Hunting Grounds

There's an old saying – The more things change the more they stay the same. For some things this is true. For others it could never be more wrong. I still do most of my meanderings at dark. I guess old habits are hard to break. I've been around long enough to endure the daylight with no worries about becoming a roman candle or a puddle of bubbling goo like the youngsters do. Us old bats are made of tougher stuff.

There's just something about the darkness that is still invigorating. Society is at its most heinous when the sun is away. I still have the fondest recollections of old Saucy Jack making his rounds in Whitechapel. Bloody exciting nights.

I was never a great consumer of the strumpet-kind. This isn't to say that in times of weakness I didn't snack on a few gutter tramps. I preferred ladies of a higher society. The repressed, chaste woman of the Victorian Era was a sexual bomb waiting for her fuse to be lit. Corsets, petticoats and slips barred any quick advancement. The act of seduction was akin to unwrapping a multilayered gift on Christmas morn. The anticipation was exhilarating. The Upper Class aroma too, was much more appealing to the olfactory senses. Even a mortal could smell the putrid Whitechapel cunny that mixed with the ever-present yellow fog. Took a defeated man to partake of such rotting quim. Luckily the upkeep of womanhood advanced with the passing decades.

The Roaring 20's. The first great decade of the Twentieth Century. The Flapper Girls, fueled with the bravado of illegal spirits, gave opportunity to us purveyors of trim. Never had society experienced "free love" given so freely. It was surely the decade of the most delicious decadence.

I wasn't till Hirohito decided to cold-clock the ol' U-S-of-A in Hawaii that things started heating up again. The Great Depression had been just that, depressing. They say that the sequel is never better than the original. World War Two was the exception. With most of America's young virile men off fighting to save the world from sauerkraut and sushi, the entire female population was left to us most fortunate few to ravish at our convenient whim. Blood and sex abounded at every step. It was the last true time that all logical thought could be abandoned at the wink of a beautiful woman's eye.

The next fifteen years was America's own repressed Victorian Era. It wasn't till 1968 that the modern revolution kicked down that stained glass window. Sexual freedom truly bloomed with the growth of "Flower Power". Not since a quarter of a century earlier could one engorge themselves upon the buffet of flesh that was now erupting across the landscape. It has never really stopped save for a hushed lull in the Eighties due to a most misunderstood viral scare that truly only endangered the younger set. We elders feasted upon the corpulent during the Black Plague that ravaged Medieval Europe giving us a most fortunate immunity.

All this reminiscing brings me finally to the early years of the Twenty-First Century. The incredible fourth year of an insatiable first decade. Myself, still looking every bit as young as twenty-nine, must humbly profess, without bragging, that the fur trade is more ludicrous than ever before. Women are now so much more sophisticated to the skills of seduction than ever in history. Even the youngest girl seems light-years ahead of her predecessor merely a decade past. The former clear bold line of pedophilia seems to be fading due to the harsh rays that streak from the overly sexed adolescent females. Age verification is an annoying dilemma.

The past hunting grounds of political and social gatherings have been replaced by the college town 24-hour super market! It is astonishing the quality of young flesh that frequents such establishments at the latest hours. Gone are the visages of proper or tantalizing dress. Now the world of "Soffy" shorts with the word "juicy" stitched on the ass and "baby doll" tops barely conceal the tender morsels that lie within. Not bothering to make up their faces, not that many need to do so, they peruse the isles unaware of their radiating sexuality driving an old muffin-eater mad.

Though I still hunger for the crimson that flows in their veins, I find I lust more for the warm moist sanctuary residing between their milky thighs. The days when I would bleed a maiden dry are now replaced with feeding upon their necks like sampling a fine wine. In the storeroom over a palette of Dog Chow, I slide into my latest honey-pot drawing but a drop or two from her breast. Just enough to keep an old tiger on the hunt.

PLETHORAS DONE, LEGIONS TO GO.