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SusanJillParker’s Non-Erotic Story free porn video
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A real ego booster, Susan writes a non-erotic story for her to read when she’s down in the dumps and depressed.
I have lots of qualities that I’m proud and glad to have. Whenever I think of my God given gifts, my inherited attributes, and my inherent qualities, those thoughts of self-realization, albeit somewhat self-centered, helps me get through my not so chirper days. Stopping to smell the roses in appreciation of all that I have to be thankful for, the bottom line is that I like myself. I do. I really do. Once I got to know my shortcomings and how to deal with them, and once I got to know my strengths and how to use them to my advantage, I’m not such a bad person after all.
When I think about others who have real problems, I’m lucky to be so blessed. With so very many people having serious physical handicaps and/or emotional afflictions, there are lots of people who never have had a fair chance at living a normal life. Truly when I compare myself to someone who has real issues, I should have a problem. Without pondering the thought for a second, no doubt, they’d swap places with me if they could.
Having taken the good with the bad, like everyone else, I’ve had my share of bad days. Most of the bad things that happened to me was because I was young and innocent and not able to defend myself. I was a victim then, a victim of my circumstances and of my environment, but I’m not a victim anymore. Much more in control of my life, I’m much stronger now than I was then. After having endured my childhood, I survived the sexual, physical, and emotional abuse that no one, young or old, should suffer. Yet, glad that I went through all that I did as an adult, I wouldn’t change any of it, other than my horrible childhood.
Now as an adult, most of the bad things I faced, I allow to slide off my back. Having lived through the worst of things, having already suffered through my mother, my four, much older brothers, and my ex-husband, other than a horrific accident or death, nothing and no one can hurt me now. While suffering through it all, I’m lucky to have made it out alive. With the cliché that only the strong survive so true, and with me no shrinking violet and never backing down, most of the bad things I endured have made me stronger instead of weaker.
I am that character in my story, Bag Lady & the Retired Marine. That’s me again as Rachel, in Born Beautiful, Rachel’s story. There I am again in Beauty and the Beast Within. I’m Susan in Cleaning Cans and Bottles Topless and in Collecting Bottles, Cans & Friends. Being that I can only write what I know, I’m in nearly all of my stories. Yet, there are some things that I still carry around with me and seemingly no amount of therapy can lessen the nightmares and the sadness that I am cursed to carry around with me until the day I die.
* * * * *
‘Are you depressed?’
That’s what my doctor asks me every time I see him.
‘Duh? Of course, I’m depressed. I’m a writer who’s been sexually, physical, and emotionally abused. Who wouldn’t be depressed? There’d be more wrong with me if I wasn’t depressed. There’d be more things wrong with me if I was one of those dumb, blonde, Texas beauty queens who didn’t know any better than to smile and be happy.’
‘Now for your bonus question, Miss Texas,’ said the moderator.
‘Okay, I’m ready,’ said Becky, Miss Texas.
‘Name another country other than the United States,’ said the moderator.
‘Boy that’s a tough question but being that I’m from Texas, I think it’s a trick question,’ said Miss Texas.
‘You have fifteen seconds to answer the question Miss Texas,’ said the moderator.
‘Okay, another country other than the United States of America is…Texas.’
My doctor wanted to put me on anti-depressants but I refused. How can I write about my suffering sadness through the characters I create if I’m taking a happy pill? I need to feel the emotional pain of all the abuses I suffered for me to instill that in my stories and for me to write believable characters. Embracing my suffering sadness, I need to suffer through my characters and plots to write my stories.
These doctors know little enough about the brain and even less about the medications that they prescribe and too freely give their patients. I’m not about to be the guinea pig of some big pharmaceutical company. Most times, these mind and mood altering medications have a longer list of side-effects than they do positive effects. Sorry, but no thank you. I’d rather be my depressed self than to be someone else. I’d rather be sad than happy while knowing what I feel is how I truly feel and not created by some magic, happy pill.
Being that I’m older and wiser to know better, I’m still young enough to turn my life around from being sad to being happy. With how I feel directly tied into how I feel about myself, I have it in my control to have a good life instead of continuing to have a bad one. Being that it’s all up to me how I feel, no one else is responsible for me but me. Surely, if I don’t care about myself, then no one else will.
