Take two- they're small
 
A character in search of six authors- a haven for connoisseurs of the absurd, the non-sequitur and the bad pun.

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Private Messages and the Giving of Hell
Posted:Oct 16, 2014 6:31 pm
Last Updated:Oct 26, 2019 1:52 pm
269351 Views
Standard members can get shit off their chests here, or just say hello.

All members can leave me a message or a rant here.

Comments or messages on this post will be private. I will not divulge what

burdens are laid here unless they are really really funny or just plain stupid.



0 Comments , 116 Pending
First Blood Take Six
Posted:Nov 30, 2019 3:51 pm
Last Updated:Dec 2, 2019 5:17 pm
895 Views

My friend Tickles4us asked what I thought of this new upstart, meaning Michael Bloomberg entering the Democratic race.

He sees himself as our savior, a geriatric John Rambo rappelling from a helicopter into the middle of the Democratic race to save us from Democratic Socialism and prevent the ruin of the Master Race, the billionaires, the Masters of the Universe. He's the great white hope. Kevlar helmet nestled on his balding gray head, night vision goggles deployed so he can gauge the amount of heat being generated by each candidate, he'll know which dangerous commies to waste first. After slashing his way through the human riffraff with his M7 USMC fighting knife he'll turn his attention to his neoliberal rivals and eliminate them one by one, weak and marginal Democrats that he thinks they are. His dream? Make the race Republican Lite to ensure that no American women and are helped by useful government programs or reasonably priced health care. Almost as an afterthought he slaps a giant slurpee from the hands of Mayor Pete and moves on seeking other prey. South Bend, Indiana could use some gentrification to weed out the untrustworthy- people with no money.

Instead of campaign stops with hand shaking and baby kissing, he'll bring a crack stop and frisk team to pat down the potential voters and make certain no socialist scum go away unafraid and inviolate.

Fuck that entitled asshole. See? I write about sex sometimes.
9 Comments
Wisdom From the 17th Century
Posted:Nov 27, 2019 6:44 pm
Last Updated:Dec 2, 2019 10:14 am
1343 Views

I've posted this before but I like reposting it from time to time, lest we forget.

What an inequitable thing it is for one man to have thousands, and another want bread, and that the pleasure of God is, that all men should have enough, and not that one man should abound in this worlds good, spending it upon his lusts, and another man of far better deserts, not be worth two pence, and that it is no such difficulty as men make it to be, to alter the course of the world in this thing, and that a few diligent and valiant spirits may turn the world upside down, if they observe their seasons, and shall with life and courage ingage accordingly.
  William Walwyn
11 Comments
Whiny little bitches
Posted:Nov 15, 2019 8:17 pm
Last Updated:Dec 6, 2019 11:28 pm
3107 Views

I just read a political post followed by yet more comments whining about political posts on this site. This isn't a new phenomenon. Morons have been a part of the population for millennia and they've been griping about the subject of posts here for many years. If you don't want to read a post then don't fucking read it, Sparky. Bloggers here can post about anything they want. Members asserting that politics isn't about sex have shit between their ears. There's lots of sex in politics and always has been. And there's of course also politics involved in sex. Read some history, Einstein. The social things we do are inherently political.

I don't expect to change any minds with my remarks here. Most of the fun will come from pissing off idiots. I know very well, both from my own observation and that of many of my friends that what really irritates the crybabies is reading a liberal, progressive or even a Marxist point of view. Those fuckwits aren't gonna be happy here in my blog. Everyone is welcome here until they either piss me off or bore me. In that case they're encouraged to leave. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out. This is not to admonish you to hurry. I just don't want MAGAT ass rubbed on the outside of my door.

The political state of our nation greatly affects our security- job security, financial security and the actual physical security of ourselves and our country. It's important. It will determine what kind of country we become. So it's both perfectly natural to pay attention and to express ourselves, and our thoughts.

I know that the more I hear whiny little bitches bawl about political posts not being fair game, the more I'll write political posts. This is MY blog and I'll write whatever I want. A smart critic will just shut the fuck up and slink away if he wants me to stop. But I don't expect that to happen because the opposition isn't by any stretch of the imagination smart. Very often they're barely literate, spelling is like a mystery printed in hieroglyphics to them, and they type with the caps lock on at all times. Be sure to come in here drunk or high. I love trying to decipher drunk typing and it makes you look like the inbred halfwit you are. That's helpful because I can't see the MAGAT hat barely hanging from your tiny dick and I can use the extra clues in identifying which of you has recently fucked his sister.

Finally, Donald Trump and his henchmen are a cancer on the presidency and on his entire administration. The convicted felons he dragged in with him have sullied the dignity and the promise of the United States of America. We are far less safe because of the harebrained foreign policy moves he's made, his practice of obliterating any environmental regulation he can find. He's r*ping and pillaging our national parks and monuments. He's shaming us in the eyes of the world by locking - some of them infants- in concentration camps at the Mexican border.

"These are the times that try men's souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives every thing its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as FREEDOM should not be highly rated."

Thomas Paine wrote those words in the winter of 1776, following Washington's retreat from New York, across New Jersey and into Pennsylvania. The Continental Army was at low ebb at that point, only a couple thousand soldiers remaining. My seventh great grandfather was one of them. Two days later that ragtag army would cross the Delaware River and attack the Hessian garrison at Trenton, New Jersey. It was a victory for American morale more than anything else, more of a surprise winter raid than a major battle. But shortly after they would also repeat the surprise at Princeton.

The point of that digression is to set up a Yogi quote: It ain't over til it's over. Resist. Disobey. Sabotage, legally where appropriate and otherwise when it isn't. Fight back. Don't let the bastards win. America is too precious to hand it over to the criminal enterprise that is the Republican Party. We can do better.
56 Comments
Recent posts
Posted:Oct 22, 2019 1:54 pm
Last Updated:Nov 19, 2019 12:26 am
2398 Views

What happened to the "Recent Posts" list? It's disappeared from my main blogs page. Are there other members seeing the same thing?
26 Comments
George the First
Posted:Jul 19, 2019 4:27 pm
Last Updated:Nov 15, 2019 9:50 pm
4501 Views

I met George in the autumn of 1971 in San Francisco. I was staying with my buddy Bear in a fleabag hotel- the Manx- above a strip joint on Powell Street a couple of blocks south of Union Square. Bear had come back from Vietnam minus his right eye and wore a black patch over his empty eye socket, along with shrapnel and powder burn scars from the B40 rocket that had obliterated his backup man They were walking point in a recon squad when they were ambushed. Bear was of the opinion that if I allowed myself to get drafted I was a sap with outstanding odds of coming home in a body bag. As we had four other childhood friends who came home with their own versions of Bear’s scars, I was inclined to concur with that opinion. Bear’s plan? Just hit the road and be on the move when the summons came and then simply fade into Canada under the radar. It was a simple plan and that simplicity had a lot of appeal in complicated times. I wasn’t sure I wanted to my leave my country even though that country seemed willing, if not positively eager, to feed me into the meat grinder.

