Blogging is like sex

Blog this virgin. 


Blogging is like sex, and blog newbies are like virginal women who want to have sex with men. Like new bloggers, virgins are vulnerable to criticism, rejection, insults, and paranoia. Do they look good? Are their boobs nasty and flat? Are their nips too dark or pinkish? Cute or too big? Do they have smooth, silky skin? Are their legs to die for? Do they have flat tummies? Are their bodies perfect? Do they have JLo asses? Are they worth fucking?

Blog readers are curious too if bloggers write well. Are the bloggers good? Do they have wit and humor? Are their writings concise and logical? Do they use proper punctuation marks? Are their spelling and vocabulary impressive? How about their syntax and grammar? Do they express or impress? Are their blogs dark, morbid, lame, boring or pornographic? Do they make sense? Are they worth reading?

Like first time bloggers, timid, inexperienced virginal women are hesitant to strip and submit themselves at first. They are fearful of unknown consequences. They are paranoid of lots of things. They are cautious. They have lots of questions. Are they going to be secretly videotaped? Are the encounters discreet? Will men spank them? What is G-spot? How will they use dildos and vibrators? What is BJ? Should they swallow or spit? How will they react if guys finger their behinds? Will they be on top, bottom, or sideways? Virgins want to learn everything and try. They watch porn, read "Sex for Dummies," and phone Sunday Night Sex Show.

First time bloggers are bunch of confused cyber wanderers. They are clueless too. They are too careful to open up and reveal themselves initially. They don't want to be lampooned or laughed at. They try to think twice before they write. They don't know their readers. They want to learn how to blog. They ask questions. Will their blogs appear on search engines? Can other people delete their blogs? Are their passwords safe? What is blog spot? How to download photos or publish blogs? What is RSS? How do they add comments to their posts? Can they place hits and counter codes above or below? They ask and ask. Newbies are eager to be part of blogosphere. They surf the net, post questions on forums, and even email blog hosts.

After the initial anxieties, hesitations, and uncertainties, virgins, like greenhorn bloggers, become excited. They get into what they really want to try. They start to wonder about their men. They imagine and fantasize. They have expectations now. They become confident. Are the guys handsome? Do they have hard abs, biceps, pecs, and glutes? Are they too muscular? Are they hung? Cut or uncut? Are they hairy or smooth? Do they stink? Are they good kissers? Do they fuck good? If men fuck them good, will they do it again? Virgins start to create their ideal fuckers.

First time bloggers eventually gain confidence too. They can write now without ambivalence. They start wondering about their readers. It's nice to write when you know them. Are the readers educated? Do they have BA, MA, or PhD? Are they high school kids or elementary? Are they smart or just nosey? Jobless or executive? Are they Democrat or Republican? Do they criticize constructively? Are they close-minded? Atheist or fundamentalist? Are they haters or stalkers? Do they write good comments? If the readers' responses are awesome, will they continue blogging? Newbies now have perceived ideal readers.

Sex, like blogging, is very complex and interesting. Women can fake their orgasms, give their bodies away for free, or charge for a fee. Some are into one night stands, and others look for long terms. There are women who are fuck buddies, booty calls, bitches, easy sluts, cunts, and whores.

Blogging too has fakers and posers. There are straight men pretending to be lesbians and gay men writing as women. Most bloggers write not for money. Expressing and reading angst is free. Those who blog for coins sign on google adsense. Some have been blogging for years, while others just blog once. Bloggers are bunch of Internet friends, bums, writers, depressed loners, bipolar flamers, attention-getters, hoaxers, lazy asses, and bores.

Sex is indeed very addicting like blogging. Those women who become nymphomaniacs resort to multiple partners and hop from bed to bed. They should be careful. There are a lot of dangerous fuckers out there. HIV and STD's are everywhere. Beware of strangers, sadists, murderers, and losers.

Big time blog addicts create multiple accounts, log on back and forth, and browse from blog to blog. They too should be watchful and cautious. There are computer viruses and hackers lurking and looking for next victims. Be careful with unknown links, anonymous e-mails, strange downloads, deranged bloggers, and unfamiliar hacks.

A nympho may say, "Eat this." I write, "Blog this."

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Missiles and muscles

Of misery and men 


What a waste of muscles, well-built bodies, and handsome faces oozing with western sex appeal! Dirty, nasty Iraqis are killing and mangling our hot soldiers in Iraq. So unfortunate were the ones who perished in this unreasonable, useless, unwinnable war, especially those in their teens who died without even trying the pleasure of fucking. Those who have survived, and are confined in beds and wheelchairs will have tough times ahead of them. Those who cannot see will be sad prisoners in the dark. I don't know how those who have become quadriplegic can ever fuck or get laid again. The spirit may be willing, but the flesh is too weak even to self-desire.

