If You Come For The Kisses, You Must Stay For The Farts – From Guest Blogger Skip Williamson

Today, I am fortunate to be able to feature the legendary Skip Williamson as my guest blogger.

One of the central figures in the Underground Comix movement, Williamson is one of those unsung heroes who helped create a sensibility for an entire generation including your occasionally intrepid blogger.

I hope you enjoy his work as much as I do.


“Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra

and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath.

At night, the ice weasels come.”

— Matt Groening

I was approaching sixty years old and it was a little odd rejoining the dating game at such a late date. But it didn’t take me long to get back into the jungle-monkey swing of it. And the experience has been multi-layered, painful and fascinating. A learning experience with benefits.


Sonia is a stunningly lovely, angry witch. I’m not being pejorative when I say “witch”. That’s the good part, her spiritual side.

She collected men who fell in love with her like butterflies. I was pinned through the thorax, under glass, a memento.

“What you vocalize, what you bring into the Universe will be.” she would say. Then she would say “You and I are like fire and gasoline.”

What she brought into my Universe was: Enchantment, anger, excitement, abusive behavior, passion, pain, music, sex, no sex, alcoholism, rancor and jail time.

I loved her very much, so she left my worthless carcass in the ditch.

But we had our moments.

I’d told her that she was the only woman I’d gone out with that, at the end of the evening, it would not be unreasonable that I could end up dead. It would piss her off for me to say that, but it was the truth. Besides, pretty much everything about me pissed her off.

I only have scattered memory of our first date. I showed up in the morning with a fifth of frozen Vodka and some smoked salmon. By early afternoon much was lost in an alcoholic fog. I remember getting back to her place after dark and her roommates were watching a porno. I went home with rugburns on my knees and I don’t remember how I got them. The next day Sonia called and said “Wow! That was excessive. Even by my standards.”

On our second date she said goodnight to me by lighting my pubic hair on fire.

We were at her front door saying our goodnights, canoodling, kissing and fondling. She rubbed my dick through my jeans. Then she brought out a Bic lighter, flicked it on and slowly drew the flame across the length of my cock through my jeans. And back again. She ripped open the front of my shirt scattering buttons around the vestibule and lit my chest hair on fire. She put out the fire with her mouth and licked my chest, extinguishing stray embers. She unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants and lit my pubic hair on fire. It went up in a great melodramatic “Poof!” while her mouth was on mine kissing me goodnight. Since that night I’ve found the reek of burnt hair especially provocative.

Late the night of her birthday I was returning from the bathroom at her house, preparing to leave. Sonia lunged at me from around the corner and hauled me into the foyer. Immediately I was her heavy bag. She punched me rapid-fire and closed-fist all over my torso. I was very encouraging, demanding harder punches and taunting her that she hit like a girl. “Hit me harder, you bitch! I can’t feel a thing!” She played me like a drum and I was loving it. She punched me in the face, in the stomach, in the chest, on my legs. Even a couple of blows to the genitals. I was hoping that she’d hit me hard in the nuts and send me retching, doubled over in excruciating pain, to the floor. And there, in the fetal position and in sweet agony, that she would kick the Holy shit out of me. But such tenderness was not to be. “Maybe next time” I said to myself.

She jumped me, legs wrapped around my knees and skinnied up me like a monkey up a palm tree until we were crotch to crotch. She kissed me, open-mouthed, swabbing at me with her tongue. She jerked me off-balance with some creative humping and I fell with her under me. On the floor, with her legs spread I sucked at her pussy through her jeans. She ground herself into my face.

We were back on our feet. She vaulted into my arms like a deranged dancer, one leg stretched out, the other tucked under, my right arm under her back, my left hand supporting and exploring her ass. I carried her and twirled her around the room. She rapidly shifted positions bringing the tucked leg out, throwing out her arms and changing the center of gravity with each twist and turn. But I carried her swirling and whirling like a crazed Dervisher. I didn’t lose balance, I didn’t drop my cargo. I told her what a great workout it was and if she truly cared about my health she would let me come over three times a week and really get in shape.

She got on her knees and presented her ass to me. I accepted it graciously. Then more pounding on me with her fists and kicking on my back and legs. Suddenly we were out the door, her legs wrapped around my waist and her arms around my neck. She was pulling on my hair and I was pulling on hers. I was drenched in sweat, growling and grunting, licking and biting her soft, white neck and superb ears down to the velvety naked flesh of her stomach and to her bare feet. I love her crazy dancer’s feet. They’re like a Cubist painting, splendidly angled and gorgeous.

