Datalounge--The Novel

Call me Irritable.

The night is dark and full of terrors.

It was a dark and musky hole...

Call me Cuntmael.

Cheryl hesitated in the drugstore aisle, wondering where they might keep something called 'feminine hygiene spray.'

“All happy gays are alike; each unhappy gay is unhappy in his own way; thus, DataLounge was born.”

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single gay man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a fabulous caftan."

As Lens Dunham awoke one morning from uneasy dreams, she found herself transformed in her bed into a gigantic blobfish-like creature.

"Cheryl, light of my life, fire of my nostrils."

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you’ll probably want to know is verification of my size meat, and what 1960s and 1970s sitcoms I watched in my lousy childhood, and how I spewed my secret treasure in my sister's Ken doll after I kissed and licked him, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don’t feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth."

It was the best of times, it was the blurst of times...

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the Red Dragon cheese herself.

"You don't know about me without you have read a book by the name of My Way of Life; but that ain't no matter."

I dreamt I went to the Manderlay gloryhole last night.

I'm telling you NOW, so I don't have to tell you THEN!

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

Scarlett O’Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized that when she presented hole.

He was an old man who cruised alone in a park near the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking a load.

FOLLIES!

Enter pursued by a bear.

I have never begun a topic thread with more misgiving.

I was given something to cry about.

Well?

It’s was the horniest of times; it was the loneliest of times.

Tasteful friends . . .

DataLounge is like a homosexual male. Ripe, hotly passionate but fickle….

riverrun, past Steves and Adams, from perv and whore to bend of back, brings us by a commodius dickus of recirculation back to Wrigleyville Cumdump and Environs.

To begin my life at the beginning of my life, I report that I was born (35 years later than indicated on my driver’s license, which is a clerical error I’ve been meaning to get sorted.)

The Dyatlov Pass holds many mysteries, but none more horrible than the story of the woman known as "Poo Shoes."

As Kevin Spacey woke up from troubled dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.

He was well past 50 but looked 25 in the right light or so he told himself as he perused his latest copy of Caftan Living Today, desperately searching for a coupon for half off his next purchase.

It was raining and cold in Hell's Kitchen and all the best rent boys had the flu.

You've got to climb to the top of Mount Everest to reach the Datalounge.

I want to post about this, but I knew he was out there, ready to pounce on, crushing my post, my spirit, my soul. Damn you, R1. Damn you.

He spit out what was now painfully evident not a turkey meatball...

Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, DL told me, just remember that all the people in this world haven't had the advantages that you've had, so be sure to tell them.

It was a pleasure to die in a grease fire.

An unsuspecting young neighbor was travelling, in midsummer, from his native city of Grand Rapids to Davos-Platz in the Canton of the Grisons, on a three weeks’ visit with the octogenarian and his beloved Mitzi.

Now is the winter of our bitchcontent.

And on the seventh day, he cunted.

Datalounge was dead, to begin with.

“I like blue” he said innocently and, if her nerves held, for the very last time, as she rose from the comfort of her breakfast nook steadily holding the bedazzling gun in her cool right hand.

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral of the Internet lies a small unregarded cunty bitchfest.

Let me tell you the truth about transexuals and their insidious agenda to turn all men into women.

Assume a spherical frau...

which one of you bitches is my mother?

Datalounge was not beautiful.

When Mr. Dildo Baggins of Erna's End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday (111, but he didn't look a day over 35) with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton

I knew enough about the bitchiness of Datalounge. That you ought not visit it without acknowledging the wrath you might incur.

In the twilight, my earrings sparkled, while the gentle breeze not only nudged my caftan, it also carried a slight chill toward my delicious cak and graxy.

The novel made straight into a film:

50 Fist Dates - the live and times of Chris Burrous

The fatness swelled yet she continued to peruse the skirt aisle for that special something to corral her new found grindr

The Disappointed Trick

Once upon a midnight bleary, while I argued fat and sneery, Over many a trite and arcane nuance of forgotten lore, While I scolded, shrilly snapping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one boredly rapping, rapping at my rest-home door.

