Thursday, June 16, 2005

My life in haze

My current state of being- horny and lonely.

Hi, folks. Yes, I am still alive. I have been busy writing my novel lately and completing my PhD admission requirements. I have decided to try my luck in sexology. Yes, there is such a graduate program.

I am falling for this guy too. I am tired of waiting for him to ask me for my ass. Well, this is the most unfortunate thing in a serious, normal dating- full of BS and mental games.

For now, I resort to my Enrique Iglesias- my dark brown, large-sized, vibrating dildo. I so want to be drilled by a huge cock right now. It has been awhile since I smelled, felt, and tasted cum. Lord, please give me a mean fucker. If not now, soon.

Saturday, May 21, 2005

My pink childhood

Bakla! Bakla, baket ka ginawa?

While searching for some Asian blogs, I found Third Sex in the City. It is a blog in queer lingo written by a Filipino gay man. While browsing his posts, the first statement that captured my attention was "Bakla! Bakla, baket ka ginawa?" It was such a poignant self-questioning. It put me in a melancholic, existentialist mood. It made me soul-search. I was left reminiscing my childhood when I thought my life was a glaring pink.

I found it hard to translate this simple Filipino line into English. I came up with several translations but found a particular one, though it sounded awkward, very apt to my struggle as a transsexual pushed to exist along the margins, even though it's neither my fault nor my wish to be here and suffer. It made me cry. I am tired of surviving from fear and paranoia. I want to exist beyond illusion and fantasy.

"Gay man! Gay man, why did you become human?" I chose this one because it is my fervent hope that hateful people in this cruel world will realize that like them, I am a human being too. I did never ask to be born this way. If I have a choice, why would I choose to become someone people scorned, hated, laughed at, caricatured, insulted, discriminated, despised, and loathed? It is very tough to exist in limits and boundaries forced on me because I am different.

I was about four years old when I felt I was a girl. I did not know then that there are gay men, lesbian women, bisexuals, and transsexuals in this world. I saw no Ru Paul or two men or women kissing on TV then. As far as I knew, there were only heterosexual people, and that I was a straight girl like my sister. We both loved the brave, handsome, nice princes in my mom's fairy tales. We also thought Ken, the doll, was hot. We just loved to watch boys play in the neighborhood. They were strong and rough. We were their silent cheerleaders. We were girls admiring boys.

I thought my folks were in denial for not recognizing my reality. I thought my dad was joking when he pulled me out from my tutu and threw baseball jerseys at me. I thought my mom was mean and selfish for not sharing her red Avon lipstick and for yelling at me when I tried her skirt on. I thought my brothers were the boys not me. They loved playing balls, climbing trees, and hitting birds with a sling. I was into skipping ropes, playing house, and dressing up my little sister. I had so many thoughts that disappointed me. My mind contradicted my body. I could not find my soul.

I saw my mother naked once. In my mind, I confidently believed that my boobs would grow bigger than hers, and I would have a thicker and darker bush covering my flower. My dad intentionally stripped himself in front of me. It was his way of demonstrating to me the male sexual anatomy. It grossed me out. It looked like a giant plastic GI Joe with a smooth helmet on and with stretched arms holding a huge hand grenade on each hand. I checked mine. It looked different. What I had was a smooth, tiny one that looked like a rosebud. I was definitely a girl not like my father.

I did never see my brothers' weenies. I did not share a bedroom with any of them. I complained vehemently when they joined me in the bathroom for a shower while I was soaking myself in a tub. The girl needed a privacy. I shared my room with my sister. I always let her in the bathroom too. We were sisters bonding and sharing. It was from her that I learned the proper way of taking a piss: sitting on a toilet bowl or squatting on the bathroom floor.

My sister saw my weenie once and asked me why mine looked so different. It had an extra meat hanging and no vertical line. I told her that she was too young to have a rosebud. I turned and pointed my ass as my vertical slit. When she pointed her buttocks and said she had the same one too, almost out of words, I was embarrassed. I did convince her though after I showed her that my slit on the back was longer than hers. Deep down, I was confused. From then on, I never took my pink Tiny Candy underwear off when I was with my sister. Later, I began to think maybe I was really born different.

No two girls would look exactly the same. Even my brothers were not alike. Our eldest had big ears. The next one had a birthmark on his face. The third one had chinky eyes. It became clearer to me why I had a weenie. I was born that way. I was different compared to my sister, but still I was a girl. Nobody influenced me to think that way. I was born with a mind that made me think I was not a boy. I came out from my mother's womb to suffer and endure the cruelty of those who refuse to understand. Sometimes, I still ask: why me?