* * * * *
So very many woman want to be blonde and I don’t understand why so many women want to be blonde. I don’t get it. I really don’t. Most women who aren’t born with blonde hair and who don’t have the fair complexion don’t look good as a blonde. They always look better with their natural hair color.
I’m blonde. Born blonde, I’m a natural blonde. The last thing I worry about is hair color. Being that my hair is lush and long, I like my hair. I do need a haircut though. Whether my hair was brown, black, or red, I’d still like my hair. I can’t see myself pouring hair dye on my head to change something that defines me.
* * * * *
Having had a difficult time with being tall and skinny when I was a prepubescent teen, especially when I was in junior high school, I’m tall. I can’t help that either. My mother is tall. My father, whoever he is, is probably tall too. My mother is 5’10’ and all of my beefy, Hungarian brothers are all well over 6′ tall. With big arms, big necks, broad shoulders, strong backs, and muscled legs, big eaters and bigger drinkers, they all look like men who could compete in the strongmen competition.
At 5’9′ tall, and six foot with heels, even taller with my hair up or when wearing a hat, I like being tall now when I hated being tall before. Feeling too conspicuous when I was younger, I didn’t like being tall and always slouched when walking down the corridors at school. Now I like being able to look over the crowd of average height women. Chances are, a welcomed bonus, with me being so tall, I’ll always be thin.
‘Damn, where does she put all that food? With her being so thin, she must have one Hell of a metabolism. She can eat me under the table. I’ve never seen anyone eat so much food so fast at one sitting,’ said one man to his friend.
‘Dude! Duh? She’s homeless. She probably hasn’t eaten in days. This is probably her first meal since forever. Maybe you should mind your own business when it comes to others. You’re always so critical, too critical of everyone,’ said the man’s friend.
‘Oh, yeah? Well, you’re fat. How’s that for being critical?’
‘You’re right. I am fat,’ said the man looking down at his big stomach. ‘No one knows that I’m fat more than I do. I’ve suffered through and have endured my obesity all of my life,’ he said making eye contact with his friend. ‘Yet, in my defense, I may be fat but you’re ugly not only outside but also inside too. After I go on a diet and lose all of my excess weight, you’ll still be one ugly son of a bitch.’
* * * * *
Now, as I list the names of these famous actresses, instead of buzzing through their names, pause for a second to visualize each one. I have something in common with them. I have something that they all have. I’m sure you’ll pause longer at your favorite actress while
remembering them in their various roles. Whether you visualize them dressed or naked, it doesn’t much matter, so long as you see them in your mind’s eye for a second. Ready?
Just as does Scarlett Johansson, Elisha Cuthbert, Charlize Theron, Cameron Diaz, Naomi Watts, January Jones, Sharon Stone, Michelle Pfeiffer, Kate Blanchett, Uma Thurman, Jessica Simpson, Gwen Stefani, Goldie Hawn, Meg Ryan, Pamela Anderson, Gwyneth Paltrow, Reese Witherspoon, and Drew Barrymore all have blue eyes, I have blue eyes too. Of all the eye colors, I could have been born with, I’m glad that I have blue eyes.
I love my big, baby blue eyes. A great color contrast to my natural blonde hair, my blue eyes go so well with my fair complexion and rosy cheeks. In the way that I look, I could pass for Swedish, Norwegian, Austrian, or German instead of Hungarian with English and Italian thrown in there too. When men aren’t staring at my tits, they’re staring in my blue eyes. A much needed relief from being ogled and undressed with their eyes, my blue eyes give men something else to stare at other than my big boobs.
‘Look into my eyes. Hey! Stop staring at the impressions my nipples make through my bra and sweater and stare into my blue eyes,’ she said with annoyance.
‘Oh, sorry. Too busy staring at your tits, I didn’t know you had blue eyes,’ he said.
With three different shades of blue, three different shades of brown, two shades of green, and two shades of hazel, whether your eyes are brown, green, hazel, of blue, what makes eyes unique is that they’re your eyes. Whether your eyes are surprised, shocked, angry, happy, or sad, your eyes are who you are. Yet, what does it matter the eye color you have? Your eyes are uniquely you. Even if someone has the same eye color as you, no one has your eyes. Instead of focusing on eye color, it’s more important that you’re able to see through your eyes when there are so many who are sightless.