Who would wanna settle down with a fellow without limbs? Or a guy who can't move? Or a survivor who lost both his eyes from an Iraqi-homemade bomb? Women want husbands not patients to take care. They want to love and make love not pity and endure the pain of having partners who can't even play themselves and get them up. Vietnam war veterans in the streets spare-changing can tell you how their wives threw them out and their girlfriends left them for normal, able-bodied men, and how Americans have forgotten them that they once fought for freedom in Vietnam. Those who died will be forgotten forever. Memorial days are for decorated heroes and Generals. The wives and the girlfriends of the dead soldiers will move on and find their new lovers and husbands. Desires forget sweet memories.

When I see dead or mangled American soldiers on the news, I wonder why they worked out so hard to gain such muscles, tried to look like clean-cut GI Joe's, and projected wild, raw auras of masculinity that make both men and women salivate and masturbate, yet allowed themselves to be blown into bits and pieces of bones and flesh in a forsaken land, where nothing exists that is beautiful, great, and wonderful. Iraqis love to die for their God, go to heaven, and fuck Allah's mythical preteen virgins. That's how they define martyrdom. What a bunch of smelly, ugly, hairy pedophiles! Our hot, handsome soldiers just want GI bills, good training and education, and good jobs, then maybe wives if they are heterosexual and kids if they are not sterile. Death and injuries have ruined those dreams. They fought for freedom, yet now, they themselves are not free from their beds, crutches, and wheelchairs. No few good men can survive and grow old without ever fucking. What a waste!


Iraq

Existentialist fucking

Even when I'm naked, I think. 


I just had a client an hour ago. He was in his 40's. He must be a jock in his teens. His made-up name was John. I swear half of my clients use "John" as alias. I think it's related to the name's linguistic structure like "Sean" popular among jocks, who usually haggle to lower my price. Single monosyllabic names are easy to say and free from stammer and stutter common when someone lies. John was hot for his age. "I try to work out," he sheepishly said after I felt his biceps and abs. He had muscles, but I don't charge by bulk or inch. He told me he was a biology teacher. I was lucky. We talked about bacteriophage, cloning, and stem cells research. Watching Discovery channel paid off. I impressed him, and he thought I was trying to show off as a hooker with PhD. In truth, I was wasting his time and avoiding a full-hour fuck.

John looked through the direction of my alarm clock on the side table. Clocks and watches, next to condoms and lube, are important in sex work. Time is dollars, euros if a trick is European. "Hun, I still have to go to work. I am on my lunch break," he said with a hint of begging for my ass. "How much?" Some tricks are annoying. You already tell them the "love donation" on the phone, yet they still ask when they see you as if their looks and muscles will give them discount. I took three Benjamin's from him, hid the money from his view, lit three table candles, turned the lights off, played Bocelli's Romanza, held his hand, and led him towards my king-sized bed. He thought it was romantic. Actually, I wanted him to feel guilty, hurry up, cum, and leave. The man wore a wedding ring.

He started kissing my neck while he unbuttoned his shirt. He went down and lick my nipples like a kid carefully licking his cone of ice cream. It must be the slow, soft Italian music. "Damn! I failed," I thought. John was taking his time like he was counting how many button holes his shirt had. Feeling my hand on his crotch, he finally took his jeans off. He was huge. I could see the bulge through his underwear. His cock was struggling to come out. I could see the purplish red tip choked by the rim of his underwear. He cupped his balls and moved his cock to the right side. It must be uncomfortable having a hard-on with a tight underwear. I giggled. He reminded me of men I see rearranging their cocks in public.

We settled on my bed, very spacious for fucking. He played and nibbled on my boobs. He tried to milk them. What a baby! He pressed his body against mine and kissed and tongued me to the tempo of La Luna Che Non Ce coming from the stereo. God, he was huge. My thighs won't lie. He undressed me. Not even my thong was spared. He kissed and rolled his tongue all over my body faced down and up and sideways. John was a marathon kisser and expert licker too. He knew where to wiggle his tongue on. He whispered, "Babe, can I kiss your lips." I refused. You can get so many diseases from kissing. Mouth is as dirty as your ass. He begged again. "Just a smack please," I relented. He did plant a kiss on my lips, move up, and explore my ears with inaudible whispers. Air entering my ears is not erotic at all.

I closed my eyes. He thought I was liking and feeling it. In my mind, I was thinking of a Gucci bag to buy and calculating my bank accounts. "Babe, do you like me?" he asked. With tricks, "No" and negative adjectives like you're fat, ugly, boring, tiny, nasty, smelly, etc. are no-no's. Tell them they are hot even if you are on the verge of puking. Honesty will reduce your chances of getting big tips. I answered with my eyes still closed, "Yes, baby. John, fuck me." I made it sound like I was a sex-starved nymph. I did not want him to think I was hurrying him up. Like a flash of lightning, he took off his underwear. With my eyes half-closed, I checked out and felt his cock. "What a lovely cock!" I exclaimed. I put a condom on and lube him up. He fucked me without my instructions. The guy knew what to do with my hole.