Thursday, May 19, 2005

I wish he paid me for my ass

Like her Taj Mahal, India will rise from her dark past of violence, ignorance, and poverty and reclaim her old, rightful glory in the world's stage.

Okay, folks, I am back. For the last five days, I was busy masturbating with a hunk mentally. A Ph.D. student in a nearby university paid me to have brainstorming sessions with him regarding his dissertation on political economy. He found me through my blog. He liked the way I think out of the box. He had an adviser, but he did not appreciate conventional thinking and replicated ideas. He wanted his work to be pioneering and interesting. Fortunately, it was not bad for a hoe, who was paid to think.

He was too young to be a Ph.D. student. He must be a rich kid, who goes to school to acquire a professional title not skills, or an argumentative, lazy ass, who survives on grants and student loans and confidently thinks there is a sense of security, financial or personal, in being an intellectual. I checked his writings. They were too convoluted with confusing ideas, circular in logic, and verbose. His works suffered from postmodern, poststructural, and postcolonial jargons also known as verbal diarrhea, a pretentious, head-scratching, migraine-causing use of heavy words to convey a very simple idea. I call it academic halitosis, a scholar's bad breath. He wanted to write about the role of the middle class in China and India's economy compared to America's. It was too broad, complex, long, and boring. Besides, It was too ambitious and time-consuming, and some parts of his thesis have already been studied.

I told him to focus on India, which, I believe, will eventually become a superpower in fifty years. Indians are learning from their history and moving forward. It seemed he had a nirvana after I suggested to him that he should do an in-depth research on how India has merged America's capitalism and China's socialism in its economic policies and political governance. He should study the Indian middle class in relation to labor force, knowledge economy, and the government's populist political platform and economic strategies.

The middle class in any society galvanize economic and social development. The poor are too ignorant and burdened to be socially vigilant and politically empowered, and the rich are too comfortable to notice the gap between the haves and the have-nots. It is the middle class who are in the position to be the social agent-provocateur. They are the same people who struggle to rise and avoid to fall. They are educated laborers and reasonable voters. America remains the sole superpower because of the middle class Americans, who influence the market and form the knowledge-based economy. Their contributions to labor, trade, and industry are very important. They are the loud voice significantly heard every election. They are the thinking, powerful class.

I recommended Indian and Chinese business dailies to him. The Wall Street Journal alone is not enough to know the nitty-gritty of Asia's surging economies. It is also imperative for him to read the political histories of China and India since the 70's and the American foreign policies towards these countries. I like reading papers and essays that are well-researched, current, and filled with raw data. Hazy generalizations, unfounded opinions, and out-of-the-blue predictions make me stop to read. Any research should not be editorialized. Its conclusion should be based on existing data.

I hope I was able to help him. Some people just need motivation. He did not pay me to learn research design or statistical methods. I think he was on the verge of a mental block. He wanted to chat with someone who could, maybe, offer different perspectives that will arouse his mind and make him interested. He wanted to be pushed. If he calls me again, I will decline. I have my own arousal to attend to. It was a torture to chat with a young, muscular, handsome, smart guy about political economy while I had a raging hard-on. Just staring at my lustful glances, smiling at me, and trying to read my thought did nothing for me. I wish he fucked me.

I hope he reads this. If he wants me to really help him, he has to make my mind function well. He has to feed me his cock. He needs to fuck my brains out and, of course, pay me still. That is my basic idea of political economy.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

A different kind of assassination

Was this US President a cock-sucker?

If Republicans are serious and overzealous in protecting their president and quelling threats against him, Democrats are pretty lax in that regard. They are more concerned about character assassination smudged against their leaders than an assassin's bullet. Pres. John F. Kennedy perished because his handlers were more preoccupied covering up the physical health of the President and his womanizing from the media and the general public. It was foolish to parade the President in Texas in a car without a hood along a less crowded, spacious streets. It was a blatant mistake in security logistics and overlook in intelligence-based planning.

