Sunday, September 21, 2008

The Amorphous Male
Pithecanthropus Erectus

Kofi Fosu Forson

Boxer would be best definitive of the male. The gentleman further and professionally reprises the role as pugilist knowing of its science and rule.

Circumstances bring the macho fisted, less-gloved in the streets of Mexico to fight, form an opinion on who governs within a moment of ill-dispute. For it is not the man made definitive as “street” based on his walks of life.

Torture as in emotional turmoil need not be rendered in a gang-fight, drug bust or rape. The primordial mind is capable of surrendering to an escapade found in serial killers, dictatorship and government.

Who are we that bring to life foetus born to lead a challenge best deserved of a conqueror knowingly life itself is more than gift; it’s miraculous. Where are those who merge this complicated effort not to merely survive but ascend beyond proportions set aside for those who dare? In defeat and victory we summon this challenge.

Wherefore do we sport in deciding who is king or merely man? Does manhood suppose physical and emotional strength? What becomes of a person who has no monetary gain? Is he less the victim and more the conscientiously free?

There are suppositions in life. One must deliver unto oneself the ordained manifesto. To what principles does one ascribe? When does politics refrain from art and do they form a consequence with science and music to implicate genius. Is that then a means of disillusionment or a clever way of describing Goethe?

Art is never the scientific method. It’s the very way of meditating on nothingness. But with every query is the history behind the undertaking. To suppose a pen and paper, brush with paint is to kill by sword, death at war. We are not children at play. Such is the hindrance in today’s society where to pupil requires a gun. Credibility is gained by senseless death. Isn’t the precarious delivery of an artistic expression an excuse not to murder?

When then is art a premeditated means of expression and earns its merit as an occupation? Were we not all children once ready at play crayons in hand debating on colors, shape and form? Was this a path towards destiny or does innocence beget curiosity?

Experience warrants the character of every male. The hunter in nature knows a precise hand and eye coordination. The painter at heart is open to the world. Depending on temperament he finds a vision. The writer marks with punctuality thoughts and equations.

How then do we suppose the resolve with which an abstract expressionist manages the thought process from the minimalist divide of an avant-garde filmmaker? Does an accomplished jazz improvisation bear similarities to the redundancy of a rock and roll song?

These require theoretical interpretations coming to terms with the notion and understanding behind the creative process. Assuming the standards and artistic movement relevant in each medium we can magnify in peculiarities and uniqueness, the musician from the photographer, the dancer from the choreographer.

Art then becomes construct, a decided business with which we mark conclusions drawn from our pithecanthropical existence neared evolution through time, emerging as creative beasts, pronounceable as architects of misfortune from which we establish language, vernacular, enabling communication, semiology, translating signifiers through advertisement, cinema, art culture and the continuous motion emerging as dignified, an entity onto all others where we prolong by will alone the innate ability to conference.

Thursday, September 18, 2008


Kofi Fosu Forson

Wittgenstein. I had never heard of Wittgenstein. They were a rock band he said and he was the bassist. Didn’t care to know what type of music they played. I was on some dyslexic sex shit I paid enough money for and I was feeling pretty good…Pretty good enuff to be noticed in this fuckin’ dive dump of a cash bar…ya know like every one here is well off, yeah like intellect is money and it comes in pounds and yen as well. But get caught up on some shit about mathematics and philosophy ya get the name Wittgenstein as a name of a band.

Didn’t know if he was shittin’ me or not but he kissed like a mean grocer. Picture a fuckin’ joogie at the market slippin them shits in a brown paper bag but he does it with style. I mean one after the other…tit-fuck, dick-suck, tit-fuck, dick-suck. Sex is good like that. I definitely wanted to fuck him. Wasn’t sure if he liked what I was wearing. I had on the charcoal-black proper. It fits, meaning whatever the occasion. This was a perfect call, the charcoal black dress, my stiffs, can’t get my feet in ‘em but when I do I strut.