For added porn drama, I screamed, "Oh! God, fuck me. John,you are big. It feels good, very good." I endlessly moaned to turn him on, and when he looked at me, I bit my lips for convincing facial expression. He humped like he did push-ups- harder and faster, and in rhythm too. Bocelli's fast, loud aria in crescendo must have worked. It pumped him up. The Romanza CD did not fail me after all. After five minutes of fucking me, John quivered like he was going to have a heart attack. I did not want to see his face against mine. His facial expression was of pain and struggle. He turned stiff, paused, and came. What a load! I pulled it out. Thanks, God. My alleluia was not for the good fuck but for the condom that did not break. I opened my eyes and saw him with a naughty smile ready to clean up and get dressed. "I had fun, babe," he thankfully said. He then kissed me on my cheek and left. My fake orgasm worked yet again.

I, me, myself, and the world

The world is everyone's to bear.

Being a transsexual, I had to have a psychiatrist/psychologist to assess my development and transition. My doctor assessed my mind not my face and body, which are more important in leading a normal life as a woman. Mind is neither fuckable nor kissable, so is DNA. I spent two thousand dollars a year for almost two years just for this quackery, but I had to because it is a bureaucratic requirement if you need your name and gender changed in government records. Plastic surgeons require mental assessment too before a sex-changing surgery can be done. I call this "fleecing the trannies."

Yesterday, I phoned my doctor and told her that I decided not to see her anymore. I see no benefit in seeing a psychiatrist. I need no professional to tell me that indeed I am a transsexual. I have been wanting to become a girl since I was three years old. I started taking female hormones at ten. I looked extremely feminine when I entered high school and even now. There is no way for me to be confused or hesitant to totally change my gender. If I looked like a man and felt like one, trust me, I would fuck anything that moves since I find sex wonderful and therapeutic.

"Why do you want to discontinue your therapy sessions?" she asked. I told her that what we had been doing is nothing compared to my interaction with my friends and sister. "Why would I pay someone just to listen to my trials and tribulations when I have a sister and friends I can talk to twenty-four-seven?" I asked her in a clear, crisp interrogative sentence. She understood my point and promised to send all my records. Now, that is savings in fees and fares.

Lately, my friends have been busy making money in the corporate world, and my sister has been preoccupied with her clinical rotation in medical school. I only get to see them once a week. I have no need to see them really or call them all the time. I am not a parasite that needs a host to survive. I do need a space though where I am seen or thought to exist. Dining out, going to bars, working out in a gym, shopping, and traveling are good avenues to watch people and be watched, but they seem monotonous and boring now to me. I consider them like brushing my teeth or heating my food in the microwave which I do three times a day. I needed a change. I decided to go global. I started to blog.

Now, the world is my psychiatrist/psychologist, friends and sister, even close-minded adversaries or homophobic enemies. I am free for all, so is the world. People can empathize with me or bash me with their "faggot" insults, but that is fine. It shows I am living in the real world where hate is as strong as love. I gave up my Utopia long ago. Heaven is a dream. There is no place in the world where people love and make love with each other. Even orgies have discrimination, jealousy, and exploitation aside from it being a casual and anonymous sharing of body fluids in a dim-lit room, where love does not exist. Hunks won't waste their time with chubs. Some get jealous if they fuck the same people for too long. Others just watch and jerk off without even touching clits or balls for participation.

So world, I am ready. I am now your human pinata. I am not a sadomasochist. I am just expecting for the worst while hoping for the best. In life, there is a reason why one struggles, and there is a way why one triumphs.

A bloom in winter

a wo-man in blur and of contradictions


Today, in the midst of snowflakes in a frozen pond in this seasonal gloom of longing for feverish touch, I am the lotus flower in winter bloom that refuses to fade and wither. This is my story.

Call me Miss Deja Vu. It may sound French Indochine, but I am really a Pacific islander who can hula naked, walk barefoot on burning coals, and eat fire from mahogany sticks, and has concocted my own genetic make up of half Japanese and half Vietnamese. How can you be more exotic than that?

I am the grace and innocence in Puccini's Madama Butterfly and Andrew Lloyd Weber's Miss Saigon and the courage and resilience of Hiroshima and Hanoi. I am what some men fantasize and hate and some women pity and loathe. Life in absurdities and contradictions is indeed fabulous. As my nom de plume perfectly expresses, I exude existentialist elegance, tropical grace and erotic Asian mystique and mentally torture the Vietnam veterans in their 50's who think I am the sad remnant of the bomb-ravaged Dien Bien Phu. My almond-shaped eyes haunt them. They feel guilty and give me big tips.