With eyes being the windows to our soul and with eyes being expressive enough to speak without words, it should be enough that you can see through your eyes without getting hung up on the color of your eyes. You should be happy that you weren’t born blind or lost your sight to an unfortunate accident or a serious health issue. I wouldn’t want to be blind. Only having to rely on my imagination, my enhanced hearing, and refined touch, I wouldn’t want to live in a world that’s dark and lacks color and definition. I wouldn’t want to be relegated to counting all of my steps and memorizing the count. Then, God forbid someone should move the furniture around on me. I can’t imagine waking up and walking through a world while unable to see. Being that I receive so much of my inspiration to write from my eyes, I’m glad that I can see.
* * * * *
I’m pretty. From the time I was a toddler, judging myself by my old photos, I was pretty. With my white blonde hair, big blue eyes, and rosy cheeks, everyone made a fuss over me. I was their little cherub girl and their angel, but a lot of bad stuff happened to me along the way.
Being pretty isn’t always peaches and cream. All throughout my life, women have been jealous of me and overly protective of their boyfriends and husbands, as if I’d have any interest in trying to steal and/or have sex with any one of them. Women are small, petty, and insecure, and even those women who I thought were my best friends, were happy to see me leave Massachusetts for Pennsylvania.
* * * * *
I’m busty. I have big tits. Along with my natural blonde hair and big blue eyes, my breasts are two more things that define me. I have 36 D cup breasts and my breasts are natural. I take after my mother. She has big tits too.
With my Mom being a natural blonde too, I have no idea why she dyed her hair shoe polish black later in life. Too harsh of a hair color for her fair skin to carry, her hair color washes out her complexion. She has blue eyes like Elvis, and with her hair dyed as blue black as his hair was, she looks like a female version of Elvis, Wayne Newton, Ronald Reagan, or Superman, when they dyed their hair too black.
My Mom was wicked pretty too before the alcohol and drugs took a toll on her good looks. Unfortunately, she’s a whore. With her living a life of stripping, prostitution, and drug and alcohol abuse, I suspect her strange choice in hair color was her way of hiding her from herself. Only, she’s not fooling anyone, not even herself.
I still know who she is. If I know this as the truth, we can’t hide from ourselves. Our conscious won’t allow us. Our conscious thoughts will forever haunt us to our graves. Every time we look in the mirror, we have to face ourselves to not only confront who we’ve become but also who we are.
‘How could you have sex with that man? What’s wrong with you? God he’s so gross. I can’t believe you allowed him to touch me, feel me, grope me, and have sex with my body. Just because he bought you dinner doesn’t mean that you should feel compelled to suck him before fucking him,’ she said to her own reflection in the mirror.
‘You’re right,’ said Susan. ‘I shouldn’t have had sex with him. I feel like such a slut. Now leave me alone. Go away,’ she said to herself. ‘I’m busy fixing your hair, I mean, my hair.’
* * * * *
To be honest, I can’t imagine being flat chested and being subjected to wearing a padded bra for the sake of filling out my blouses and sweaters. Just as I can’t imagine having my body invaded with silicone implants, I can’t imagine what it must feel like not having big tits. Always getting in the way at first, a real uncomfortable nuisance especially with lower back issues, I’ve grown accustomed to having big tits and I like having big tits.
Whether I’m topless, in my bra, under my nightgown, or hidden behind my bra, blouse, and sweaters, I like how my big breasts look in the mirror. I like how they push out and hang down in my nightgown. I like seeing them, touching them, and feeling them when I’m taking my shower and/or while masturbating myself. I can’t even imagine my body without my big tits.
I have to give Angelina Jolie credit for having her breasts surgically removed for fear of getting cancer. Removing a part of her that so defined her as a woman, I give her credit for not allowing that to get in the way of her decision to save her life. At least she’s able to afford the best breast implants. I’m sure her new breasts look as good if not better than her old breasts. Brad Pitt is a lucky man.
‘Lucky man? Are you kidding me? I’m saddled with all of these kids,’ said Brad to his wife. ‘Angelina, please, no more kids. Okay? I’m too old to care for another baby. Let’s just buy another house.’
Just as most men wish they had big cocks, most women wish they had big tits. As long as their breasts are shapely, stand up proud, and don’t sag, whether it’s padded bras or breast implants, women will do anything for a larger cup size. Yet, on the down side, I don’t care what these plastic surgeons say, having such a foreign substance invading your body can’t be good for you. I can only imagine the problems these poor women will have ten, twenty, and thirty years from now.