I had been sort of aimlessly wandering the streets of San Francisco with vague and unformed ideas of finding some kind of work. It was appropriate. I was pretty much a vague and unformed kind of young man. The result was easily predictable. I didn’t find any work, but I had been in the city less than a week and I had the naive and uninformed hope of youth that things would work out and didn’t care to dwell on the greater likelihood that my plans would come to nothing or worse yet, to disaster. I made my way home one afternoon by jumping on cable cars and riding until the conductor asked for my fare and kicked me off for not producing one. I’d then hike awhile until another car presented another opportunity. It was a slow way to travel and made me unpopular with the other passengers who correctly sussed me out as a mooch. I wasn’t much bothered by that assessment. They were chaotic times, as polarized culturally then as they are now, if not worse, and I was easily identifiable as counter-culture and a dropout with my long hair, scraggly beard, ratty jeans and an old black leather motorcycle jacket.

When I let myself into the hotel room Bear was there sleeping off a high. Bear liked nothing so much as sleeping these days and he did a lot of it. He facilitated that objective by getting high at every opportunity. I woke him briefly and then headed down the hall outside our room for the payphone to call home to my little sister. My folks didn’t care much about hearing from me but my two sisters still liked it if I kept them appraised of my whereabouts and general condition, which I always emphasized as being cool. Everything’s cool. As I approached the telephone it began to ring, so I answered it. The caller was some guy from Chicago phoning for a girl in the hotel, his girlfriend it soon became clear, and he was none too impressed that I had picked up the phone in what he believed to be her room. He expressed his distrust and contempt openly and clearly. I explained that there were no phones in the rooms in the Manx, but every floor had a pay phone in the hallway. He calmed down a bit but didn’t seem entirely convinced.

“Can you give George a message for me?” he asked. I thought this was a bit cheeky since he’d been quite abrupt and obviously irritated that I was drawing breath in the same hotel as George, which prompted me to reply “I thought you were phoning for a girl?”

“George IS a girl- her name’s Georgette.” he snapped. Accomplished raconteur that I was I responded “OK, cool. Yeah, I’ll give her a message. What’s her room number?” And the dumb -of-a-bitch told me she was in 204. Obviously George’s boyfriend was not practiced at thinking on his feet. I pretended to write down his message. I had nothing to write on although I suppose it wouldn’t have been too hard to find something. But I had little interest in furthering the relationship between Georgette and this insensitive and ill tempered clod. I felt she deserved better. So I pretended to write, stopping him a couple of times to make it sound like he was talking too fast for me to keep up. When he finished I told him “All right buddy. I got it. Your missive is safely on it’s way to Georgette.” And I hung up. As I did so I could hear him still chattering away at me. He was not done. But I was done with him and thought I might have a go at Georgette myself. For his part he had no idea how done he was.

I found room 204 pretty handily and knocked. Apparently Georgette was not in, so I found a piece of paper in my wallet and wrote her a note.

“Frank called and is concerned about you. He wants you to call him. My name is Bill and I’m in 216. Stop by and say hello, neighbor.” I felt I had more than done my duty to Frank by mentioning his name. I honestly never figured to hear from Georgette but it was worth a shot.

I went back to 216 and dumped a can of baked beans in a pan and plopped it on the illegal hotplate. No cooking in the rooms at the Manx. There wasn’t any pot smoking allowed in the Manx either so I rolled a joint and fired that up too for good measure. Bear woke up. Even asleep he had a nose for reefer. In this case it was HIS reefer, so it was a useful talent he had there. We shared the spliffy. I actually can’t remember if the term spliffy had been adopted for a joint back then or not. It might have been even too early for doobie. I’m getting old and I can recall the lovely shape of a particular woman’s labia vividly, and I can savor her unique scent now, fifty years or so later, but my memory gets a bit fuzzy on extraneous and irrelevant data like the etymology of spliffy. I did some brief research on the term but I can’t find my slang dictionary and my internet search drifted into erotic literature and inevitably into pornography as so often happens. I ended up with fifteen windows open at once and had a bit of difficulty remembering what my original search had been about. But I digress. Which is of course the entire point of this manuscript, a pensive digression relating the details of my long ago and long lost love affair with George.

Anyway, I shared the beans with Bear. After all, he had shared his weed with me, and we passed a quiet evening listening to the radio. “Sweet City Woman” by The Stampeders was all over the radio waves at the time. It was a three minute and eighteen second song and I swear they played it every two minutes, but it was a good song and we didn’t bitch.

In the morning, or at any rate when I woke up if not technically morning, I scraped up the dregs of the beans and thus fortified I headed out to Fisherman’s Wharf with Bear, who uncharacteristically arose from bed and girded his loins to face the outside world for the first time in three days. He promised to show me Fisherman’s Wharf as if it were some exotic San Francisco treat not to be lightly passed on, and clearly needing an experienced and knowledgable guide to be enjoyed properly. We employed our customary cable car hop over the Powell Street hill, and after that, well, it was a downhill walk to the harbor front. The city has long had a large population of folks of Asian descent and Bear, fresh from Vietnam and being blown up by what he referred to as “a slope with a rocket launcher” was having his issues with that fact. He muttered and mumbled his displeasure and as long as he was mumbling and muttering it wasn’t too embarrassing, but I was cringing at his more graphic monologues as we walked along toward the Wharf. This was not the Bear I remembered from our school days, who had been a gentle if loquacious sort tolerant of everyone. I was beginning to understand that Bear was damaged in more than the obvious physical ways. It was more than embarrassing. It was disturbing in a sinister way. I feared for his sanity and I was at a loss how to deal with it.

Anyhow we made our way to the waterfront and Bear, who had the regular paycheck of a wounded U.S. Army Sergeant, Retired, treated me lavishly to the seafood on offer, and we drank cheap wine and dined on fish and Italian ices. After three hours of this Bear was ready for a nap, and he left me sitting on the dock of the bay while he headed back to our humble abode at the Manx for a joint and returning to whatever reveries he was regularly visiting these days. I killed a couple more hours watching women, none of whom reciprocating by watching me, and headed home. I didn’t have much luck hopping the cable cars that afternoon and walked a good deal of the way. As I trudged down the sidewalk along Union Square I spotted a newspaper on a bench. The headline screamed “Nixon Cancels Draft!”