I have blossomed today. After three years of working as a massage therapist and doing "happy endings," I sold my massage table and two gallons of almond and jojoba oil on e-bay and gave away my reflexology pointers and linens to a friend, who still believes massage work is legitimate and clinical. Amazon.com will have my massage books soon. No more horny men who pretend to have backaches. No more anonymous calls waking me up in the wee hours of the morning. No more hard muscles to ruin my french tip-manicured nails. No more hairy and smelly men.

Don't get me wrong. There is money in massage therapy if you can bear your client's hard-on, pre-cum, and indecent proposal. For three years I felt cheaper than a prostitute. I made men feel good and only got one hundred dollars for an hour of Swedish, deep tissue, shiatsu and Chinese acupressure. Massage is definitely a hard work. My friend, Electra, who melts candles on her clients, whips and chains them, and even slaps and smashes their balls, gets five hundred dollars for just ten minutes of a torturous session. She drives a BMW she naughtily calls "wheels of men's fortune"... "and pain," I usually add. Indeed, I was in a wrong profession.

I have always been in wrong professions. I have a BA degree in anthropology with archaeology as my concentration and film production and business certificates from UCLA extension school. I must have thought Indiana Jones was real and Hollywood was easy to explore. My first job as a film production assistant was insulting and demeaning. I did not pay twenty grand to learn how to make and produce films just to end up serving donuts and coffee to the film crew and held the director's bottle of Evian water for hours. If I want to be in domestic help, I would be a butler somewhere in Beverly Hills. That would be more glamorous. Hollywood is very dangerous to an educated person's mental health.

I decided to go back to anthropology and gave archaeology a chance to give me a decent and secure job. In 2000 I started my ALM in museum studies, a Harvard graduate program. A year later, I realized natural history museums are indeed for something ancient including aging curators. Besides, dusty museum laboratories and storage rooms are death chambers to me. I am asthmatic.

I did not quit from the program until I got my massage certificate from other school, breast implants, and nose job using my Harvard student loans. With my new certificate and 36d silicone breasts, I was ready to pound some flesh. I massaged and, in between sessions, read and understood Foucault, Derrida, de Man and Said, and yes, Lacan, Gramsci, Habermas, Lyotard, Adorno, etc. French theorists turned me on big time. They were good for mental masturbation.

Massage is mindless. My critical theory books helped me forget that I had an idiot's job. They may sound French, but you can never intellectualize effleurage and petrissage hand strokes. I continued massaging while still hoping to go back to the academe one day, become a postmodern cultural critic, and write a thesis on Amsterdam prostitutes as socio-cultural display of accommodation-and-resistance chaos and performative reception of redefined morality. It sounds heavy and intimidating, isn't it? Actually, that's what I learned from my Harvard professors- to be deep, confusing, and verbose, also known as verbal diarrhea.

After countless of cerebral multiple-orgasms, reading became boring, useless, and mentally taxing for me. Postmodernism started confusing me too. I totally stopped before I could get to propose to my friends that Playboy magazine was a legitimate piece of literature comparable to Dante's Inferno or Euripides' Medea and make myself an out-of-this-world laughing stock. I donated all my books to a community library, bought more books on bodywork, and resigned to the reality that I would be an exotic, sensual Oriental masseuse from then on. I mastered the wordless art of asking "how much?" just with my eyes. Saying "thanks" with my tongue was easy.

Now, I have given up massage work. I have evolved. I will be a prostitute by choice. I can give more than the usual "happy ending." Indecent proposals are now music to my ears. Men massage me for a fee. I can slap them for one hundred bucks, torture them all day for a grand, and stick my stripper's shoe heel in their tight assholes for new pairs of Jimmy Choo's and Manolo's. I am definitely in control. Thanks for my reproductive rights and right to self-determination. If moralists frown upon my new vocation of being a pleasure giver, they can raise their legs up in the air for nothing, and yes, read the bible with gusto and moans. I don't care. Just don't bother me.

If Stephen King and J.R.R. Tolkien have made money out of their hobbies, I should also be left alone to make mine. I love sex, safe sex that is, and getting paid for it is just wonderful. Prostitutes perfectly fit in the supply-and-demand economic model like the way medical doctors do. The latter give you cure and medicine; the former fantasy and pleasure. Clearly, prostitution is a legitimate work. Thus, services rendered should be paid.

Yes, I am not taxed. Blame the archaic, republican, conservative laws for that. I am very willing to file my income tax, but IRS won't allow prostitution as a source of income. I am very patriotic and loyal to this country that has given me my own American dream. I even had threesome with two hot, muscular marines a month ago before they were deployed to Iraq. I did not charge them. I blew and bent over for freedom. People sent them Marlboros, and others gums and candies. I gave them pleasure.

Today, I have evolved and blossomed, and I will not fade and wither for a long time.

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