Communists' covert operations were on the rise. The proximity of Texas to Mexico, where pro-Castro Cubans could freely roam around, was an obvious geopolitical concern. Even the Mafioso's could have a fiesta on the Wild West's loose guns. The Democrats were not alarmed by these facts and possibilities. To them, the Marilyn Monroe's were more a threat to their leader and party than the Lee Harvey Oswald's. What a blunder! When Sen. Robert Kennedy, a presidential aspirant, was shot by a Palestinian, the Democrats showed that they had not learned from the sad fate of his older brother. Instead, they have viewed the two assassinations as the curse of the Kennedy's not the ineffective security detail mapped out by the Democrats to protect their leaders.

Character assassination is the Democrat's paranoia. They think fundamentalists and right wing conservatives are always out for a smear campaign against them. Pres. Bill Clinton, during his terms, jogged often in the residential streets of Maryland without too much security personnel following him. He was often seen mingling among the crowd of common folks during his public appearances. His handlers and supporters were more concerned about Jennifer Flowers' tabloid confession and Paula Jones' triple X-rated story. The way his party mates responded to these allegations, Pres. Clinton's cock seemed more dangerous than an assassin's bullet. It made them embarassingly paranoid and defensive. Even Sen. Hillary Clinton accused the right of planting stories in the press to destroy her husband and ruin the Democratic party, though she knew her husband is/was a sex addict.

The fear of character assassination among Democrats has its early antecedents as far back as mid 1850's. The White House was occupied by Pres. James Buchanan, a Democrat and stately, refined, formal protocol-conscious bachelor. In this age of tolerated sexuality, it means he was a hot, fashionable, classy single homosexual or a single metrosexual, if he was straight. Nobody really knew about his sexual life and other personal stuff. He guarded his secrets, if he had any, pretty well. There is an account though that his vice president, John C. Breckinridge, an equally hot, educated, bold bachelor from Kentucky, was his roommate in the White House. Imagine if such arrangement and bachelorhood exist in the Oval Office with today's tabloid media. The seat of the executive branch of government would definitely become a rumor mill.

Pres. Franklin D. Roosevelt also made his party mates, supporters, and handlers busy in hiding or downplaying his disability caused by polio. Even Eleanor Roosevelt's influence on his policies was not made known to the public. They did not want the Republicans to make an issue out of it the way they did to Sen. Hillary Clinton's involvement in her husband's healthcare policy. His philandering was also kept a secret. Poor Eleanor! She found solace in the arms of her trusted female friends. Some said she was bisexual. She definitely had something going on with her young male assistant. When this was rumored in the press, the Democrats was busy again in their drive to clear the name of the "First Lady of the World," a staunch, vocal, independently minded Democrat.

The Democrats' fear of character assassination puts the security of their party above the rest, including the well-being of their leaders. They are bunch of election-conscious politicians and public and media relations junkies. Look what they are doing now with Sen. Clinton's 2008 campaign. I hope her security is their top priority. There are still close-minded, ignorant, backward, sexist, chauvinist folks in this century in this bastion of democracy who still can't accept a female leader in the White House. I could picture her being lambasted and called a "bitch" in rural red states. NRA would love to have her head for a target. Even KKK would join in making Sen. Clinton a human pinata for their backward mentality and stubborn ignorance.

Any president, Republican or Democrat, should be accorded with an efficient, reliable, strong security like that of the Pope's. The Republicans should minimize their exaggeration of ignorable threats and refrain from giving false alarms a minute or two on the national TV news. Mass hysteria affects the psyche of the nation and even the trading in the Wall Street. The Democrats should be vigilant too when it comes to the security of their leaders. They should also learn that if confronted with truths, no denial could hide the true colors of their tainted leaders. They may have balls for not being overtly paranoid about bloody assassinations. One thing is clear: a president's balls licked by the Monica Lewinsky's are not as lethal as the weapons of the Sirhan Sirhan's, who are out there to bust a nut.

Friday, May 13, 2005

Paranoia in the White House

The Republicans' contempt against the politically active Democrats in Hollywood can be traced way back when Pres. Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by a Shakespearean actor.

Threats, imagined or exaggerated, on Pres. George Bush's life have been flashed and over-bloated on TV news lately. There was a low tech grenade in Tbilisi, Georgia thrown near him when he delivered a speech on stage. Luckily, it did not explode. It must be one of those rusting weapons, remnants of Russia's "iron grip" in Eastern Europe. The White house was evacuated the other day due to a small plane piloted by a student flyer, who got lost within the "no fly" zone. Perceived assassination attempts from the Muslim extremist camps monopolize the President's security protocol.