I might write at this point that, reeling, I grabbed the paper and slumped on the bench. It makes for pretty good copy. But I didn’t reel or slump. I did however snatch that abandoned newspaper like coins thrown to a Calcutta waif. The meat of the headline article was that President Nixon had cancelled the draft for the remainder of 1971, thus increasing his popularity preparatory to his re-election campaign next year. The old “I have a secret plan to end the war while revealing to no one what that actual plan is” gambit. The draft lottery numbers had reached number one hundred sixty eight the first week of October and the military had been taking one number per week. My own lottery number was one seventy two, so I was four numbers and four weeks away from being called up. As my Selective Service rating was 1A, it was a cinch that I was headed for basic training at Fort Knox, Kentucky and then to jungle training at Fort Polk, Louisiana before the year was out. Bear had assured me that this would happen. It had happened to him in December of 1969. Now nearly two scant years later he had endured a year of hell in the jungles and rice paddies of Southeast Asia and come home irrevocably changed. And I was getting a pass! The significance of that was indeed reeling in my head.

There would be no quiet flight to Canada. Conversely, there would be no last minute case of jitters, no change of heart or loss of nerve and getting on that bus to Fort Knox, my principles washed away by guilt, an attachment to convention or the simple fear of the unknown of life on the run. I was stunned. I quietly made my way to the Manx and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Letting myself into our room I found a note on the floor that had been slipped under the door. I picked it up and read “I don’t know who you are or who you THINK you are but I am not going to lie up with you. G.” It was a surreal non-sequitur to the tumult of feelings boiling around in my head. But I dismissed it pretty quickly. “No, G,” I thought. “I never figured there was much chance of you lying up with me. But I took a stab at you and extended the loving hand of friendship. This will be your loss.”

I roused Bear and told him the news, proffering the newspaper as proof of my last minute reprieve. He silently read with his unpatched eye and solemnly contemplated the import of these latest and most unexpected events. Finally he looked up at me with his one red eye and said “What’s that in your other hand?”

I grinned and showed him my note from George. He grinned back. “Well, that’s what she says now, right? Why’d she have to leave you a note to tell you that?” I shook my head and grinned back. Bear: “We need to get drunk.” I agreed. There was entirely too much grinning and not nearly enough drinking going on. He handed me a ten and said “Go down to that chink grocery and buy us a couple of bottles of Boone’s Farm.” I gave him a look and palmed the sawbuck. Fuck it, I wasn’t in the mood to quibble over his racism at the moment. I wanted to celebrate and he was my only friend in town. He was the only person I KNEW in town. As I opened the door, nearly walking on air I felt so light, Bear unexpectedly said to my back “CHINESE grocery, Bill. Sorry. I don’t mean to be like that.” I didn’t answer but I smiled and headed out on my mission. Nothing was going to keep me from smiling that night.

It took me most of half an hour to walk down to the the corner grocery and back, but not much longer. I picked up a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple wine and a bottle of Strawberry Hill and when I sauntered jauntily into room 216 again there were two young women sitting there with Bear. The first to capture my attention, and hold it, was a skinny brunette with a wild bush of curly black hair and scholarly round horn rimmed glasses. This I surmised was Georgette and it was the very first moment I laid eyes upon her, she who was to consume so much of my attention… no, devotion, over the next decade and more. Hell, it’s been fifty years since and I’m still thinking about her. Her companion was a pretty blonde with a boyish bob haircut and nervous eyes. She seemed uncomfortable and fidgeted as I stood there taking them in. The brunette however seemed the master of the situation, and confident.

How’s the boyfriend Frank?” I asked, unavoidably smirking against my will. I generally and on principle despise smirkers.

Clearly disapproving of my smirk, and rightly so, George declared “Frank is NOT my boyfriend! He’d like to be, but he isn’t and never will be. My father approves of him but” she decreed haughtily “ he makes my skin crawl.”

Bear snorted.

The two of them glared at Bear, who was trying his innocuous best to be… innocuous. I could see it in but a glance. I had to admit his might be seen as an intimidating presence. He stood six two in his bare feet and but a hair more in the ratty and many holed socks he was sporting, tortured socks Kerouac would have called them, propped up on the bed in front of him. As befitted his nickname- Bear, not Kerouac- he was a bear of a man with an unruly shock of strawberry blonde hair- he was trying desperately to grow out his military cut- and a positively majestic deep red beard. He wore a dashing black patch over his right eye…anyway I thought it was dashing and I coveted that look. I thought he cut an adventuresome figure, very romantic in no small part. His good eye darted back and forth between the two girls and I, a tad more nervously when contemplating the pretty blonde. I think Bear made her nervous and my entrance into the room had done nothing to reassure her. Her face had a disdain for scruffy hippies all over it.

“This is Georgette and Bonnie” he lisped. Bear had just a hint of a lisp in his voice but when he was high or nervous, as he now was, it got a bit more fruity. I, however, only had eyes for Georgette, God help me. I managed a hello and held up my prizes, the two bottles of cheap vino. “We’re celebrating tonight” and I punctuated this announcement by tabling the wine and brandishing the newspaper. “Today I learned I won’t get drafted.” Georgette for her part nodded sagely and regarded me cooly.

Georgette was not pretty and would not be considered comely by many peoples’ accounts. She was short, maybe five two or three, and skinny, with a round head and one continuous eyebrow, very black like that wild tropical tangle of hair that overgrew her head. Her well hidden curves were subtle and as I was to learn later, delicately sensuous. She had no perceptible swells on her breast and her milky white arms and legs were quite straight and slim. She wore a drab print sleeveless dress that came to her knees and she had her legs crossed like a man, one ankle upon the opposite knee. She had not shaved her armpits or her legs, obviously did not pluck or trim her eyebrows, and flaunted that in a statement of indifference to mere feminine physical beauty. She looked for all the world like a fourteen year old girl who had not quite matured yet. Gangly without being tall. The haughty demeanor betrayed by her sharp eyes dispelled any notion of diffidence though. Her crisp speech set you straight as to who would be steering not only the present but any future conversations. The comic character Olive Oyl came first to mind when I saw her, but it was soon replaced by the realization that she was the living breathing incarnation of Pepsi, the feminist nut case girlfriend in Shary Flenniken’s comic strip “Trots and Bonnie”, she of the Air Pirates collective. I wanted to fuck her instantly. Georgette, I mean. I never met Shary Flenniken. Shary was not present. The girl Georgette was a challenge.