A hissing comes across the sky.

The Disappointed Trick

Once upon a midnight bleary, while I argued fat and sneery,

Over many a trite and arcane nuance of forgotten lore—

While I scolded, shrilly snapping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one boredly rapping, rapping at my rest-home door.

I had an EST in Africa, but it was full of foreigners so I left immediately.

The sky was so blue that day...

Years ago there was thread about an interview Joey Luft gave for some show he was in and some fucking genius here rewrote it, using JOey's unique voice, I died, and I copied and pasted it in my notes: Joey Luft remembers it well: appearing on the 1963 Christmas episode of his mother Judy Garland's CBS musical-variety series with his two older sisters, Lorna Luft and Liza Minnelli. On a recent afternoon, Luft was rewatching the show, his eyes wide and a smile dancing across his face as his younger self broke into "Where Is Love?" on the classic yuletide show. "I like blue,'" said the 59-year-old Luft, a slight man who is a bundle of energy. "I like blue." Though half-sister Minnelli, who is an Oscar, Tony, Emmy and Grammy award-winner, and Lorna Luft, who has never won a single award, have followed in their mother's footsteps, their baby brother has largely lived out of the public eye. "I like blue," said Luft, who has studied photography and sound and has worked as a kind of editor-runner. Though he may not be famous, "I like blue," said Luft, who appeared with his siblings at the Oscars this past March for a 75th anniversary tribute to "The Wizard of Oz," the 1939 classic that made Garland a star. "I like blue." He's finally getting the opportunity to tell people he likes blue in "A Judy Garland Concert With Joey Luft," which opens Friday and continues through Sunday at the Pasadena Playhouse. The evening features colorized footage from "The Judy Garland Show" of the legend performing such standards as "Stormy Weather," "Come Rain or Come Shine" and of course "Over the Rainbow." In between clips, Luft and the show's producer, John Kimble, his childhood friend and longtime associate of his late father, producer Sid Luft, will talk about blue and liking blue. "I like blue,'" said Luft in a recent interview at Kimble's Culver City home. "I like blue," said Luft, who was 14 in 1969 when his mother died of an overdose of barbiturates. "I like blue." Luft stood up to imitate his mother when she guest-starred on NBC's "The Jack Paar Show." "Mama likes blue," said Luft, as he mimes sweeping the floor. "Mama likes blue and so does little Joey." The story lead to another memory of watching a hockey game with Lorna and Garland in his mother's bedroom. "My mom liked blue," said Luft. "I said '"Does Mama like blue?" And she goes, 'yes Mama likes blue you little fucking tard." And she walks off. Then we started laughing." His father was Garland's third husband and is credited with resurrecting her career after she was fired from MGM in 1950. He colorized the black-and-white "Judy Garland Show" before his death in 2005 at the age of 89. One of the colors was blue, a favorite of Luft's. "I like blue," said Luft. "Mama's TV show didn't have any blue, so I made them put blue in it." "We have cleaned up all the audio and made it look like it was shot yesterday," added Kimble. Kimble said that they have booked a fall tour of the show in Canada, invited theaters to a workshop production of the show a few weeks ago in Culver City and currently are making tweaks to the evening before they open in Pasadena. The playhouse will also have an exhibit of rare photos from Garland's life and career as well as Michael Siewert's collection of costumes from many of her classic films. Luft's siblings won't be attending the show. Lorna lives in Palm Springs and is awaiting the birth of a grandchild that Joey hopes is blue. "Drunk Sissy is in New York," said Luft. "She wore blue at the Oscars. I was there." Luft hopes his show will keep the memory of his mother and her talent alive for years to come. "They know Mama, but they don't know that she liked blue," said Luft, who added that he also likes blue. "The color that I like the most is blue."

Stevie laughed as she kicked me in the cunt.

r32 started something I would actually like to continue reading.