It is, indeed, tough to be a Republican president. I think this paranoia of dying from an assassin's bullet while in the Oval Office started when Pres. Abraham Lincoln, a Republican, was assassinated by a theater actor. Such fear was compounded when Pres. James Garfield, another Republican, was shot. When Pres. William McKinley was assassinated by a deranged anarchist, the same paranoia ballooned among the psyche of the Republicans. A failed assassination attempt against Pres. Ronald Reagan, which had a bizarre connection to Hollywood's Jodie Foster, seemed like the modern recurrence of the fear plaguing the right.

I believe this is one of the reasons why the right wing conservatives do not trust the left, which, according to the Republican vocabulary, are composed of communists, radicals, liberals, homosexuals, feminists, anarchists, antisocials, anti-establishments, anti-capitalists, trade unionists, social activists, atheists, progressive thinkers, artists and writers, and yes, Sen. Joseph McCarthy's arch-enemies, the Hollywood and Broadway intellectuals. Muslims whose propaganda is based on social justice not exclusively on religion, like Malcolm X's, fall in the same category. Even the non-violent, racial equality-based civil rights movement pioneered by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was considered by some conservatives as left extremist like that of the Black Panther's. The Republicans' definition of what is left is vague, unfounded, and complicated. Following their rhetoric, it seems everyone but fundamentalist Christians and US servicemen and women is leftist.

When you look at it, the backbones of the Republican politics are guns and the holy bibles. The right wing conservatives are more trusting towards preachers and soldiers. It is safe to sum up that every Republican leadership in the white house since the early 1900's, the height of America's colonialist "manifest destiny" to civilize and christianize the non-Western world, as the administration of war and Jesus, and of course, their imagined, exaggerated fear and hysteria. Assassination is definitely a scare among Republican leaders. Such paranoia is their curse. Don't wonder if the security protecting Pres. Bush is serious, overzealous, and unpenetratable. It's also not surprising why security during the Republican presidential terms in the White House since Pres. Dwight Eisenhower in the 1950's, the pronounced spread of communism and beginning of the Cold War, has always relegated economy to the backseat. They have the American History to remind them of their vulnerabilities and their paranoia lurking in their subconscious.

Next: Fear of character assassination among the Democrats

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Fucking with a monster

Never again will I offer myself to the nasty nature of a cruel monster.

With a lubricated vibrating dildo on my left hand doing the plumbing job, I masturbated before I went to bed last night. I came a lot. An hour of jerking off and sticking a dildo in and out while watching a lesbian porn seemed like a cardio and lifting workout. I was too tired to even get up and take a shower. I just used my soiled thong to wipe my cum off and passed out on my bed naked.

I woke up this morning sweaty and slimy. It was indeed a scary nightmare. I fucked with a monster. The image was so vivid as if everything really existed. While jogging along the cemented path lined with bushes and trees near the lake, a well-tanned, blue-eyed, blonde hunk in a nice suit suddenly came out from nowhere. His looks was like those metrosexuals you see on TV or male models on fashion magazines. He was hot, clean, and horny. He wanted to have sex with me in the midst of the bushes. I was confident that with the big trees, nobody would definitely see my ass and his. I went with him to a direction slightly lit by a dim electric post.

We made out. It felt real. He was sweet and passionate. He sucked my boobs like it was his first. He licked my neck voraciously and planted hickies like he marked a territory. He took off his jacket and laid it on the ground. Sensing it was Armani, I refused to lie down over it. He assured me that it was all right. Maybe he got it on sale. He got naked so quick while I was still untieing my shoes. He kneeled beside my face and fed me his big cock. The moment I took off all my socks, he moved towards my feet and comfortably sucked my toes. His tongue felt like a giant earthworm zigzagging on my feet and curling around my toes. It was wet, long, and very flexible. It tickled me. His mouth was versatile.

After he finished cleaning all my toes with his licks, he moved up and began exploring my bellybutton with his mouth. His hands were busy grabbing and massaging my boobs. I was very horny. I pushed his head down. I needed a blow job. The guy must have sucked too many cocks before. He knew how to use his lips, tongue, and gums. His technique would put most gay men to shame. It felt like his teeth disappeared. He was a skilled cock-sucker. I also felt he was eating my ass at the same time. It was very orgasmic even though I started to smell a rotting flesh. It must be a dead rat or something, I assumed. I felt my crotch and ass were covered with slime. With my eyes closed, I thought he was sloppily lubricating me with his spit pretty well. I felt thousands of whiskers brushing and scratching my body. It must be the grasses, I thought.