Look- I recognized from the start that my attraction to Georgette was…well…hopelessly romantic and oddly spiritual, in a way. I saw that she wasn’t conventionally beautiful. OK, she was if anything sort of homely. But she had a fire in her eyes and command in her voice. All right, she was bossy as hell and suffered fools with an ill humor creeping into intolerance, and she figured most everybody to be a fool in one way or another. Except her. She was confident…OK, arrogant. Why do I call it spiritual, my attraction? I’ve given that some thought over the years, believe me. We connected on a different plane, maybe even in a parallel universe. The nearest I can come to explaining it is that somehow the pheromone feelers broadcast by George were exactly tuned to appeal to my own receptors. I was earmarked by a mischievous nature’s chemistry as hers to command. I was a sucker for her scent, her aura. I had to be or I wouldn’t be writing this sappy shit. But let me tell you, I wanted George from the moment I saw her and I put up with a lot of crap from her over the years to keep her. I went to great lengths to accommodate this hairy young Aphrodite.

George broke into my reverie by announcing that they were leaving the Manx, having engaged more spacious and luxurious accommodations in an apartment a couple of streets over. On California Street. “You two come over tonight and we’ll celebrate there.” She liked me! My heart sang. I’m gonna get laid! My gonads joined the chorus. Bonnie meanwhile was sputtering like a kerosene lamp guttering on the last fumes of fuel. “Bu..bu..but…we haven’t even unpacked. We aren’t settled in!” she finally managed to croak out. George handed me a slip of paper with the new address on it and dismissed Bonnie’s complaints by completely ignoring her, grabbed said Bonnie by the arm and marched imperiously out. “Be there at eight” she called back over her shoulder. I watched them as they advanced down the hall, George Napoleonic, marshaling her troop and Bonnie protesting incoherently, and ineffectively. I knew then how Marshall Ney must have felt at Waterloo. I think Bonnie was not taken with us at first blush. I was not worried. Bear and I would grow on her, I was sure of it.

Springing but a few hours ahead from our meeting in the Manx, Bear and I buzzed George’s room at the fancy oaken door of a very nice old stone apartment house. We were buzzed in. This was high security for us those days. Well, any security was a novelty for us. I had hitchhiked to California from Michigan and slept under overpasses when it rained. Bear had, in the not too distant past, spent the monsoon season huddled under a couple of poncho liners strung over a rope, hoping not to die on this particular night. This place looked like a step up, and we were determined to live up to expectations. I buffed the toes of my boots on the back of the opposing leg, and we sallied forth, bearing our wine like an offering to Venus.

I banged on the door of the designated apartment and heard the command “Get that, Bonnie!” The door inched open, Bonnie confronting us with panic in her eyes. Christ, I knew we were a little rough, but panic? We didn’t rate panic. I was a young history major dropout and Bear was a wounded returning veteran. Granted we weren’t suitably attired for the country club but we were more or less clean and there were no visible blood stains on either of us.

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up” Bonnie said hopefully and as I pushed back the door and entered her face fell considerably. (I had not thought it could drop much further. And yet it did.) I was beginning to think I might dislike this young woman. The activity in the apartment was frenetic for at least the first minutes. Those two girls were a whirlwind of activity, sweeping around arranging and rearranging what couldn’t have been more than a couple of suitcases worth of stuff each. They were demonstrating pride of ownership and showing off a bit. It was a small furnished place with a main room, a kitchenette and another room off to the side opposite the kitchen, perhaps a shared bedroom. This might present a minor logistical problem for me. Bear opened the bottle of Strawberry Hill and began to lift it to his lips when I stymied him by asking “Got some glasses for the wine?” Reluctantly he lowered the bottle but continued looking longingly at it. “Sure!” George piped up, and she plucked four mismatched glasses from a cupboard and set them on the small round kitchen table. Bear dutifully poured all four glasses full, set the bottle in the center and downed his glass in one gulp.

George sat next to me and took a sip of wine and I followed suit. We began to talk, and she told me she had grown up on the North Side of Chicago and had attended the University of Chicago her freshman year. She intended to take a year off and then go back to school, either back in Chicago or out here in California. Her dad was apparently loaded. He was financing her sabbatical. “What were you planning to study?” I asked, and she said English and psychology but she now thought to switch to women’s studies.

“What are women’s studies?” I asked brightly, doing nothing to ingratiate myself with either George or the fluttering and flustered Bonnie. Bonnie looked askance at me in passing while George took up the cudgels immediately. I hadn’t even known I’d dropped them.

“What the fuck are you talking about: ‘what are women’s studies?’ George spat at me.

Wide eyed and slightly injured I replied “Just exactly that” (Standing my ground.) “What specifically is involved in women’s studies? Are you talking about the history of the woman suffrage movement, the future of the Equal Rights Amendment, women in literature…what?”

“All of that and more” George answered, somewhat mollified I suppose that I had not been disparaging and had some small clue what might be involved in women’s studies. “I want to examine the suppression of women by the white male patriarchy and the enslavement of women as breeding stock by that patriarchy, locking them out of any meaningful participation in both political and social life, treating us as second class citizens- no, THIRD class citizens, even lower in the hierarchy than the oppressed black man.”

I looked glowingly at her, my admiration apparent in my rapt gaze.

“I’ll drink to that” declared Bear as he downed his now third glass of wine.

“George, I think that’s really cool.” I stroked her, hoping I wasn’t stroking too obsequiously, but it didn’t matter because George was more interested in what she had to say than anything that might come out of my mouth. So I listened, always a good plan and an effective way to avoid saying something that might result in my not getting into her pants that night. When I say I listened, I mean I really listened. She laid a lot of new stuff on me that evening. It was 1971 and I was on board with all the equal rights for women agenda- equal pay for equal work, birth control and legal abortion, more women working as CEO’s and other positions of authority, more representation in Congress and on and on. But saying you support all that and actually feeling the frustration of a woman living in a repressive and restricting culture like ours are two different things. George gave vent to her feelings and her rage and she did it with intelligence and zeal. I admired her and respected her really impressive knowledge of the subject. She gave good rant. It wasn’t hard to be impressed by all that. I didn’t know half the shit that I thought I knew. She was more than willing to instruct me. If luck went with me that evening I hoped to be doing some instructing of my own before the sun next rose above the horizon.

And while she lectured she drank. An hour went by and now we were well into the apple wine so I proposed that we buy more. “There’s a grocery down the street that sells wine if we get there before they close” George volunteered and grabbing me by the hand she hauled me to the door. She seized her coat in the other hand and propelled me through the door and out of the apartment like the force of nature that she was. “Wait here!” she commanded Bonnie and Bear as one accustomed to being obeyed, and we were off into the night.

