June 14th Virgin Islands.
Can anybody remember when Street Ladies were of the honourable sort? Of course you can’t, they’re whores for God’s sake. Honourable activities like bowls, shit kicking and necrophilia are alien to them. So when one steals your money, shits in your new Burberry hat and wipes vaginal discharge over your Cleveland steamed face you should not be surprised. Especially after paying them with sea shells.
So hookers then – walking cunt dispensers, fruit machines without the handle but with extra lights and my favourite pastime. Or at least they were. They are now relegated to 3rd place after Fishplugging (see previous post) and ‘Icepick’. Let me introduce you:



Those of you with prior knowledge of my oral offenses and bum tickling tendencies will know of my love, my feverish search, my willingness to go to all (bell)ends for new arseholes and Icepick here, he defies words. Well he would, but I, Tommy H Shortdick (BA Hons. Rib Tickling, Funpot Gargling AUS Distinction) am a fucking wordsmith. Look at him, the proud strut even when standing still, that tattoo on his tit, the Beckham-esq fuck you to all the uglies. He stands proud, like a Lion on the Kenyan Plains before a hunter sticks a cattle prod up his shithole. Funnily enough that is what happened to Icepick here when he mistakenly tripped over a sparkling blue teddy bear that was washed up by some careless fucking girl, probably on a fucking cruise with a bunch of Old cunts just trying to die. I mean if you want to die why not stuff an arsenic laced biro up your nose and fucking sniff? That’s Rock n’ Roll man, not a fucking P&O cruise. Jesus Fucking Christ. Cruises. What a fucking piece of shit.
Anyway, Icepick falls over and I pounce. I leap upon my pray like an enraged albino mongoose, struggling against the power of a stricken beaver. We fight like two classically trained actors in a Shakespearian battle, masterfully orchestrated, but with the astounding addition of two phallic members.

The diaries of Thomas H Shortdick esq. Verses 1-3, Macau to Portsmouth. A journey of two fish, a wank and a handsome sailor, callsign 'Icepick'

June 6^th. Arrived in Macau. It is a fucking desert, like Las Vegas but with less Barbara Streisand. There are some fruit machines but they are hookers. Fucking shit, and they over charge. I paid one twenty rupees – fucking dumb bitch accepted Indian currency (I had some left over from Bombay after I paid for my shopping with clean water, what a fucking result that was) for a handjob and all she did was paint my nails. Fucking anti climax. I’m getting used to that after the escapade in Berlin with Uta but the less written about that the better.

Macau, lots of fishermen here so I thought I’d make hay and get some bum tickling action in. It was a clear evening, the moons shadow glistened against the calming waters in the bay, I was gazing at Orions belt from the marina, the surrounding stars seem to glisten all the more as he took it off and bore his throbbing member to the world. I could not help but reach down and give it a little tinkle. He was gentle. Like a whisper in the wind, slowing blowing my hair past my ears, tickling my lobes with desire and lust. I hadn’t felt so alive since when I left the confines of my dear departed mums hairy clunge. To be honest though the last time I went back there she was a bit crusty, a bit cold. I guess being buried for 10 years does much to diminish her sex drive. Lobbing off one of her mangy tits probably did little to enhance the situation. Back to the anal bliss that was the sodomy with Orion though. Whilst he tore against my reamed cornhole I was taken aback to when I was little and Uncle Harold had first slipped me one, the feelings of wonder and awe came back to me at once. I was the young schoolboy in the woods, trousers round my ankles, blood pouring down my thighs only this time I didn’t have to explain to parents how I tripped, this time I had fallen, fallen in love.

June 10^th. Had a wank. Drank the jizz. I felt like one of those old chicks who drink their piss in order to stay young. I thought the jizz might cure the problems I was having with singing Ave Maria. It didn't and I'm still shit. Still, fucking brilliant wank.

June 11th. Fishing is fucking boring. I mean you shit, sorry, sit there all fucking day waiting for someone to nibble on your line and then reel it in. It's like going to a shitty nightclub populated with old fanny and wisened arsecrack waiting to get some action. The smell is similar too. However in spite of this gloom and despair I have happened upon a most wonderous pursuit. I am proud to be the inventor of fishplugging. Remember what the gayers did in them times of yore with Hamsters, corn and buttholes? Well this is the same, without the corn.

You get a fish - I'm partial to a bit of Rainbow Sea Beam Bass Calimari Rex Harris Spinner Minnow myself, and stuff it up your funbox. It wriggles around like a worm in the morning mist, trying in a desperate lost cause attempt to escape the clutches of a ravenous pigeon, who, like his pigeon brethern is sick to death of fucking bread and looking for some wormy goodness. Anyway, the fish wriggles around like an immigrant in the small confines of a Polish lorrys exhaust pipe, it blows away both the dust and the shackles of tempatation as you ride wave after wave of exhaustive orgasmic pleasure. I'm telling you all, it is fucking brilliant.

June 12th - My first meeting with Icepick. More to follow!