On the subject of ladies’ hats and gloves, there can be no debate.

He wore....earrings...caftans.....

The first thing you need to know is that I'm not the Elaborate Scenario Troll.

It was the afternoon of my eighty-first birthday (everyone tells me that I look thirty-five), and I was in bed with my catamite when Ali announced that a cunt with her purse on fire had come to see me.

Like all who stumble upon its portal, he had been warned that The Datalounge was not for the squeamish, but his torrid imagination, elevated though it had been by his years at Harvard and the subsequent companionship of some truly vicious cunts, had not envisaged the vile display that spread across his laptop after he clicked on the words “Join the Bitchfest.”

I was distressing to find myself in bed with four others and I was not the one I liked the most.

It was a typical early April morning in Mandan when Ben arrived for work. Little did he know that hours later he would be a Datalounge legend.

It was midnight. As I ran to catch my Uber, I slipped on the nacreaous layer of permacum that seems to have coated everything here.

He hesitated but a moment before typing the words “opening sentence—singular—you nitwit” after which he felt somehow superior, at least to poor r68.

Whores Whores! All of you. The caftan wearing oldster clutched it's pearls and drooled as it typed those two words with it's hoary talons.

It was the best of gays, it was the worst of gays.

He had traveled the length and breadth of our great nation, from Manhattan to Malibu, and North Beach to Noho, even venturing into such exotic locales as Hoboken and the San Fernando Valley (well, Calabasas), but never in all his wandering had he seen a dump like this.

I am an invisible child

I was told by passerby that my pussy stinks.

The words echoed through his mind like bullets ricocheting off concrete: “This is why they hate us.”

Slowly but surely he bends over, presenting his hole like a good gay boy does...

No Margo No!

R12 lol brilliant!

All was gay, and all was swell, at our home on the DL, then came...the Frauen.

The Welcome Wagon cuntress, sixty if he was a day but working at youth and vivacity (ginger hair, red lips, a sunshine-yellow caftan), twinkled his eyes and teeth at MARY!OP and hissed, “You’re really going to loathe it here!

Earrings.

Caftans.

Datalounge, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Da-ta-lounge: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of two steps down the palate, only to retreat, at three, leaving behind a gaping hole. Da-ta-lounge....

I have a raging crush on R12

As DL fave , Dame Olivia De Haviland , stretched across her Parisian Chaise , wondering just who should she start another frivolous lawsuit against. She clutched at her chenille wrap , glancing over at the photo of a nude Errol by her bedside. She felt an odd chill . It was the ghost of Luise Rainer and Joan Rivers. She heard the husky words of her old friend Bette , " ARE YOU READY LIVVIE ? " Olivia let out a shriek , worthy of THE SWARM.

Novel?

WORDS WOUND, OP. Novels support the patriarchy.

You should have suggested a novella, OP, so that wimmin and other non-penised persons could tell their story - their HERSTORY.

Misogyny WOUNDS, OP.

I am telling you NOW so I do not have to tell you THEN.

The last line of our novel:

"As God is my witness, I'll never not have sufficient again!"

It was after I got to Boston, that I went into the anechoic chamber at Harvard University. Everybody who knows me, knows this story. Anyway, in that silent room...

I'd often considered licking the cookie crumbs off of my keyboard but today was the first day I actually did it.

LAST LINES OF THE NOVEL:

They had blocked me. I was FF'D and greyed out. They frankly did not give a damn. But I wouldn't think about that now. I would clear my cookies, yes, and be back after a number of visits. After all, tomorrow IS another day.

“You are not the kind of guy who would be at a website like this at this time of the morning."

"Move it, toots!" said the angry middle-aged man, his kaftan struggling to contain his substantial girth.

It was a dark and stormy night...once again, as before, he roughly forced me to my knees, grabbing my hands with his, bending them backwards until I cried out in pain...

Damn!, said the Datalounger, as he fell down the stairs.