Then we were in the yard rolling in the wet grass and mud. I was telling her how beautiful she was. Suddenly she’s going all coy and blushing at the compliment. We were up against the garage door, sitting crushed together on the concrete and I said “I love you and nothing else matters.” She said “Are you sure nothing else matters?” and I said “No. I meant to say I love you and everything else matters”. She liked that. Abruptly we were back in the doorway again. We must have been in and out of the door four or five times. I was trying to say goodbye. She kept pulling me back, throwing punches, encouraging me to explore her body, kissing me passionately. I wanted her to bust my lip. I wanted to taste my blood. I wanted her to leave marks, scars and bruises– tangible evidence of her excitable self. She whispered in my ear “I love you.” I was the happiest man on the planet. “HIT ME AGAIN, YOU FUCKING CUNT!”

It was the best sex I’ve ever had with my clothes on. Maybe even with them off.



Kelly called around 1 am. Clearly irritated and ablaze with pique she launched into a diatribe about how difficult I am to get ahold of. And why don’t I have a cellphone? Or call waiting?”You’re lucky I have a phone at all.” I said. “I think phones are a technological nuisance.

I drifted off to sleep with her peevish admonishments still singing in my ears.

I woke up suddenly and looked at the clock. It was 7 am exactly. And I wasn’t alone. Kelly was all over me, a tangible miasma. An erotic protoplasmic amoeboid. Her soul and mine were locked mouth-to-mouth and I was suckling at her sum and substance as her multitude of luminant arms and vaporous legs snaked around me snarling us into an impossible tangle. I was out-of-body, watching it from above while experiencing it from within. The bouquet of enthusiastic passion filled the room. She rolled under me and over me like corporeal smoke, spiraling down my belly and around my happy cock. She was an angelique demonette feeding on my compliant spirit, roiling through my guts, tearing her way to my heart. Where I invite her into the chamber. And the bitch just tears up the place!

I open my eyes. It’s 9:30. I’m alone in my bed and this time I really am awake. Stll buzzing from my Kellydream, I stumble into the kitchen and get the coffee going, my dick softening.


I was with Kelly at the bar.

She said “I got a new phone. I got 1600 anytime hours. And this cool case.” “

“And it’s a camera” she said.

“With my phone I got nothin'” I grumbled. ” You got all that extra shit because you’re a cute girl.”

Kelly took a picture of me with her new phone. She looked at the picture and said “You look like Bukowski in this photo.”

One of the things that had attracted me to Kelly was the bumper sticker on her car that reads “I’d rather be reading Bukowski!” It was a signal to me that a noteworthy and free-spirited brain lived here.

“Bukowski was the only person I would have had sex with because of who he was” said Kelly.

“He probably would have been a lousy fuck” she added.

“At least he would have written about you” I said.

The thought made her smile.


Kelly’s beautiful. She’s a pale-skinned, long-legged blonde. She’s intelligent, exotic, flirtatious and observant. She has icy-blue extraterrestrial eyes and a lavish high-octane laugh. She’s one-quarter Lakota Sioux and she wears a coyote tail pinned on as her own. Her body is covered with ink — illustrated with images of conjoined death-heads alive with cute spiders. And carnival freaks — and studded with ornaments and baubles. She finds the the stink of decay beguiling and her avocation is genetic deformity and forensic pathology. Femme Fatale incarnate. Part critter, part ethereal lovecake, she is — like Death — unavoidable.

Of course, a lot of that stuff is superficial beauty, only skin-deep. But, like most monkeyboys, I swim and breed in the superficial skin-deep swale.

Like the rest of us who’ve survived a destructive relationship or two, she’s a fairly torn-up piece of property, a broken doll. Persistent catastrophe convulses and squalls in her orbit.

I get a little overheated the way Kelly’s lacy bra-strap falls down her illustrated arm behind the strap of her dungarees. 

Todd and I were sitting at the bar in the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club. Kelly was bartending, an Olympic event was on TV and the female gymnasts were performing.

”It’s not that I lust after fourteen-year-olds” Todd whispered, huskily.

”Get real” I said. “Of course you lust after fourteen-year-olds on pummel horses. Who doesn’t?”

”Yeah. You’re right” he said staring at Kelly’s tit.

”Are you looking at my boob?” Kelly yelped.

”Uh, no” said Todd, quick on his feet. “I was looking at your bra strap. Nice underwear.”

”I may look like shit on the outside.” she said. “But underneath it’s all Victoria’s Secret.”

”I might have let Skip have a good look.” She smiled at me — all coquettish and slightly deranged — from her heart. Or maybe from her pants.

”I take Xanax and Prosac. Valuim does nothing for me.” she said to me as she popped a Xanax. “I’m all messed up. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and a bunch of other stuff.” 

”Why don’t you have a little Merot with that,” I suggested, looking to influence her chemistry as much as she would allow.

As she poured herself a glass I locked onto her ambiguous blue eyes.

”You’re fucked up, girl. I think that’s one of the reasons I like you so much

Our first date was a make-out session on my floor in front of my TV. She grabbed at my dick and I slipped my hand across her soft white belly and down the front of her panties, and found jewelry.

