Welcome to my new blog soap opera, All My Hungarian Children–the world’s first transgressive psychosexual blog soap opera–or maybe just one of millions, I really don’t know. I’ve been yearning to create a series, and this is the first of many to come. I promise a potent dose of my ribald humor, grotesque vision and psychological depravity known to egress from my psychoses. I am unimaginably busy working on my novels, but I cannot stop blogging. I’ve written about many subjects, like blogging tips, SEO, social networking and so forth–but those subjects are tired and boring to me–no longer part of my repertoire. Here I present episode one of All My Hungarian Children. I have once again written myself into a bizarre world of sickening delights to make your skin crawl and wrench your stomach. Tell your friends. Tell your neighbors. I promise to not disappoint.

The psychotic face of Bobby Revell

The psychotic face of Bobby Revell

Scene One: Borsala’s Agenda

Borsala Meszaros, a powerful beast of a woman–thickly muscled arms draping like meat hooks–her latissimus dorsi horrifically sculpted from years of sweat drenched toil–tore a fibrous chunk of beef jerky from the gargantuan meat knot, stuffing the remainder in her arm pit for safe keeping. I was spellbound by her herculean strength, but could not refrain from staring at her through a crack in my backyard fence. Her face was beautifully strange: thick plated forehead bone, gnarled nose with widely flared nostrils and succulent cherry lips–repulsive and undeniably sexy.

Three muscular preschool children swaggered beneath her everywhere she walked. They looked like triplets but all bore fetid deformities or possible scarred-over injuries from late night beatings and torture sessions. With vigorous claws she began scooping dirt like a starving aardvark–within seconds digging a massive trench in the humid clay. She clapped her hands–a mist of filth exploded from sinewy fingers–saying, “Jozka, Jozsef, Joszi . . . do business now. Hurry, supper almost ready.” The three naked children squatted and shat into the crevasse–my stomach became queasy but turn away I could not. She snatched one up by the hair, and with the same hand managed to grasp all three–lifting their naked bodies high with densely shredded deltoid–spraying them off with a water hose. She violently shook them, “Stop fidgeting . . . if I drop beef jerky, I will be mad mommy–the cold water good for young boy’s character.” She spun like a human centrifuge–her arm outstretching as water droplets pelted my face across the yard–drying her boys the cyclonic way. She quickly ripped her head around–her eyes laser guided into my face. I was mortified but couldn’t move–couldn’t stop gazing–she marched towards me ripping three boards from my fence leaving me cowering on my knees before her.

I managed a squeaky,”I’m so sorry . . . I didn’t mean to spy on you.”

“Stand up,” she said, “Is OK with Borsala–you are delectable young thing aren’t you . . . stand up . . . what is your name?”

“Bobby.”

“Come closer Bobby,” she commanded–indomitable arms crushing me against her body–my face smashed tightly between her robust mammary glands, “you sweet young thing make Borsala very horny–if only husband not home, I make love to you right here on the dirty ground. How old are you?”

“Twenty-one . . . look, my mother is looking for me–we’re going to church . . . so I gotta go.”

She increased tension–her knobby nipple seated in my eye socket as she moaned, “You shiver like headless chicken. You rudely don’t ask Borsala her name.”

I was human putty in the inextinguishable clutch of femininity as I barely muttered, “What is your name?”

She forced her husky tongue within my left nostril–licking my eyebrows clean–her breath surprisingly sweet, like fresh cut strawberries–her bare nipple fondling my lips with a machinist’s precision, “My name Borsala . . . Borsala Meszaros . . . Meszaros mean butcher. You come to my home for dinner right now . . . yes?”

“Yes Borsala, I would be honored to have dinner in your home.”

“Good Bobby . . . tonight I serve Hungarian goulash and whiskey. You meet my husband Laszlo and my beautiful daughter Florka–she scrumptious flower–maybe you sexually attracted to her–maybe you two make love tonight.”

Still trembling in fear–my entire body quaking, I said, “Make love to who? What . . . what are you talking about?”

She stripped bare and kicked her left leg high, holding her calf against her face saying, “Borsala flexible . . . you look at my body you succulent morsel of virgin male . . . you like?”

Her enormous breasts hung mightily in the wind while her buttocks were infected with morbid pustules and chaffing rashes–she pulled me closely and began cleaning my ears with her lips and tongue–frothy saliva–moistened oral appendages  kneading, massaging, molesting my every cleft. She licked with care–she licked with love–I felt safe and warm in her steely embrace. In a stupor of fright I said, “Yes Borsala . . . I like.”

She said, “You taste like salted cucumber. You like? Of course you like . . . you are fertile young male in need of female touch. I ask husband can you sleep over tonight . . . with Florka . . . she is virgin like you.”

“But I’m not a vir . . . .”

She smacked me across the face, “Shut up Bobby . . . yes you are virgin.”

This ghastly tale to be continued . . .

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