Now that we were alone we could devote all our attention to each other, and away from Bonnie George seemed to soften somewhat. “She’s afraid of everything” George explained. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s my best friend and I love her but she’s afraid to grab what she wants. Nobody gives you anything unless there are strings attached. Restrictions. Conditions. She thinks we can wait for men to bestow rights on us, rights that are ours by birthright and were simply denied us. These things were taken from us, and the way you get them back is to take them the same way. My father- and her father- give us everything they think we want. We’re privileged, I don’t deny it. But we’re still just birds in gilded cages, aren’t we? Daddy will pay for my school if I study what he wants and pretend to look for a husband. He’s playing me, indulging me. It’s like, you get this out of your system now while you’re young and then it’ll be time to settle down and move into a prairie style bungalow in Wheaton and raise grandchildren. I don’t want or need a fucking husband and I sure as fuck don’t want fucking . I demand to be taken seriously.”

I was getting a bit drunk- so was George- and I was mesmerized by her passion. I loved her zeal, I was rapt at her eloquence, impressed by the breadth and scope of her knowledge. And I wanted to fuck her.

We arrived at the corner grocery and selected two more bottles of wine. By now we were hanging on each other, holding hands and briefly hugging, laughing at some intimate inanity that one or the other had uttered. The proprietor eyed us warily. No smiles for the young couple in lust, who might be shoplifters, lust or no goddamn lust. But a line had been crossed by George and I. I had listened to her voice and her passion and had not only not derided her but had heaped praise on her for her commitment, and it was genuine. You can fake genuine, especially when the girl is drunk, but I was sincere and I know she could feel it. Or, as you might say, she bought it. George’s presence was intoxicating to me. I thought she was brilliant and I really wanted to get much better acquainted with her ass.

We left the store and headed back up California Street. After a few blocks I observed that it would have been a lot easier if the trip to the store had been uphill and the trip home downhill and less drunk. We sat on the stoop of a residence club- the Hyde Residence Club if memory serves- to rest and opened a bottle of wine, and we sat sharing the wine and talked. People came in and out and smiled at us, wasted and animatedly in love. No one seemed to mind and their benevolence warmed us. We didn’t need the heat. I for one was getting properly hot, and then she leaned in and kissed me full on the lips and with feeling. In no time we were locked in a passionate embrace, and we fell back writhing against each other, groping and humping. Now we were starting to get comments from the passing residents, the benevolence evaporating. “Do you have to do that here?” and “Jesus Christ you two, get a fucking room! In another city.” At this point it occurred to my alcoholic brain that we might be a bit of a nuisance, drunk and in heat as we were on the steps of a building where we did not even live. Before the last vestiges of propriety left us-and there weren’t many left- I suggested we take it home, but now George confessed that Bonnie wouldn’t have it. She hated both Bear and I and would freak out if we went back to her apartment to make love. “Then let’s go to the Manx” I said, but George wouldn’t abandon Bonnie for the night. I had no similar reservations about dumping Bear. I knew he’d understand. But George insisted we had to do the deed quickly and get back to rescue Bonnie.

“Rescue Bonnie? Bear will behave” I assured her. “Yeah, he looks a little rough but he’s a good guy. He wouldn’t …” and she cut me off.

“Over there” she pointed, and I saw an alley across the street. We gathered ourselves up and she pulled me toward the alley, half stumbling to the other side of the street and then into the alleyway. There was a deserted little cul de sac at the end and I began pulling at her shirt, pinning her back against the wall. She was tearing at the zipper of my jeans and I was trying to get both her shirt and mine off at the same time when I realized I hadn’t got her coat off yet and I was in fact still wearing my own jacket. We needed to get better organized. She huffed a bit, exasperated, and then we both burst out laughing. George pulled her coat off and dropped it on the pavement. I picked her up by the waist and pulled her knees up, locking my arms under them, and groped at her delicious little ass. We tumbled to the ground atop her coat and tried to struggle out of our pants, not wanting to break contact long enough to get properly naked and at the same time wanting very badly to be naked and rubbing skin on warm delicious skin. I pushed my jacket under her butt and asked if she was OK, were the bricks too hard on her back and she shut me up by inhaling my tongue, sucking it into her mouth and grinding her face against mine. We couldn’t get close enough, we wanted to merge. I wanted to envelope her sweet young body in mine. I pushed her legs up into the air and buried my face in her vulva, probing with my tongue for her slit. The wine left me then- I was drunk on George instead. God that woman tasted good! She was gushing juices and I mashed my face in her scent and her nectar.

I finally managed to get her jeans off one leg and dove back into her cunt, licking and sucking wildly. This was not Kama Sutra lovemaking. She was waving the one leg in the air with her pants hooked at the ankle like a cavalry flag and she was leading the charge. I was ravenous and George was with me every step of the way. I ate her, consumed her for what seemed like forever, finally settling on her clit. I was delighted to discover that she had a big clitoris, about the size of the tip of my pinky. It took the guesswork out of finding her on/off switch. It was engorged and swollen and I attacked it with vigor. That drove her nuts and she bucked and twisted until all at once she stiffened and crushed my head between her thighs, nearly taking my head off my neck as she arched her back. Again, it seemed like forever but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. She finally released the death grip her thighs held me in and I wasted no time moving up to her breast, to get at those delicate swollen nipples. Her breasts were very small, understated if you like, and yes I did very much like them. George’s pussy was drenched and I plunged in at once. I buried my cock deep within her and froze, afraid that I’d cum if I moved or even twitched. I didn’t even dare suck her delightful nipples at this point. When I got control again I slowly and rhythmically began fucking in and out of her slippery pussy. She pushed back against me, grabbing the cheeks of my ass and trying to pull me in harder.

I needed this, I needed her in a way that was new to me. I’d had sex with five or six girls before and had always felt that it had been quite passionate, but I’d never felt the wanton animal lust that George provoked in me. And I’d certainly never coupled with anyone so outright aggressive and …potent, as George. She was feral in her lovemaking and was as eager to consume me as I was her. George clutched at me with all her strength. I was fleetingly afraid she would hurt herself, but I was only momentarily coherent. She disregarded the bricks beneath us and crushed me in her arms while wrapping her legs around me and willing me to bodily enter her cunt. When I came it was an explosion that I thought might be my last. It nearly hurt the way it gushed out of my cock.

Finally spent, “Fuck!” I breathed with what little strength I had left, and George cradled my head in her arms and pulled my face against her neck, stroking my hair and cooing to me. I raised up, met her eyes and smiled. She smiled back at me and if I had not been in thrall to George before I was captivated now. I very much wanted to lie there in post coital bliss until we might rouse ourselves to repeat the performance but I was afraid someone might spot us and call the cops.

“We’d better go before we get busted, George.” I said. “That felt so good I’m pretty sure it’s illegal in most states.”

She giggled and I struggled to my feet, pulling her up after me and helping her sort out her tangled britches. When we had got her more or less dressed again I pulled on my own jeans and tee shirt and my leather jacket. Leaning her back against the wall I kissed her long and deeply. She purred contentedly but I was aware it was a dangerous and feral cat’s purr. This mere slip of a girl had a leopard inside her. Quiescent and sated now, it didn’t like to be caged. Christ, I didn’t want the night to end. But George eventually broke our kiss and dragged me back into the surrounding city. We’d been in a bubble where the world had receded for a few precious minutes. We didn’t talk much on the walk back to her apartment. We walked slowly along arm in arm, clasping each other tenderly, each dreading to reach her building and end the embrace.