He was cool kinda like that Jagger thing you get with the Brits. Stick-fit that thought in your brain and think about a lanky fella with bones for a body. That means fine prick, right?! Whatever, at least he had a prick. Felt sorry for some of these other boys. Bastard wouldn’t place his Remi on the bar. He kept it hangin’ sip after sip, turning to look away, back at me with those lips to say, “Get drunk. I wanna fuck.”

Yeah he was a bassist. He had a poster of Paul Simonon in his bedroom. He immediately took off all his clothes to the bone. I watched as his cock saluted me. His body was tight to the muscle from ribcage to abs. His head of hair wasn’t wig but had that effect and I looked down at his prick hair it looked a mess, uncombed but good bush. So he stood there looking at me and he went with his hand like this…like what about that dress. Are ya gonna take it off? I couldn’t believe it...

This strong piece of ass was going to stick his hard dick in my cunt and make me cum. The water moisture in my pussy was almost making a sound with all that rubbing against each other. I had one leg over the other as I took off the stiffs one by one. I fell back on the bed and lifted the charcoal dress up above my thighs exposing my candle-white panties. I wear them when I want to lose my virginity for the fiftieth time. He came over and pulled them off my body, proceeding with the middle finger inserting it in and out of me while the thumb and the next finger rubbed my clit.

Yeah! Fuck yeah! Right darling now look me in the eye as you do this. Yeah! Oooh yeah!
You do what for a living now… I see you as a cock who will make me cum tonight. Bitch! Fuck! Like wow…Fuck me…Please…please.

He stuck his fingers in his mouth then rubbed them over his cock. I had my legs spread wide separating my pussy with my fingers. When he entered me it felt right. It was the perfect fit. We were in it for sure. My hands caressed him as he went in and out of me.

Fuck me! Bitch! Fuck me!

He had me by both legs as he cycled his way in and out of me. I took my time to finger my clit, rubbing it faster and faster as he fucked me in an alternate motion. Is that not it?!

The rhythmic pressure of two alternate motions to form a symmetric balance is conducive to the determining factor from both points wanting a conclusion defined by its dimension therefore giving in to the relevance of what is taking place.

We were fucking. All I wanted to do was cum. He bent over my nipples, barely sucking them while fucking me. He massaged my breasts as he fucked. I was hot all over. Our eyes met. I knew in that moment I was about to cum. His pressure point increased. My breath got shorter and shorter. I started to scream. He kept fucking me. I was giving in to him. He gripped me tight. I came.

I softly pushed him off me. I reached down to his cock. I gave it a jerk and began to suck him off. It felt good in my mouth, sucking hard, stopping to jerk it. He was breathing heavy. He came. I squeezed every drop of cum from his cock.

He lit a candle. I said for what.

Good wax.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008


By Kofi Fosu Forson

So honestly, what if I were a gorilla, blessed with savoir-faire, since being a vampire is Roberto’s destiny. He is an accomplished strategist, the one and only vampiri. In the past he had an entourage of women following him around. It all started as a collegiate prank when costumed as Dracula, he gained attention from people he would otherwise have given an offensive stare. Women labeled as trollops were his ideal. He never thought much of the chaste, saving them for sarcasm. It is an advantage he has always had over me: how to be pompous and attract unwanted attention. Then again, there’s tonight and the prospects of Halloween, but even that encompasses a fancy that fleetingly lasts a day. If I truly were a gorilla, I might entertain prospects of pugilism and its governing rules in order to prevent homicide. It is a wonderful game. All I have to do is show up and my presence will be felt. First impressions are so important. The thought of being a gorilla is on my mind. I reframe my personality to fit into the gorilla suit. I’ve had it since the days of art balls and frolicking at Rhode Island School of Design. It is not a hailing of Halloween, but a way to convict myself of failing to live prosperously. In essence it’s a jail. When I put on the suit, I survive the ordeal with tightened belly, a twisted grin, and heavy breathing. It won’t be long before I make my way out the door onto the streets where other re-defined personalities are roaming and wanting attention.

