, i have decided that i am either going to have to fit time-locked doors to the doors of your insanely, inexplicably and inconceivably extensive collection of twisted sheep hair to stop you taking a notion to knit during the times when it is plainly clear that i need a good hard fucking and a better harder beating, or to take drastic action of some other form.
do you think that the local leather bars would mind you knitting on a bar stool?
i have the great displeasure to remain, bitch, neither y'r exc'd'ngly disob'd't s'rv't, n'r anyb'dy else's s'rv't, ob'd't or otherwise,
-jdn