As we approached I saw Bear sitting at the edge of the stoop impatiently smoking a cigarette. He half glared at us as we walked up to him. “How the fuck far away was that grocery store? I thought it was a ten minute walk!” he demanded. We’d been gone well over an hour. I grinned a sheepish grin at him. George kissed me on the cheek and dug for her key in her pocket. With a last look and one last quick kiss on my lips she unlocked the door and vanished inside.

“You fucked her did’t you?” Bear said to me. I offered him a bottle of wine.

“Yeah, we fucked. In an alley down the hill.”

“Show me” he said.

“What?”

“Show me where you fucked her.”

“Why?”

“I just wanta see it.”

“Um…yeah, OK.” I shrugged. “ What happened here with you and Bonnie?” I asked.

“Oh Jesus! That bitch! Seriously, that broad is psycho. She bitched and griped the whole time you were gone. She went on about how she and George didn’t know us or know anything about us and here George was wandering off into the night with some fucking hood, probably to get assaulted and beaten. And Bonnie was abandoned to her own fate with a derelict like me- that’s what she called me! I’m a fucking derelict! I never made a move on her! The cunt! Finally I just threw in the towel and came down here to wait for you to come back. I must have smoked half a pack of cigarettes. I was gonna go home but I figured you’d be back eventually.”

I croaked out “Uh yeah…George said she was a fearful kind of girl. Seriously, you never touched her?” I was kind of ashamed of asking.

“Hey, fuck you! What do you take me for, asshole?” Then he calmed down. “For real, Bill. I was afraid she was gonna hurt ME. She went off the deep end. I had to get out.”

We made our way down the street to my sacred alley, where the carnal deed was done. The Place Where It Happened. We stood at the very spot where George and I had consummated our lust. It really wasn’t much to see. You had to have been there I guess. I was suddenly aware that I might very well never see George again. I had no phone number. I knew where she lived but Bonnie would not be at all pleased to see me again and would try hard to turn George against me. I would be a terrible mistake she had made one night while drunk but one she could still recover from. What did George really know about me anyway? All the love and desire I had felt that night would be just a fleeting memory, all in my own head, conceived and evaporated in the space of an hour and a half. I felt like Jack Kerouac in “Tristessa, an imaginary romance with a Mexican , all of his own creation taking on a surreal life of its own. A romance that never happened except in his dreams. On this most magnificent of nights when I was celebrating my new freedom I slid into a deep melancholy, a sense of sadness for what was and might have been. I had gone from an uncertain future where it made no sense to make plans to a world of possibility in a matter of just a few hours. I had seen the pinnacle of joy, I’d seen it in a woman, yes, but it was ecstatic.

On the other hand, I was drunk. And still drinking. My sadness receded. Bear and I saluted the act and the place of fuckery and moved on, occasionally swigging wine from our paper bags of Boone’s Farm.
20 Comments
Nevada Elects Dead
Posted:Nov 7, 2018 7:19 pm
Last Updated:Sep 10, 2019 12:29 am
7013 Views

Dennis Hof, the deceased owner of a handful of brothels in Nevada, has defeated his Democratic opponent, an educator named Lesia Romanov. The contest was for the 36th Assembly district, considered a safe Republican seat. Hof was found dead on October 16 at the Love Ranch, a whorehouse owned by him. He was found by Ron Jeremy and a at the Love Ranch. He had been celebrating his 72nd birthday the previous weekend. He had starred in the HBO series “Cathouse” and had also written a book, “The Art of the ”, perhaps a takeoff on Trump’s “Art of the Deal”. Local officials will appoint a Republican to fill Hof’s seat.

Hof received 17,179 votes to 10, 057 for Romanov, 63 per cent of the vote. He’d have got even more votes if he’d been chained to a dead underaged . This is what making America great again is all about, folks. Hold muh beer an’ watch this! Dead pimps for Jesus! Yeehaw and amen!
17 Comments
Testament
Posted:Sep 27, 2018 8:00 am
Last Updated:Oct 29, 2018 8:37 am
8090 Views

I believe her.
20 Comments
An Open Letter to Canada
Posted:Aug 30, 2018 11:14 pm
Last Updated:Jul 10, 2019 7:54 pm
8830 Views

My Canadian neighbors are currently debating whether to draft more strict controls on firearms.

Gun control. As an American I've pondered this issue at some length. We clearly need a reduction in violence here, so it follows that limiting an implement of destruction might have some effect toward that end. We have the Second Amendment, always capitalized and usually festooned with stars and stripes bunting, laurel wreaths and the odd eagle or two. A nice touch is to feature slightly dimmed in the background our idealized image of a Minuteman clutching his Jaeger squirrel rifle in one powerful fist and gazing sternly into the foreground, a determined furrow upon his clear brow. American gun owners can be a prickly lot and cling to that Amendment fiercely, vowing to defend it as ferociously as a grizzly sow her cubs just before being shot by an American trophy hunter. The thing CAN be regulated without repeal. We've demonstrated before that the Constitution is as sacred a legal document as ever was given birth by the mind of man, as long as it's convenient. Our federal, state and local governments, not to mention our worthy citizens regularly violate the 13th, 14th and 15th amendments and the first amendment is practically in tatters after having been abused by one presidential administration after the other. I keep expecting the vice squad to clap the cuffs on her and haul the old warhorse off to the station house she’s been had so often. I've gone on pretty long without coming to the point, which of course there is indeed one. I could go longer still due to the polite nature of my Canadian audience. Americans refuse to sit still for it. I've decided that the best solution is to ban Americans, not guns. Guns don't kill people, Americans do. Deciding what to do with them, how to dispose of them is a problem, I freely admit, but it's not MY problem. So, what say you Canada? Want to try adopting some Americans for a spell and then decide if you need gun control or citizen control? You’ll quickly learn why Americans shoot other Americans. It’s because they’re assholes. And the only thing that can stop a bad asshole with a gun is a good asshole with a gun. If I might presume to make a prediction, I believe that after a month of suffering these quarrelsome and dangerous pricks you’ll not only be eager to get rid of Canadian guns but you’ll be itching to storm the border and take ours too, just to hear the modern day Minutemen wail and shriek. Do you have it in you to be the good asshole without asking the Queen’s permission first? We’d ask Germany but asking them to seize weapons would be like inviting a pedophile to lead a Cub Scout Troop. Help us Obi Wan Canada. You’re our only hope!
23 Comments
Crickets
Posted:Dec 24, 2017 8:06 pm
Last Updated:May 15, 2018 12:50 am
26541 Views