‘Honey? What’s that on the floor? I think something fell out of your nightgown,’ said Joan’s husband.
‘Oh, darn. That’s just my implant. It keeps falling out of my breast. The other one, the one that turned hard, is lopsided. I think I need to go for more surgery.’
* * * * *
So, here I am, a tall, beautiful, blue-eyed blonde with big tits, the perfect definition of most men’s dream woman. One would think that I’d be happy but I’m not. I’m sad. Not to bore you with the details of my tragic life, suffice to say that my life hasn’t been easy and hasn’t worked out as planned, a gross understatement. You’d just have to read the first few chapter of my story, Bag Lady & the Retired Marine to know some of what I’ve suffered.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a blonde, pretty, blue-eye
d, busty woman, I see me. I see a depressed woman. I see an angry woman. I see a troubled woman. I see a woman who has a difficult time making it through her day. I see an unemployed woman and a homeless woman who still lives in the bedroom of a kind, elderly, albeit crazy Mennonite woman. I see a woman whose only enjoyment in life is writing fictional stories while living her life in fantasy instead of reality. Woe is me but I’m good. I’m getting better every day. With writing my therapy, I’m heeling myself.
If I could to change one thing about my life, I’d change my childhood. I wish I was born to a normal family, a family with a real mother and a real father instead of the shit mother and the non-existent father I had. I wish my brothers were normal, instead of being the drunken, incestuous assholes that they all are. If only their wives knew they all had sex with my mother over and again and forced me to have sex with them too, I wonder what they’d say. Escaping their past, my mother, and me, no doubt was the reason why my brothers all moved to Ohio and Michigan.
Yet, like everyone else, I have my good days, my bad days, my happy days, and my sad days. My writing gives me more pleasure than any man can give me and makes me happier than any mind and mood altering drug that any doctor can prescribe. Yet, on those dark days that the demons visit me, I wrote a little something for myself to counteract my depression. What I wrote may seem arrogantly pompous and self-centered to some but, when taking it with a bit of humor along with a grain of salt, the below story helps change my dark mood enough to make me smile. This is me. This is who I am.
* * * * *
Being that I’ve always had low self-esteem and lacked confidence from being emotionally, physically, and sexually abused by seven men, eight men when counting my physically abusive ex-husband, I did something unusual to help me when I’m feeling blue. With me writing so very many stories for others, I wrote a story for myself. It’s a non-erotic story, a story that has no sex in it, but I find the story inspirational and a boost to my ego whenever I’m feeling down. So, here goes. Even though it’s not really a story, this is my story, my non-erotic story nonetheless.
Susan, because of who you are inside, you are terrific. In the way you always have a kind word to say to someone, you are charming. Being that you’ve created, developed, written, edited, rewritten, and reedited, so very many stories, you are indeed talented. You are a prolific writer and one of the best erotic writers on Literotica. More than you’ll ever know, your stories have helped so many through their days of darkness by giving them a modicum of sexual pleasure and emotional happiness.
In the way you reach out to people needing a pat on the back, a slap on the ass, or a whack across the back of the head with a baseball bat, you are kind, sensitive, and understanding. No matter how bad things get, you still have your quick wit and fun sense of humor. If you are anything, you are funny. Yet, even though you have your humor to lighten your mood and brighten the days of others, if only those around you knew that clowns, comedians, and writers, those who bring so much joy to others, are indeed the saddest. Indeed, struggling with your depression every day, you are sadly unhappy. Yet, your sadness and unhappiness makes you who you are, a great writer.
Having written more than 1,500 stories and more than 100 poems amounting to more than ten million words, under seven different pen names, you’re a prolific writer. With your stories amassing more than 200 million hits, if only you earned a penny a hit, you’d be a wealthy woman instead of a poor one. Yet, no matter the lack of financial rewards, obviously you write not for the money but because you must.
I remember those writers accepting their Oscars for writing the best screenplay or adaption from the novel saying, ‘I’m blessed. I can’t believe someone pays me to write. Writing is my passion. If only they knew that I’d write for free. This is my dream. I’m living my dream.’
Makenna
- 27.01.2023
- 120
- 0