I remained in a passive position like a virgin human sacrifice left and stretched naked on the ground for the mythical Sphinx to devour. I could no longer bear the disgusting stench. I wanted him to make me cum quick and jerk himself off so I could leave and resume my jog. I opened my eyes and moved my hands to hold his head so I could push him up and down. I felt bony holes and shattered, cold, hairy flesh. I looked down. My God! I was holding two rotting heads of a very scary monster blowing me and eating my ass all at once. I froze. He was still on my cock and ass when I regained my senses. I pretended that everything was fine, and I did not see him. I pinched my nose so I would not throw up. I did not want him to notice my reaction after realizing I was with a two-headed, zombie-like, hair-raising monster. I asked him to lie down so I could give him a blow job. He excitedly did. I looked around and found a dead branch from a maple tree. I was already in my running position when I stuck the sharp wood in his ass. I grabbed my clothes and ran as fast as I could.

I woke up catching my breath and sweating. It felt so real that I checked my cock and ass if they were still intact and wondered why I did not use a condom. I found nothing but cum and lube stains from last night. It must be the ghost of Ashor, the Assyrian monster in San Francisco, hounding me. Maybe I did isolate myself from men, sex, and the world far too long. I need to really get fucked by a real, nice, hot, horny, hung male human being soon. I need to moan, orgasm, shoot, and smile again without guilt and regret to haunt me.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

When she deprived me of her voice

Her silence was a lesson for me.

Last couple of weeks were an emotional torture for me. After my grandmother read about my risky drug and sex adventure in San Francisco, she stopped talking to me. Everyone can abandon me, but please not my grandmother. She is my daily sunshine, my siesta rest, my alarm clock, my calorie counter, my evening prayer, my midnight dream. Her call completes my day. When we talk on the phone, in my mind, I could see her wrinkled ears listening to my woes intently and her lips uncurled by years whispering me wisdom. I would rather become deaf than be deprived of her sweet, melodious voice.

Without hearing her voice for weeks felt like I died or she did. My heart was so heavy. My mind haunted me with guilt and regret. My body was numb. I craved no sex or sensual affection. My libido was zero. I was so alone and lonely. I did not go out. I shut my phone off. I lost my appetite. I was so spiritless to venture outside and walk on the earth that felt hard and painful on my Manolo's. The world was dark through my Cartier eyeglasses. Wine tasted like venigar. Everything I had was stale and bitter. Only Diet Coke and energy bars made me survive, and hope.

Mine was a feeling of being forsaken. If it was what Jesus Christ felt, He must have died on the cross a lonely man. I condemned myself for letting my wordly curiosities and peer pressure overcome my sound reasoning and self-control. It was a pity that I lost self-respect. I will never let a guy, hot or not, play me again. Yes, as what I promised to my grandmother, no more drugs. I already experienced a week of sex, booze, drugs, and rock n' roll. I do not intend to do it again. I have been there. I was miserable.

I was ready to give up everything just to hear my grandmother's comforting voice again. I was glad when she called yesterday and ended her sulking. I was also glad that she made me feel what it is like to be left in the dark alone by a loved one because I am wrong.

That was my last for April

Sorry, folks, for my sulking. My groove is back. Everything is fine now.

Thank you for the comments and encouragement. I did not mean to make my last post sound like a suicidal note. I could never kill myself. To me, suicide is dumb, selfish, and meaningless. If I could choose, I want to die for something noble. Maybe catching Ebola virus while on a peace or food aid mission in Africa is a good way to expire.

Again, sorry for my drama. I could never hide away from the world. I will resume my blogging shortly.

Deja Vu

Saturday, April 30, 2005

My last post

I am tired of life and everything that comes with it.

Take care!

Deja Vu

Sunday, April 24, 2005

My days with a wolf

Where was wisdom when I needed it?

Before I blog my hot escapades when I was on a sex tour in California for a month, let me share my worst blunder ever when it comes to men. In this way, my worst experience with this man won't keep on popping in my head and bother me when I start writing about my memorable trysts with my Johns.

I met this Assyrian guy in a weekend after-hours club in San Francisco known for drugs and good house music. Due to the influence of my friends, I was on seven pills of ecstasy from Friday night through Sunday afternoon. I spent most of the time in the club dancing, drinking, smoking cigarettes, and teasing men. Ashor, an Arab-looking man, exploited the moment and my mental state weakened by booze and drugs.