Damn! Damn! Damn!

Chapter One. I am born.

Intersex.

The energy was high and the music pumping as the men on the dance floor began swirling around in many different ways. All of a sudden, a slew of high pitched, ear shattering "woo!" was heard as a dozen millenial blonde women slithered their way onto the dance floor. The bar manager walked up to the DJ, gave him a neck slice sign, and the DJ instantly cut off the Donna Summer megamix. The plethora of sweaty men began clapping and stomping with glares towards the unwanted invaders who instantly realized that they were not welcome, and turned sheepishly away and left the club.

Joel, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Jo-el.

In those days cheap apartments were almost impossible to find in Manhattan, so I had to move to Hudson.

We’d organized a hunt, but failed to agree whether a transgendered male could be used instead of a fox. The caftan wearers stormed off in a huff to their Royal Doulton while the Lesbians the Masc Men stood in the rain, sharing their bourbon and laughing.

Stately plump BILL TAYLOR....

The final line:

"So we beat off, cocks against the current, borne bareback ceaselessly into the ass."

This old man. He played one. He played whack whack on my bum. For a nick knack tushy rub sucking on my bone. This old man built me a home.

I am the first sentence, and apparently many DLers can’t comprehend “Give me the first sentence”.

I always knew Harry and I were meant to be together.

So far, r91 wins.

"'Princess Diana DEAD,' Michael blurted, and tried not to smirk when Richard let out an involuntary shriek."

I am the resurrection and the life of a fading cigarette in a dark bar.

“Meh,” he said; “I’ve seen bigger.”

You know there’s a leash law in this town, I said as he unzipped his fly revealing the biggest one I ever saw.

I am corn.

The font was so black that day.

"The screen above the media port was the color of Eurovision......"

There was a name for the people who posted there -- but it isn't used in high society. Outside of a kennel.

This is the story before the grease fire.

Vivian Vance.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Datalounge poster in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a good caftan.

You know how bitchy fags can be.

If only she had her cane, she could have escaped the grease fire.

There was a time her pussy didn't stink.

Yeah, that ought to fly right off the shelves, r119.

I am Robert Sepúlveda, Jr., whom no man will ever possess for free. Clad only in jockstrap and carrying one Truvada pill, I held off the entire staff of Nasty Pig, a tribe who possess no words for "May I help you?" or "Mind the prolapse." Wielding an iPhone XR in Coral, I read the faces, the abs, the nonexistent bulges of their finest salesbottoms, my beauty blinding them, as it does all men, unmanning them in the way that Gio Benitez was reduced from animated gibbering to stunned slence by beauteous Tommi DiDario, whom I resemble in my Rentmen profile minus all the moles.

The margarine, formerly a hot and glistening aureate stream, had been transformed into a shameful mass of dull yellow clots which dropped periodically from the bottom tier of the fountain, falling with a great plop into their mass grave.

Don't quit your day jobs, most of you.

Dear Reader, in awakening to a morning like this, full of promise as if manifesting an ancient prediction, cradling a mug to let the warmth seep into fingers which only last night had pearls in a death grip, one faces the sun and gives fanks to all beings for such a moment of peace, one slowly begins to realize it will all end in tears, courtesy of an ogre who demands your humble correspondent types fat; with a sigh, said correspondent commences to obey. fat fat fat

Percy lived in fear that one of his old school chums might wander into the shop and discover that he had been reduced to sales-bottoming after the scandal at the bank.

Submitted as originally written, as he is the ultimate Datalounger . . .

[quote]A green hunting cap squeezed the top of the fleshy balloon of a head. The green earflaps, full of large ears and uncut hair and the fine bristles that grew in the ears themselves, stuck out on either side like turn signals indicating two directions at once. Full, pursed lips protruded beneath the bushy black moustache and, at their corners, sank into little folds filled with disapproval and potato chip crumbs. In the shadow under the green visor of the cap Ignatius J. Reilly’s supercilious blue and yellow eyes looked down upon the other people waiting under the clock at the D. H. Holmes department store, studying the crowd of people for signs of bad taste and dress. Several of the outfits, Ignatius noticed, were new enough and expensive enough to be properly considered offenses against taste and decency. Possession of anything new or expensive only reflected a person’s lack of theology and geometry; it could even cast doubts upon one’s soul.