Crickets (from my personal archives)

Most men are probably assholes, at least, in the eyes of their mothers, sisters, wives, girlfriends…Ok, pretty much any woman. Not all men are insensitive clods, to be sure, as long as Alan Alda and Phil Donahue are still alive, which, I think they are , even though they don't look like it. But there are times when we demonstrate our worth. Like for example when you say you're going to paint the house and you place your ladder under the eaves and then can't remember where you put it and it's too scary to crawl along the edge of the roof looking for it. So you bang on the roof and hope that your husband is hungry enough to eventually come looking for you and help you down.
Or…well, we had the following conversation just a few minutes ago.
"Bill, there's something weird in the bathtub."
"Does it have tattoos, and piercings?"
"It's a bug."
"Does it look anything like Vincent D'Onofrio?"
"Really- it's a bug."
"Hand it a towel and give it a little privacy."
"It's a really BIG bug."
"Hand it a really BIG towel."
"No, come and look."
I go look.
"It's a cricket."
"What are you gonna do?"
Singing: "Think it over, what you've just said
"Think it over in your pretty little head." Confirming that I'm an asshole, but I'm an asshole who's not scared of bugs and who loves Buddy Holly.
"Are you gonna get rid of it, or not?"
Singing again: "Well, that'll be the day, when you say goodbye
Yes, that'll be the day, when you make me cry
You say you're gonna leave, you know it's a lie
'Cause that'll be the day when I die."
"Should I smash it?"
I picked it up, took it outside and released it into the yard, to run free and unrestrained like the wild and unfettered creature that it was meant to be- you know, like capitalism. Would Phil Donahue have been able to do that? Not fucking likely. He'd have recommended that Marlo form a focus group to study the problem and consider the environmental ramifications of his actions, and called for a film crew to document the event.



32 Comments
I had too much to dream last night...
Posted:Dec 16, 2017 12:11 pm
Last Updated:Mar 11, 2019 12:02 pm
26574 Views

This is a re-post of a piece I wrote for the 23rd Virtual Symposium in October of last year.

The Electric Prunes: ”I Had Too Much to Dream Last Night”……..

Last night your shadow fell upon my lonely room
I touched your golden hair and tasted your perfume
Your eyes were filled with love the way they used to be
Your gentle hand reached out to comfort me
Then came the dawn
And you were gone
You were gone, gone, gone


There are dreams we have when we’re asleep, and dreams we have when we lie awake at night and our minds won’t keep still. And there are idle daydreams too, musings upon what if, oftentimes.

As I’ve got older I’ve wished plenty of times that I had never wasted an erection. When you’re young you get hard and stay hard for no particular reason. Even a passing thought will stimulate you- you’re programmed as a young male to stick that thing wherever you can whenever you can stick it, and my own body didn’t fail me. I’d make a call to my dispatcher and the receptionist would answer the phone with that mellifluous voice of hers and I could see her in my mind’s eye, wearing that tight short skirt bending over to get in the bottom drawer of the file cabinet……. and the next thing I know I’m back in the tractor and squirming in my seat because I’ve got a rock hard prick trying to bust out of my jeans. In this case it was provided by the eighteen year old honey haired receptionist with those small and silky teardrop breasts, but it might just as easily have been a woman in the street with a slit skirt flashing me or my customer who was nigh to popping the buttons on her far too small blouse as she leaned over her desk to sign my shipping papers, smiling with her eyes at me and giving me a long languid look at her cavernous and considerable cleavage.

And so I’d drive for an hour and my erection would barely subside to relieve my stress. At any time I could have forced my train of though to something less arousing- but what young man does that, especially with miles yet to drive? No, he tortures himself with more fantasy and he shuffles through the Rolodex of images in his brain and pulls out card after card of luscious women he has known or simply seen and remembered, and filed away for later daydreams. And still he keeps drifting back in his daydream to Myrna sitting at the phone in that office, one gorgeous stockinged thigh crossed over the other and nearly baring her butt cheeks….and that pounding, pulsing dick is back to fifteen hundred PSI again.

I had too much to dream last night
Too much to dream
I'm not ready to face the light
I had too much to dream
Last night
Last night


And this goes on for years. Over and over again, through the decades, and you become convinced that erectile dysfunction is not about you and never will be, because you know very well you have an endless arsenal of rock hard hymen hammers in your magazine. But it ain’t so. Most men, by the time they reach the age of fifty, have had some diminishment of their cherry splitter. Oh, it may be still plenty stiff enough to pry open and penetrate the poontang, but it begins to lose its diamond cutting edge. That camel poker won’t quite crack walnuts anymore, and it has a way of sneaking up on you too, until one day you think the thing must have iron poor blood or something. It’s there, and trying to do its job, but the carnal stump is a bit whittled down. And it just doesn’t pump up to quite the same dimension that it once did. If you’re a grower, what used to inflate to six and a half inches is struggling to raise itself up off its elbows to six. And if you’re a shower it might even be worse. You could be faced with a flaccid flesh flute. It might still be a full sixteen centimeters, but the woody quality has wilted and wandered off.

The room was empty as I staggered from my bed
I could not bear the image racing through my head
You were so real that I could feel your eagerness
And when you raised your lips for me to kiss
Came the dawn
And you were gone
You were gone, gone, gone


Now, there are remedies for this. Plenty of men use cock rings to enhance stamina even when not suffering from ED, and better living through modern chemistry has given us pharmacological fixes. Blood pressure problems, constriction of blood vessels and nasty item called cavernosal failure can all result in a failed muscle missile launch. Without getting into the technical details and the mechanics of it, these chemicals work, and for most men they work well. But this isn’t an instructional post about how to rejuvenate a rusty rectum wrangler- this post is about dreams.

I had too much to dream last night
Too much to dream
I'm not ready to face the light
I had too much to dream
Last night
Last night


So I had got to musing one night while somewhat inebriated and simultaneously chatting with two fine friends, namely KItkat1415 and Rachel0718 and it occurred to me that the dream solution would be to have an Erection Vault. Therein would be stored in pristine and perfect condition, ready for use, all those unused erections of days gone by. It had occurred to me while conversing with these two winsome wenches that I had wasted a lot of hard ons. What would I not give to have some of them back? Well, why think small? Why not have all of them back, and stored in perfect humidity and temperature for use at a later date, when an opportunity to make the beast with two backs might present itself in future years?