When I was very high, everything suddenly became beautiful and profound. I became friendly and touchy with strangers. He approached me first. I chatted with him. His soft voice and minimal words were soothing to my cheeks and ears. His touch was a comfort to my feverish arms fried by ecstasy pills. I felt secured in his assuring demeanor. His smile put me at ease. He was very protective of me from rough men whose eyes were visually undressing me endlessly. It must be my revealing get up screaming "fuck me." He was very giving. I felt I needed him.

I ended up taking him with me to my hotel. We did everything except anal sex. I didn't trust him yet. I blew him with a condom on and uncurled my lips when we kissed. I did not feel passionate at all. What I had in mind was paranoia even though I was a little bit horny. I wanted more of a companion to hang out with than a one-night fucker. Eventually, I found myself moving to his apartment and sleeping with him for the next five days.

He introduced me to smoking speed. I became high instantly with that shit. I began loosening myself up. I could not think independently. I could not even talk straight. My vocabulary was gone. I remained meek and silent all the time. All I wanted was to be kissed and cuddled. We had safe sex except when we kissed. I tasted blood oozing from his tongue. He bit it while on ecstasy. The pill made him grind his teeth uncontrollably. I got very scared. I incessantly asked him about his health. Fortunately, I had no cuts or scrapes on my lips, gums, and tongue.

I felt so happy being with him. He took me out and stood for me when somebody called his attention that I am a man. He introduced me to his cousin. He was very open. He did not treat me like a freak. I felt I was his woman. The first two days, he spent his own money wherever we went. I felt Ashor really liked me. He drove me around, brought me to straight clubs, and hooked me up with drugs. I fell for him. I really thought he liked me. I could pick sincerity and personality over money and looks anytime.

On my third day with him was the start of my ordeal. He told me he was broke. I instantly became a sugar mama. I paid wherever we went including food, drugs, and booze. He also started to annoy me with his petty complaints. He did not want me to be affectionate when we were in clubs even though it was dark. He hesitantly responded to my kisses. He called me dumb. He started bossing me around. He yelled at me. I did not say anything. I was high. My being passive to his tantrums and drug-induced craziness even made me feel like a dominated woman. It felt natural. I still smiled. We still had sex. I was still passive and accommodating to him.

In fairness, I like when he kissed my back wet and nibbled on my ears, cheeks, neck, and nape. When he ate my ass, I felt like I had a vagina. He sucked me good too. His cock was big, and he knew how to fuck. His kisses were wild but not passionate. His embrace was tight but calculated. He was not falling for me. I was just another piece of ass to him.

On the last day, the effect of drugs was waning in my system. I was slightly back to my senses. I questioned everything related to him. I could not believe I was with him for almost a week. I condemned myself for such a blunder. He became nasty to me too. He wanted me out. He insulted me. He called me names. He confessed that he was just playing me. He pushed me out from his car on our way to a club. He did not want to be with me anymore. I was hurt and broke. I felt so little and alone. Depression set in.

He agreed to let me stay at his place until my flight the next day. He started demanding money from me. He forced me to have sex with him, but I refused. He wanted me to clean his entire house which I did not bother to listen. I hire a housekeeper to clean my mess at my place. Why would I clean a nasty stranger's shit? He left me at his apartment and went to a club alone. I was already free from the influence of drugs. I was mad and embarrassed. What a realization!

I was with Ashor, a hairy man with facial wasting, huge wounds on his face, potbelly, and bleeding acne on his back. He looked awful. His cock had warts. I got scared. He looked like he had HIV/AIDS. It was good that I always used a condom with him even when I blew him. The guy was mean and ugly. In my normal mental state, I would not waste a glance at him. He was broke. He was boring and dumb. He had nothing to be proud of. He used me. I could not forgive him for what he did. I blamed myself too. I could not believe I spent almost a week with an ugly, dirty beast. I left San Francisco with a lesson: drugs is really bad.

Looking back, I realized everything happened because of drugs. I was longing for a sense of security. I wanted someone to be with. It was not all about sex. I needed a companion who understood and accepted me. Even a sweet Chihuahua would do that time. Unfortunately, I was with a nasty, mean, playing chimp. Ashor was my biggest mistake to date. Never again will I put myself in such a brutal, demeaning, exploitative mental game of an evil, horny man. What an awakening!
Rentboy Diaries *Dr Terminal's House of Misery *Aheram Takes On