"See you next Tuesday," I shouted at the fraus in my office as left to start my three-day weekend.

R123 Do tell, which ones did you like?

It was hot and sultry, but brimming with Bellinis.

the night was....

Her mouth and chin bespeckled with brightly colored grease, Sarah Huckabee Sanders looked up guiltily from the remains of her late evening snack as she sucked the last bits of marrow out of the chicken bones.

Mike, as always, is working far too hard to make the next gathering in Palm Springs to be one to truly remember (if it kills everyone). He can't stop rubbing his forehead in frustration, not realizing he has Leptomeningeal carcinomatosis. Same as Valerie Harper. *cough*

Mike will loudly continuously, righteously and religiously take his PrEP, yet will die anyway because of the uptight weirdness that has been his personality deficiency since birth.

Muriel was never good at the suck job, but God, could she code.

[quote] Muriel was never good at the suck job, but God, could she code.

To be found in the Short Fiction section.

I am crying... As I type.

"One last con, then I'll quit....just one more for old times' sake" Clarence muttered under his breath as he took his first tentative steps toward the salad bar, trembling yet preternaturally youthful hand struggling to maintain a death grip on his used [italic]Once Around the Garden[/italic] plate.

Oooh, Clarence—you in trouble. I need to know what happens next, r136. As if I don’t already know.

This morning as usual , I could not maintain an erection. My physician called it " The DL'ers lament. "

I ♥️ R132!!!!

She couldn't live forever - stuck deliberating on the appropriateness of spitting or swallowing, she choked.

"I hate to exercise," the spunky redhead said, "but I love to tap!"

It was rape, she decided; but still, it wasn't [italic]rape[/italic]-rape.

"We were somewhere around the Bellagio on the edge of the desert when the poo began to take hold."

"I said cilantro!" he hissed, as I sat nimbly atop a bespoke bar stool and watched as he jabbed the air around him wildly with a wilting bunch of parsely.

The little girl stares at me silently, our eyes lock...she turns and kisses her doll..

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.

Being forever blocked, she had no idea how her poo got on the shoes.

Brevity, I do not know her.

"Erna was not beautiful but men seldom noticed, so enchanted were they by her charms....."

Thanks for all the ideas guys!

When they finally made it to Billing, they discovered a sad truth: Ginnie had already made her exit.

The blood flowed from the basement dweller like glutenous unstrained spaghetti.

Well, if you really want to know how the entity laughingly known as the “Data Lounge” took shape, I suppose you could begin by asking me, though I do not claim access to all the details.

There are others, hiding in plain sight in secret enclaves, communicating in arcane tongues, with mysterious code words, some of which I know, while others still defy translation:

“FOLLIES”

No one admits to understanding this. But I must warn you that all those who have explored its meaning have only found frustration and despair.

So beware.

There will be tears.

"It was a pleasure to burn...when I got flamed on Datalounge."

Chrissy Metz was getting hangry.

My hole quivered as the football team entered the locker room.

There was a time when his nephew was not his everything.

Pon cried herself to sleep as she did every night, though this time her tears were of relief. Earlier that day, she finally had the courage to sneak onto Chrissy's laptop to try and find a way out. While doing so, she discovered Datalounge.

Pon, after so many years alone, had discovered friends.

J’accuse!

In the gloaming, the fat womon on garbage detail was plying her trade.

Rosebud...

Welcome to my home!

Y’all muthafuckas ain’t gonna belee this shit.

As dozens of other diners fled, Cheryl sat in the restaurant, dejected, finally realizing that yes, her pussy stank...and it was much worse than she realized.