We made a second date to hang out at her place. She called me late on the day of the date and told me she’d just found out she was pregnant, but I could still come by if I wanted to. By the time I got to her place she was having a miscarriage. We watched a movie while she spotted and expelled bloody clumps. 

On our third date we drank whiskey and snorted cocaine for nine hours. The drugs and alcohol wiped away the thin veneer of civilized behavior. So I grabbed her and flung her onto her bed demanding that she admit she was in love with me. And the next thing I know it’s six am and she’s screaming “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE AND DON’T COME BACK!”. Blind-drunk I wrecked my car twice getting home. 

After her miscarriage she kept “Clumpy”, her aborted fetus, in a jar on her bedside table next to her pistol. Around this time — because of a faulty furnace — her house blew up and burned to the ground, sending her little Chihuahua, Wheezer, to doggie heaven. 

I had bonded with Wheezer, and he with me. When I was at Kelly’s on her couch watching TV Wheezer would put his tiny paw in my hand and keep it there for my stay. Or splay himself across my chest so that our hearts would beat together. Wheezer made it clear that he didn’t care that we were different species. He’d cry like a little girl when I’d enter the room. He’d slather me with doggie kisses. He didn’t care that we were both male. He knew we were cosmic soulmates. 

I’m pretty sure I loved that little dog more than I loved Kelly.


I’d stopped by Laura’s classroom to return a pink thermal coffee cup she’d left at my place.

She was chiding one of her students, a retarded nine-year-old named Avery.

It was after school and she had her charges until Mom or Dad picked them up, around 6pm. Natasha, a little girl with Down Syndrome took an immediate liking to me. She stroked my beard and fed me “chicken soup” with a little yellow plastic shovel out of an empty red plastic cup. Avery dogged me demanding that I read the Three Little Pigs, which I did twice. The story had captivated Avery, the pigs, their houses, the wolf and their intertwined fates. He was excited and giggly but his mood became guilty and heavy-hearted when Laura reminded him that his behavior earlier in the day had been less than proper. That he had hit one of his female classmates. He had hit Natasha.

Laura was sitting across from me, her knees high, in a chair made to accommodate children. Avery was next to me, his expression collapsed and The Three Little Pigs a fading memory lost in his personal remorse.

Laura was wearing a mid-thigh skirt and long wool stockings. Black, dotted with colorful little flowers. As she berated Avery for his misbehavior my eyes fell to the pink, freckled flesh of her legs where her stockings ended. Her knees were parted. My gaze wandered up her thighs. And between to the crotch of her panties .

“My friend Skip might get mad at me,” Laura scolded Avery. ” He might raise his voice. But he never hits me!”

My mind filled with the memory of Laura’s naked white ass in my face, my red hand-print fresh and hot on it’s surface. And Laura’s compliant moans and queefs.


Jill’s married but she calls me her “other husband”.

“There are several women who tell me they love me.” I told Jill as she was straddling, dry-humping and kissing on me in the women’s toilet of a rock ‘n’ roll club.

“But I’m the only one who’s really in love with you,” she sighed as she gingerly squeezed my testicles.

Jill leaves scent markings. The woman pees all the time. On my toilet, outside the door to her house as I hold her hands to keep her balanced, in the Kroger parking lot while I’m cashing a check. Anywhere. Everywhere.

She said that her grandfather was a grumpy old character. And that when she was fifteen her costume of choice were short little Madonna skirts and thong underwear. When grandpa was a crank she’d flash him, flip up her skirt and moon him. I think if I were her grandpa I’d be a perpetually crabby old fart too.

“I don’t want to go to Rehab!” she drunkenly sobbed. She drinks a lot. I like girls who drink, they’re way more fun than those who don’t. “I just wanna fuck strangers,” she wailed as I rushed out of the room in search of a disguise.

I was talking to her on the phone while she was throwing tennis balls to a dog she was babysitting for. “Jeeze. He’s got three balls in his mouth” she said. “That more than I can do.”

Jill is concerned about cosmetic shit. She has botox injected into her face on occasion . She was sitting across from me and patting herself under her chin.

“I need this lyposuctioned out” she said.

“I have a pouch, too” I admitted. “I hide it under my beard.”

“Maybe we could get mutual lyposuction” I added. “We could hold hands during the procedure.”

“We’ll sixty-nine each other while being lyposuctioned,” she said.

“Loud sucking sounds will fill the operating theater” I said.

Like most women Jill has a strong anarchist center. She can slip into psychobitch with ease, if needed. The World is only about her shit. I told her this and she said “That’s not true. “

” What else is your your world about?” I asked.

“About you, baby. All about you.” she said.

“I love the freakin’ shit out of you” she purred.

And, like most women, Jill has many personalities. I’m hungry for each one of them. I want to have deranged monkey sex with all of them at the same time.


There are going to be a lot of gorgeous women at my funeral. It’ll be a great place to pick up chicks.

Please read all of Skip Williamson’s blogs at



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