Monday, September 01, 2008

Trans Beirut Erotica
Kofi Fosu Forson

Elegantly new because water purifies you know. Cleanses feet of sandal soot, frees cuticles of modern nail polish, separates lint from the belly button, adds moisture to the vaginal cavity and wets the skin to then dry within the comfort of laundered towels.

Beirut would then be the place to call on evenings like this ‘cause he’d be waking up getting ready for another day of briefings, teleprompting and interviews. But tonight he was here in Landover waiting for her to come to bed. She walked into the room with a towel covering her cleavage and mid-section. Another towel towered over her head. Standing by the doorway she looked at him as he sat bare-chested on the bed reading a newspaper. She smiled the kind of smile that let him know she was happy to have him there with her. She had worried over him and tonight they were together alone.

“Carrie, I’ve been assigned a post in Nicaragua.”

“And who’ll be doing the dishes while you’re gone?”

Lamenting about her days alone without him, she moved closer to the edge of the bed and sat looking away from him. Her hands were placed flat on the bed. She looked down at her fingers, blinked, thought for a moment and let out a long breath.

Removing the towel covering her waist, she entered the bathroom and brought with her a bottle of lotion. She stood before him, rubbing the lotion all over her body, around her arms, legs and thighs. Her fingers pushed back the towel covering her head. She tilted it to the side and fussed with her hair. He kept on reading the newspaper. She remained silent, watching him.

He appeared distant, quietly adjusting the newspaper to another page. The light from the lamp fell over him. He looked important, the reading glasses and his poise, focused on what he was reading. Within the dead air, he cleared his throat, removed his glasses, looked over at her and asked her to come closer.

The bed sheets covered the lower part of his body. Her back facing, she inched closer to him. He toyed with the strands of her hair, combing it through with his fingers.

“It’s not getting any easier, Carrie.”

She glanced up at him, with her eyes blinking, turning around to face him.

“Where would we be without each other?”

She took his fingers and raised them to her lips. She rubbed her lips over them. His fingers were long and thin. She sucked on them, one after the other, sucking until the finger disappeared into her mouth. She secured her body on the bed, her head on the pillow, one arm folded under her head and the other embracing him as he moved from her breasts to her navel, kissing her.

Kissing with open mouths, they groped each other, breathing, circling as their bodies formed in rotation. He pulled his weight off her, separating her legs. She was wet. He placed his tongue over her clitoris, licking and sucking. His mouth completely covered her, licking, sucking and fingering. She closed her eyes, rubbing her breasts and moaning.

He grabbed her legs and raised them in the air, securing them over his shoulders. He then held onto his prick putting it inside of her. She immediately lifted her head off the pillow and let out a hot sigh. He rammed it in continuously. His arms long, palms flat on the bed, his head bobbing from looking at the wall and onto her face. She looked up at him with her mouth open, letting in air as he rocked her, gently, building into a crescendo, separating her legs wider, keeping the intense pace, steady and effortless…pushing his love into her, as the moaning increased in sound.

He turned her around onto her knees. He went in from there, muscling his way into her, pushing, digging with dick into the music of her pussy. She was breathing, feeling his prick separating and entering her. Their bodies remained a vision of light and fantasy.

She the girl on top, gyrating counterclockwise, her buttocks bouncing off his prick, up and down dancing as she pants, body slanted slightly, faster the momentum, she lets out one hot sigh after the other. He brings his fingers to fore rubbing her clitoris as she thunders above him. She turns around to face him, resuming pressure. She raises her buttocks inches above bouncing off his prick.

She feels a momentum up and down her spine. She trembles, whispering his name repeatedly, maintaining the rhythm of sex as she builds up speed, whispering his name.

Her pussy tightens. She screams out loud, arching her back, collapsing onto him to kiss him softly, resting her head on his chest.