I would of course be the only human to have access to this bank, and I might enter it from time to time to visit with my Banked Dicks, (apologies to W.C. Fields) and fondle and caress them tenderly. I might in this way develop favorites in much the same way that a wine connoisseur has great expectations of a particular vintage, say a Schlongmaster 2000 or a Muffin Buffer ’96. They might be reattached like a Snap-on Tool, or better yet, a Twistloc. A firm push and a crank to the right and the love train is back on the tracks! I could have brochures printed up for prospective customers- women say they don’t care for dick pics, but they haven’t seen my catalog! It would of course be very tastefully done, not on that flimsy glossy porno paper but printed on the finest quality heavyweight stuff, and suitable for a coffee table book. Get one for each member of the family…a Book of Fine Members. A Who’s Who of Womb Raiders

In my vault there would be row upon stacked row of memorable erections, of course every one with a product description and historical details as to the occasion and cause of arousal in each case, and a rating on the Mohs scale of hardness. I might spend entire afternoons admiring my collection, and while away the time stroking them and pampering them, a Gentleman’s Garden of Groinstalks.

I had too much to dream last night
Too much to dream
I'm not ready to face the light
I had too much to dream
Last night
Last night


I had too much to dream last night.
15 Comments
In memoriam...
Posted:Dec 5, 2017 7:49 pm
Last Updated:May 1, 2018 8:17 pm
26943 Views
Douglas Engelbart, the inventor of the computer mouse, died in 2013.
What vision he had, to know we'd need one hand free while at the computer.


23 Comments
Double Exposure
Posted:Nov 29, 2017 12:57 pm
Last Updated:Dec 13, 2017 6:14 pm
30114 Views
“Double Exposure or Naked as the Day We Were Born”

Many great works have subtitles. Gerard Winstanley famously employed : “The Law of Freedom in a Platform or, True Magistracy Restored Humbly Presented to Oliver Cromwell, General of the Commonwealths Army in England. And to All English-men my Brethren Whether in Church Fellow-ship 1652” I think I’ve shown reserve and restraint in my own use of the subtitle.

Staying surprisingly close to the original theme of our talk on exhibitionism, wickedeasy offered: “it's not like we're not enjoying it too. that rush goes both ways. and yet you're so safely tucked away in separate spaces”



Flashing truckers is not a pedestrian thrill but a proletarian nthetheless. Still I can imagine upper class women doing it as a safer form of slumming and an alternative to gang fucking thugs picked up in a bar on the bad side of town. I'm sure some women do both, and enjoy hell out of the practice. Everybody needs a hobby. It took me some time to really get what was in it for the exhibitionist.

What I had formerly thought of, long ago, as exhibitionists, was the guy with pant legs, cut from the knees down, duct taped over his shins and wearing a trenchcoat. And of course I felt the usual revulsion. We look askance at men who expose themselves. But it’s only a visual. There isn’t any touching or assault except on the viewer’s delicate sensibilities. My own inclination is to laugh. Only jealous women criticize the women who show too much. The only man who will complain is Mike Pence. Then too, things has changed, hasn't they? There have always been women who are thrilled at the exposure of their nether regions, but now it's so common as to be nearly universal...or is it ubiquitous? Ubiquitous is a far sexier word. Anyway, you see a lot of it, ubiquity, and I accept that.



It wasn't until I started being able to put myself in the woman's position, I mean, inside what I imagine to be her head, that it began to make sense to me, and the act gets so much more erotic and arousing due to that. Most men resist trying to really think like a woman, usually get it wrong, and I did too. It's kind of a self aggrandizing way of getting in touch with 's femi side, but when you finally begin to actually listen to what women say about themselves and their arousal it becomes more clear. A woman has a much different and more personal relationship with her vulnerability than men do. Hell, males typiy try to pretend that they have no relationship with vulnerability and weakness at all. You'll rarely hear a man admit to his own weakness, unless he's expressing a weakness for hundred year old whisky or anal sex. Let me hasten to add I don't mean hundred year old anal sex. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm sure the court of public opinion would take a different view, but in my book what happens between a man and a centenarian is a private affair as long as there’s fore, lots of lube is employed and some comes.



It's odd, you might even say queer if that word had not taken on the connotation that is has these last hundred (Funny how that number seems to keep creeping in. I suppose that once you allow the idea of women who've reached the century mark taking it in the ass, both the image and number will stick with you, for better or for worse.) that a man is if anything more vulnerable than a female when he drops trou in a public place. Women have so few advantages in this world, but they own exhibitionism. I figure it's only fair, and it sure as hell is pleasant. Being naked and exposed in a public place whether seen or not is frightening to me but not thrilling in any sexual way. Meaning that, no, I don't really get Louis C.K. His transgression feels like a lame and weak thing to do. It represents a loss of control that I hate to think of as a male, unless there are lots of other people naked right along with me. Would I pull out and then pummel my pud in front of a woman? No. Would I do it with a hundred other jackoffs around me? Still no. That didn’t go the way you thought it was going, did it? You were expecting me to invoke strength in numbers. But as a female there's the conflict of both losing control- naked and afraid- and being in control of her own sexuality and allure, arousing herself and her watchers. A kind of submission, revealing yourself is. (channeling Yoda) Women can so much more readily identify with submission, even publicly owning up to it sometimes. Even the ancient Greeks considered male submissives as less than real men. Pitching good, catching bad, especially since they had only the dius and the javelin and baseballs had not yet been invented. Females on the other hand are even expected to submit, and when they decline there is consternation all around. To a lot of people it is not only incongruous but nearly blasphemous (Think Mike Pence again-“It's in the Bible”) that a woman should be assertive and in command of her own destiny in all aspects of her life and yet get a charge of libidinous adrenalin out of submitting to a man sexually, and even submitting openly and in public to men she has never seen before. We know now why J. Edgar Hoover wore dresses. It was a release for the poor sick fuck from being all powerful and hunting commies days a week. He just didn't have the balls to do it in public. Not that I want to see those balls any more than I want to see the centenarian edition of Ass Fucked Skanks Volume .



I have rambled and digressed, and more than once. If I keep practicing I might get good at it.

Vivé la difference. I don't get- as a male- why Louis C. K. whipped out his dick and jacked off in front of his business colleagues/acquaintances. It feels like a femi thing to do. Maybe wimpy is a better word for it. I do get why a woman strips and masturbates in a public place where she is very likely to be caught. It's a double standard, yeah. I'm not even apologizing for that. I did a post once, for HNW Red for nicelipps, where I went trans for a day and dressed. It was a hoot, but I was being hst when I said that I sort of got how CD's and trans women felt, because I actually felt kind of sexy after putting on the trappings of a sultry seductress. I wasn't sexy by any's estimation, even the s who were really drunk, and there isn't a part of me that craves that, but I got an insight. I had a kind of epiphany. So, would I want to be a woman for an afternoon and flash random men at will? You bet! It's fucking hot.


17 Comments

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