Cocoa Beef occurred to me when I needed her. Tripping. I was alone. I saw those pancake tits when I had no hope. Imagine it.


“It doesn’t go by its name.” A laugh cracked. Wall of sound.

Cocoa Beef Drapes she wanted to go by at first. She yearned to have beef curtains. She ate sumptuously. Got that glucose up, got that insulin up, got that cellular formation around that chest, and got those 1930s tits. Pointy pancakes. They were pointy, for pancakes. What she wanted for in beef drapes she had in 1930s titties. Yes, she had tits; she had those vaguely feminine, sore-nipped-fourteen-year-old-boy milk sacks thrice-magnified.

She came and went and when she came, no ejaculation. She wasn’t pre-op or post-op; never had the operation, never wanted to. Just couldn’t sprinkle, shotgun, or jetstream jizz. She never got hard. Beef Drapes had the one focus. She was a Christian Scientist. So, disease: chronic, flaccid penis; regimen: staunch prayer. Church Sunday through Saturday. Went to church as Victor. I don’t get it either.

She did succeed in convincing Kyle Crowley, a trash-stached, Nebraska-based cucky. She mentioned the beef drapes. She was horny. She said “I want you to pierce my wet, churned and crimped tapestry. But first, I wanna grind it on that Selleck.”

It happened. Cocoa Beef hardened. Cocoa Beef Jerky was born.


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